Page 101 of The Check Down
Flashes of him invade my thoughts: Soulful eyes like mood rings—storm cloud gray when he’s fired up or competitive, baby blue for lighthearted and flirty, and intense sky blue when he’s passionate and eager. Big, strong hands that touch me gently and give me pleasure. Perfect pink lips that kiss every inch of my body and curve into smiles that make me swoon.
I love every part of him. And he’s made me happier than I’ve ever been.
So it should be a no-brainer to delete this email and chalk it up to poor timing. But…I miss my parents. I miss riding my bike from their house to Celestial, Mom’s shop near the beach, to hang with her while she sells tourists on the healing power of crystals. I miss Dad’s french toast Sundays and his excitement when he shows me a cool star or planet with his backyard refractor telescope. I miss their company and their optimism. Once a week Zoom calls andonce a year Christmas visits are not enough. Dad turned seventy this year, and Mom will be sixty-seven in a few weeks. Even though they’re in fantastic health now—maybe there is something to those crystals, after all—I worry about being far away if that changes.
I love Griffin, but I uprooted my life for a man once before, only to have that relationship fizzle out. Plus, how many times has he mentioned that this is likely his last season? This contract with the Blues is up in a matter of weeks, even if they make the playoffs and go all the way to the Super Bowl. When it’s over, would he be willing to pack up and move to Florida forme?
I leave the email in my inbox and move on, though nausea simmers in my tummy all day.
That queasy feeling sticks around for the weekend, too. Knowing I’ll feel better once I talk to Griffin about it, I resolve to bring it up as soon as he gets back.
But then the Blues lose their road game—a tough back-and-forth matchup that ended with the team falling short when their kicker missed a field goal in the final minute. The guys played their hearts out, but it didn’t go their way. Now they’ll have to win their final game at home next weekend to secure their spot in the playoffs.
Griff struggles more when a loss is close than when it’s a blowout, so as the last seconds of the game tick off at the bottom of the TV screen, I consider not mentioning the email yet.
If the roles were reversed, though, I wouldn’t want him to keep something like that from me, would I? The mental tennis match leaves my brain addled, and I’m so overwhelmed with indecision that I don’t even attempt to wait up for him.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep when I wake to the sensation of his weight dipping into the mattress. Spooning me from behind, he nuzzles into my hair and neck. When he slides one thick thigh between mine, the hairs on his legs tickle my smooth skin.
“What time is it?” My sleepy voice cracks with a yawn.
“Eleven-thirty.”
“Mmm.” I snuggle deeper into his warmth, wiggling my bottom in an effort to get closer. “I’m so sorry about the game. I know how badly y’all wanted this one.”
“Thank you, baby.” His words are hot against my skin, his beard prickling me. “This one hurt. We gotta come back strong next week.”
“You will.” I smooth a hand up and down the muscly arm that’s wrapped around my ribs.
He makes a few rumbly bear noises, entangling us further. “I missed you.”
“Me, too.”
“Tree’s still up, huh?”
“Sorry, I didn’t have it in me. Got a ton of work done at the library yesterday, though.”
“Good job, professor. Forget about the tree. We can leave it up until next year for all I care. Or we’ll hire someone to take it down.”
He talks about a future with me like he’s certain of it. His confidence soothes me. The words he said in the middle of the Blues’ field come to mind:Just be mine. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.
And we will. Florida and football and jobs and where we lay our heads at night. It can wait until the light of day. Right now, I want to be with him, give him comfort after a huge disappointment.
I wiggle my butt again, this time pressing harder into him.
He reaches between us and palms my butt cheek. “This ass,” he growls. “It’s unhealthy how much I think about this ass.” He squeezes once, then slides his hand up my body to cup a breast, his hardening erection pressing into my hip. “Almost as much as I think about these.”
He rolls me onto my back and pushes my nightgown up to my chest. Then his hands are on my breasts again. “They’reso fucking perfect.” He swipes his thumbs across my nipples, a back-and-forth caress that makes my toes curl. “Pretty pink tips perfect for my mouth.” He wraps his lips around a nipple and sucks, the sensation so intense I grasp the bedsheet with one hand and the back of his head with the other. He teases one side with his mouth and the other with his fingers, making wetness pool in my panties. His eyes lock on my face as he continues his thorough treatment.
“Could you come from just this?” He gives the sensitive tip a deep pull that makes me moan. “Yeah, I bet you could. We’ll test that another time, professor.”
With both hands, he grips my panties and slides them down.
I’ve barely kicked them off when he finds the wetness between my thighs. “But this,” he rasps as he slides two digits inside me, “this is what I think about the most. How it was made just for me.” He pumps his fingers twice, but then he pulls them out.
A whine breaks free at his loss, but all I get is a smirk as he works his underwear down his legs.
He rolls onto me, keeping most of his weight on his elbows, kissing me slow and deep. “Need you, baby.”