Finally the limo pulls up with him in it, tinted windows gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“If Cal Moreda asks us about our toxic traits,” Griffin tells me as he gets out and opens my door, “I’ll be ready.”
The interview Braden warned us about is upon us. Glambam booked us for a spot onThe Night Crew, a late show on Fridays. Filming, however, takes place around 5:30 p.m.
“You know a lot more about me now though,” I say.
“Nothing I’m allowed to say on live TV.” He climax-of-the-movie kisses me, tipping me backwards.
“I missed you too,” I say when he sets me back up.
I get into the car and he gets in after me.
As soon as the driver is back on the road, Griffin raises the partition, cutting us off in the back seat.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I need you.” He plants kisses along the neckline of my dress. Then he’s bunching my dress up around my hips and tugging at my panties.
“Wait, not in here …”
“Yes in here. There’s no other time. After the show you have to go review contracts, and first thing tomorrow I’m supposed to start shooting my ‘Hit the Gas’ video, which will take all weekend. You also said you’ve got multiple sync meetings on Monday. Monday night I’m being featured on another podcast. We probably won’t see each other again until Tuesday.”
All good points. And I’m not just saying that because the feeling of my panties sliding down my thighs is sparking an ache that will quickly start to demand release.
I reach for Griffin’s belt buckle.
“No,” he tells me. “Too messy.”
Ugh, he’s so stubborn.
Not that I’m actually complaining.
“Griffin,” I breathe as he separates my labia to get his fingertips on my clit, “What about you, though?”
Oh God. His fingers are cold (probably from riding over here with the A/C on) but the shock to my skin feels amazing.
“You’re always so considerate,” he says.
He massages in small circles while he kisses me, then pushes two fingers inside me and I gasp. I’m not quite wet enough yet, but I like the friction; I can feel him better that way.
“But …” I can hardly form a coherent thought as he pulls out and pushes back in, out and in, out and in, setting my nerve endings on fire.
“When we get to the building,” he tells me, “I’ll excuse myself to the restroom for a few seconds—because God knows that’s all it’ll take—and I’ll finish myself off while I think about what we’re doing right now. Okay?”
With my panties on the floor and Griffin’s fingers buried between my legs, the thought of him getting off to the memory of this cranks up the tension in my body.
I put my hand on his and encourage him to push into me more deeply.
“Perfect,” he says. “Show me how you want it.”
Riding his long fingers, he strokes my sensitives with the same deftness he uses to pluck the strings of a guitar. His tongue in my mouth mirrors the rhythm. When I get close, I gently bite his bottom lip, forcing a low rumble from his chest.
I reach the peak of my pleasure like never before. Griffin covers my mouth to muffle the sound I make at the end, and grins, his lip slightly swollen and face flushed.
At the television studio, the talent producer greets us and escorts us to the dressing rooms. She asks if there’s anything we need before she goes.
“Actually, yes,” Griffin says. “Where’s the restroom?”
