“Two-nine-six-six,” I said. My stomach twisted in knots when the driver punched in the code, and the gate swung open, welcoming residents and guests to the well-sought-after neighborhood.
“I’ve never been out here before. Nice neighborhood,” the driver remarked.
“It is,” I agreed.
There was no doubt that Grant had me in mind when he chose our home. The neighborhood was everything I told him I wanted—off-the-beaten-path, quiet, safe, sprawling lots that were tucked away and invisible from the main road. It didn’t come with the outrageous price tag like our parents’, but it was sufficient to meet our needs. The knots in my stomach coiled tightly as the distance and time until we reached my destination ticked down like a Doomsday Clock.
I was toying with the idea of finally letting the cat out of the bag. Truthfully, I was tired of running. The road was lonely, the friendships I formed were superficial, and despite the distance I’d put between Grant and me, there was nowhere I’d rather bethan with him. However, the one thing I was counting on was the blowback from my secret.
“We’re here,” the driver announced, pulling into the roundabout of the grand English colonial home that was nestled on its own private street.
“Thank you,” I replied, leaving him a tip on the app. I stood outside and admired the home that had been plucked right out of my teenage dreams. The tan brick blended seamlessly with the hunter-green shutters and white trimmings. One of my favorite features was the ivy arch trellis that framed the front entrance right after the four-car tandem garage that held Grant’s truck, his luxury weekend and vacation car, an empty spot for my vehicle, and one for my Harley.
Grant:Get your ass in here.
I grinned and texted him back.
Me:Translation: I want you, real bad.
Me:I think I might take a midnight stroll on the footpath under the full moon. My carriage ride was quite tedious.
Grant:Kiyah…some of us work for a living. Cut your bullshit.
Me:I bet the garden is lovely this time of year.
I took the sunken steps to the front door and fished my keys out of my purse. I was moments from slipping the key into the lock when the door flew open. The anger and frustration rippled off my husband in waves like a tsunami threatening to crash over me and wipe me from existence. I liked him angry—the sex was infinitely better when he was. I knew exactly how the night would go. He’d be overly dominant and aggressive and try to punish me for being gone by edging me.
Joke’s on him; I like that edging shit. It sucks, yeah, but the orgasm? Mind-blowing.
I admired him for a moment and thanked God that he grew into his features as he aged and no longer looked like a carbon copy of Dad when we were younger.
Don’t get me wrong, the two blonde-haired and green-eyed men share a resemblance, but there’s just enough Eliza in Grant that I don’t feel like I’m fucking my dad.
“Look at you, shirtless and ready to be used,” I teased. He rolled his eyes and pulled me into a tight embrace. I melted on contact and allowed my body to conform to his. My head rested on his broad chest, and his rapid heartbeat revealed all the things he tried hiding from me.
He was nervous, angry, excited, and aroused.
My pussy started to throb in the doorway as his hands traveled south. He squeezed my ass—a painful but necessary action.
“Up.”
I jumped up and wrapped myself around him like we were in the middle of the ocean, and he was my life preserver.
His lips parted for me, and the groan that spilled from him nearly made me forget that I could taste the bourbon on his tongue.
Grant had stuck to Moscow Mules before dinner… the house is supposed to be dry….
I didn’t have time to reprimand him, nor would I, at least not at the moment. I wasn’t trying to mess up my nut.
“I hope you didn’t take out my favorite piercing,” he mumbled breathlessly once we finally separated. I dropped my purse in the foyer.
“That depends… do you still have yours?” I challenged as he carried me to the living room—our first stop on my “Welcome Home” sex tour.
“Maybe you should get a closer look,” he said, dropping onto the couch with me in his lap. I eagerly slid off his lap onto myknees before him and reached for the ties of his pajama pants. I pouted when he slapped my hands away. “After I get mine,” he insisted.
I refrained from rolling my eyes and stood. I lost my shirt, launching it somewhere in the ether, and shimmied out of my shorts. My right foot balanced on his knee, and I spread my pussy lips, revealing my clit piercing that he loved to suck on and stroke with his tongue.
“You happy?” I asked.
