Breathing slightly unsteady, I spit into my palm, close my eyes, and slide my hand into my sweatpants. This is probably a breach of friendship etiquette, but just this one time, I’m going to be reckless. I close my hand around my dick, and I hear that growly sound again, and I pretend it’s Griff’s hand wrapped around me, squeezing just enough to feel good. To make me fully hard. His hand that slides up the length and works the head, making me gasp. Behind my closed lids, I imagine him leaning over me, his face intense as he murmurs all the hot, dirty things he plans to do to me, busily jerking me the whole time. He bends his head and lays a trail of kisses down my neck, pausing to scrape his teeth over my collarbone, and a moan bursts from my throat.
“Yeah,” he says, gravel in his voice. “Give me those sounds. Louder.”
The next moan takes me by surprise, and imaginary Griff chuckles. “Love that I do this to you,” he says roughly. “Love watching you all twisted up because of me.”
My balls are tight, breath catching in my chest, and he says, “Come for me.”
When I finally open my eyes, still feeling a little shaky, and wipe my hand on my pants, I know two things for sure.
I need to go clean up before Calla gets back.
And I definitely want more than friendship with Griff Pevensy. I want him. All of him.
But… does he want me too? Or am I deluding myself?
“This isa side of you I haven’t seen in a while,” Butch observes three days later, slouching on the sofa with her feet on the coffee table. “I’m not sure what to think of it.”
“He’s been like this all week,” Calla tells her. “It’s disturbing. Especially since there are details missing from his story.”
I stop pacing to give them both the full benefit of a glare, but it doesn’t have the desired impact, since neither of them are looking at me right now. Instead, they’re both focused on the wine Calla’s pouring. I can’t snap at them, because today’s been completely nonverbal. My anxiety was bad enough that I holed up in my office with the door locked and my noise-cancelling headphones on to block out all traces of the outside world. It’s a little better now, but not as much as I hoped. That’s what prompted this unplanned visit to Butch and Xera’s place—Calla thought it might help my anxiety to address the source, since quiet alone time didn’t help.
Of course, she thinks I’m anxious about Daria’s visit to the workroom in two days. Which I am, but that’s not all of it. I don’t know why I haven’t told her the rest. Maybe because I don’t want her to think I’m that pathetic guy who gets a crush on someone he’s met once, talked to once, and texted a few times (okay, every day for the past week). There’s also a tiny part of me that worries she might think Griff’s out of my league. I don’t see myself as a troll or anything, but I’m not… that smart, if I believe my best friend would consider anyone too good for me.
Sometimes low self-esteem drowns out intelligence. I’m just lucky I didn’t accidentally tell Calla what I was thinking.
“What do you mean, details missing?” Butch demands. “You said you needed pictures of Xera’s jeans to show a prospectiveclient because Phil was freaked out about the sketches not being enough. What other details are there?”
If I could talk right now, this is when I’d change the subject. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do but stand?—
Oh, wait.
I grab a couple of throw pillows from the armchair beside me and toss them at their heads. They both see them coming and duck, but it serves the purpose of distracting them.
“What the hell, Phil?” Calla throws it back at me. “Rude.”
“I nearly spilled my wine,” Butch chimes in. “How would you feel if I’d gotten red wine on my clothes, huh?”
All three of us look at what she’s wearing—paint-splattered sweatpants and an equally paint-splattered ancient tee with the sleeves ripped out. I pull out my phone and text her.
The clothes and I would be happy if red wine ended their miserable existence.
She reads the message, hides a grin, and pretends to be offended. “I’ll have you know these look just like a very expensive designer outfit?—”
“Girl, no,” Calla cuts in. “I love you, but trust me on this.”
They’re both still laughing when Xera comes in, her arms full of jeans. “I think this is all of them.” She dumps them on the armchair. “What are we laughing about?”
“Butch’s clothes.” Calla gets up and comes to help me sort through the jeans.
Xera eyes her wife. “Clothes? You mean trash that hasn’t been thrown out yet.”
“Ouch.” Butch sniffs. “Just for that, you get no wine.”
“Hand it over, Belinda, or I’ll call my mom and tell her you want her to take over as your manager.”
I’ve never seen Butch move as fast as she does pouring Xera a glass of wine. Note to self: The combination of real name and mother-in-law threats is a great motivator.
“Bad day?” Calla asks, and Xera shrugs.
