She moans when I hit a particularly tense spot, and the sound sends a jolt through me, stirring memories of the same sound she made while she was playing with her toy, making herself come. The thought alone is enough to make my cock twitch with need, and my mind starts to wander, imagining what it would be like to make her come with my own hands, to feel her tremble beneath my touch.
God, I want to make her come. I want to let my hand slide around to the front of her jeans, let it slip inside…
Peanut’s woof draws me out of my thoughts, a reminder of the real world awaiting us beyond this intimate bubble.
Get a grip, Grey.
“Come on,” I whisper, then pull my hands away from her, noting her slight pout as she straightens her glasses, so I add, “We can go on another walk whenever you want to.”
We leash Peanut and begin our trek back. After a fifteen-minute walk, we arrive at my childhood home—a two-story building brimming with nostalgia. As we step through the front door, the familiar scent of aged wood and memories hit me. “Grandpa, we’re back!” I announce while Peanut dashes toward his water bowl. His enthusiasm results in more water splashing on the floor than he manages to drink.
Next to me, Amelia shifts uncomfortably, her fingers twiddling with the seam of her sweater—a clear sign of her nerves. Drawing her closer, I lower my voice, trying to offer reassurance. “Just say the word, and we’re out of here, but I’d love for you to meet him.”
I really hope she’s okay with this.
Her response is a shy smile, though her shoulders remain hitched up near her ears. “I would love to meet him too.”
Grasping her hand a bit more firmly, I lead her into the living room, where Grandpa is sitting comfortably in his favorite reading chair, the newspaper held loosely in his hands. “How was the park? A lot of people there?” he asks without looking up.
“Grandpa, we have a guest.”
He lowers his newspaper, and his face lights up with a warm, welcoming smile as he spots Amelia. Slowly, he rises from his chair, the effort more pronounced than in years past. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” he exclaims, setting aside the paper.
“This is my…”she is not your anything, dammit, “…friend, Amelia.”
Amelia steps forward, her nervousness momentarily displaced by courtesy. She straightens to her full height, offering her hand. “Mr. Donovan, it’s nice to meet you,” she says, her voice steady but soft.
Grandpa’s eyes twinkle with curiosity as he grips her hand in both of his, patting it with an affectionate smile. “A pleasure, my dear. Any friend of Grey’s is a friend of mine,” he says and then winks at me, prompting an eye-roll from my side. “My name is also Grey, but please, call me Grandpa like everyone else.” He chuckles, his eyes crinkling warmly behind his round glasses. Amelia looks my way in amusement, and Grandpa seizes the moment to add a bit of family lore. “I used to call him my mini-me, but after third grade, he wasn’t too fond of that anymore,” he says, his playful smirk sending his white mustache into a brief dance.
“Grandpa, let’s keep the embarrassing stories for another time, shall we?”
“He really is your mini-me. You even dress alike, in that old-school fashion,” Amelia comments, eyeing the similar cardigans we’re both wearing—his brown, mine navy.
“It’s not old-school. It’s timeless,” I retort, a hint of defensiveness creeping into my words. Amelia bites her lip to stifle a laugh, clearly amused by my reaction.
“Well, it is a little old-school, but old-school is indeed timeless,” Grandpa concludes, always the diplomat.
Amelia giggles quietly while her eyes wander around the room, and I hope she won’t look too closely at any of the picture frames. She already knows I’m a nerd. She doesn’t need to see my teenage years. I still wear my hair relatively long, but back then it reached my shoulder blades and, combined with braces, it wasn’t the best look.
But her attention is captured by the grand piano positioned by the living room windows. Her eyes light up with interest. “You play the piano?”
“I can’t anymore. Rheumatoid arthritis,” Grandpa replies, his tone carrying a note of resignation.
I know how much he misses to play.
Getting old sucks.
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Amelia says, wringing her hands in concern, perhaps worried she’s broached a sensitive subject.
Grandpa waves her off with a gentle smile. “It’s okay, dear. Everything has its time. But if you want to hear a piece, Grey plays even better than I ever did.”
At his prompting, I walk over to the piano and sit down in front of it, patting the bench beside me and inviting Amelia to join me. She moves smoothly, sitting with the grace of someone familiar with the instrument.
As she settles in, our eyes meet, and a quiet anticipation pulses through me. I’ve fantasized about this moment, sharing apiece of myself through music, hoping it might resonate with her as deeply as her music did with me.
When my fingers settle on the keys, there’s a slight tremor—a mix of nerves and excitement that I hope goes unnoticed. Choosing “Invisible Beauty” by Frank Dang isn’t accidental. As I begin to play, I steal a glance at Amelia. Her reaction doesn’t disappoint—her expression softens, touched by recognition.
“This is the song Jamie played for us,” she whispers, a hint of wonder in her voice filling me with unexpected pride.
