“Hey, babe, we just got here. I’ll grab this pie and see you in fifteen.”
“Alright. Love you.”
“I love you,” I say before ending the call.
One pie and a ten-minute car ride later, I’m stepping into my penthouse with one thing on my mind: getting Jordan naked.
I slow as I come into the kitchen. She’s standing by the stove, scrolling on her phone while she waits for the kettle. She almost always drinks tea before bed: chamomile, mint, or ginger.
Her head lifts when she hears me, and the most gorgeous smile spreads across her face, like she’s genuinely that happy to see me.
“Hi, babe,” she says.
I grin, eyes raking over her. She’s still in my shirt, only now a few more buttons are done up in the center. One side has slipped off her shoulder, and the bottom hangs open, teasing the strip of skin above the black underwear she’s wearing. Her legs—goddamn, her legs. Long. Lean. Bare.
I walk straight to her, pausing only long enough to set down the pie. I grip her thighs and lift her onto the island counter.
She laughs softly in my ear, arms wrapping around my neck.
My hands comb through her hair, the scent of her shampoo filling the space between us. I breathe it in, savoring her. Promising myself that I’ll never take this for granted—her, in my shirt, in my kitchen.
Inourkitchen.
My lips meet hers with devotion, slow and deliberate.
“Well, hello, Mr. Grayson,” she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.
Christ.
My fingers slowly climb up the smooth, bare skin of her legs, stopping when I reach the crease of her inner thigh.
I tighten my grip and tug her closer. “Hey, baby,” I murmur.
She grins against my lips, then purrs as she slants her mouth and dives her tongue into mine, sending every thought in my head scattering.
Her hands roam over my body, fingers tracing, nails lightly scratching the surface of my skin.
I slip a hand inside the shirt she’s wearing, finding a breast, letting the weight of it sit in my palm before swiping my thumb over her peaked nipple.
For years I tried to understand why it took us this long to finally get here. Nothing ever made sense.
For so long I thought life was the milestones: the deals, the wins, the empire, chasing the big moments.
Turns out the only things that actually matter are the people waiting for you at the end of the day.
Cole. Jordan.
And this—coming home to her in our kitchen wearing my shirt.
Yiayiá greetsus at the door with a smile—or something close enough to it for Yiayiá.
“Ah, agapi mou,” she says, wrapping her arms around Jordanbefore leaning back to assess her. Her gaze sweeps Jordan from head to toe. “Perfection,” she finally says. “You look lovely.”
Jordan smiles. “Thank you, Yaiyia. You look beautiful too. I love this dress.”
“Oh.” She waves a hand. “This old thing? It’s from last season’s collection.”
I stifle a laugh, knowing the heavy eye roll Jordan’s holding back.
