Chapter 25

25

Annika

The words are thank you .

But I can't find them.

Because Grady Rock makes my brain short-circuit.

I spent four years of high school re-wiring myself over and over so I could resist his dimples and his confidence and his easy acceptance of me for who I was, not where I came from or where I wanted to go or the schedule I'd made to get me there.

But I can't do it anymore.

I can't resist him.

And I don't want to.

He's not perfect. God knows, neither am I. But when he walked into the shower and casually pulled that curtain back, like he knew I was here, and it was okay, and he was happy to see me, no matter what happened in the rest of the world today, I fell.

I quit trying to overanalyze, and I just fell , and it scared the shit out of me.

Because what if we don't work?

What if all this is just a leftover high school crush?

That bulge against my belly doesn't feel left over.

The press of his body anchoring me to the chilly tile wall doesn't feel left over.

The hot swipe of his tongue against mine doesn't feel left over either.

I can't stop touching him. The sleek angles of his back. The thick roughness of his hair. The chill of his wet skin. The hard plane of his thigh beneath my pussy.

He pulls out of the kiss with a low groan. "Can we do this without one of us being pissed?" he whispers against my lips.

"I'm not pissed," I lie.

Maybe?

Or is it the truth?

His blue-green eyes bore into me, and I let him, because maybe he can find the truth.

One dimple pops out, and I swear it makes my knees wobble.

Maybe I'm pissed. I don't know.

But I'm definitely horny.

"You're still pissed," he tells me, his lips brushing over mine while his hands stroke up from my hips to my ribs. "Tell me what to do to make you not pissed."

"More." My eyes slide closed, and I tilt my mouth to his, invite him in, and this time, there's no attacking.

Just soft, gentle caresses. His lips on mine. My lips on his.

Tasting.

Teasing.

Igniting my nerve endings and sending a desperate, aching pulse to throb between my legs while he suckles on my lower lip, his stubble a sharp contrast to the silk of his mouth.

"More," I whimper into his kiss.

He makes a low rumble of agreement while his thumbs brush my nipples, oh yes more there .

I arch into his hands, and he continues the slow rub around my hard tip, and I press my clit against his thigh, because I'm aching and needy and desperate everywhere and I don't care if our first time is in a shower or on a bed or under the stars, I just want him to touch me.

To keep kissing me.

To never let go.

His thick length is pressing into my stomach, and I want to stroke him and lick him and ride him and I want all the weirdness between us to go away and for there to be nothing left except two best friends who can't get enough of each other.

His tongue touches mine and this is everything I've ever wanted from Grady.

Ever.

Always.

I trail my hands through his hair, down his neck, over those solid shoulders, memorizing every inch, the texture of smooth skin over hard muscle, the flex in his biceps, the hard plane of his chest, the rough hair over his pecs.

I didn't come here to seduce him.

I came here to warn him. To tell him I didn't mean what I said to the reporter in the name of keeping our friendship a secret for the sake of our bakeries.

But I like this plan better.

Especially when he rocks his hips and lowers his hand to slip under the waist of my leggings, fingers drifting between my legs. I kiss him harder while I open wider to give him full access, and when he thumbs my clit, that simple touch is enough to send a wave of white-hot need spiraling out of control in my core, the hot pressure building me toward a man-made release that I haven't had in months.

Or longer.

He deepens the kiss and slides a finger between my folds, groaning into this kiss like he's found the buried treasure he's been searching for his whole life.

I grip him tight, one hand tangled in his thick hair, the other wrapped around his neck while the sensations swell and deepen and oh my god , Grady's finger pushing inside me has to be the single best sensation in the universe, but I still want more.

Closer.

I need to be closer .

I need him deeper.

I pump my hips into his hand, and he matches my rhythm, thumb to clit, fingers thrusting into me, and I'm close.

So close.

Almost—

" Rawk! Ride her like a pony! Ride her like a pony!"

I jerk back and bang my head against the shower wall. Pain erupts and my eyes water while Grady twists out of the kiss, yanks his hand out of my pants, and curses. " Dammit , Long Beak Silver, go walk the fucking plank ."

The pain at the back of my skull isn't strong enough for me to be hallucinating, and if I were hallucinating, I wouldn't be sitting here with an ache in my lady bits demanding a grand finale to that intense music he was playing in my pussy, which means that really is a parrot on the shower curtain rod.

And is it…? It is .

It's walking crooked like it's drunk.

"I'll see you in hell, fuckwad!" the parrot says before it topples sideways off the curtain rod and dives at us.

I shriek and bang my head against the shower wall again as the bird rights itself with an easy spread of its wings and turns to glide right back out the open bathroom window.

" Ohmygod ," I gasp.

"Grady? You in there, boy?" an older man calls from somewhere inside the house.

"I'm jacking off, Pop," Grady calls. "Go away."

I slap a hand over my mouth to keep from squealing. The idea of Grady masterbaking— masturbating —is enough to take my panties four shades wetter, which I didn't think was possible.

"To porn? Is it good porn?"

Grady squeezes his eyes shut. "Filthy, horrible porn."

"You think your grandmother would like it?"

"Fuck," he mutters, dropping his head to my shoulder while I decide if I want to laugh or cry. Or possibly follow the parrot out the window. He lifts his head and looks at the closed door, which is wobbling. "Yes, Pop. Nana would love it. There are mimes. I know mimes turn her on."

"Got that reporter lady with me," Pop Rock says. "Maybe you shut the porn off and come show her your yearbook?"

"Oh my god," I whisper-shriek. I avoid banging my head on the wall one more time while I wriggle out of Grady's grasp. "She can't catch me here."

The door bursts open, and Sue comes barreling in.

Grady leaps out of the bathtub, slides on the wet floor, and yanks the shower curtain shut. "Stay," he hisses to me.

"I'm not jacking off," he calls while he rushes out of the bathroom, soaking wet, without a shirt.

He slams the door behind him, leaving me alone.

With the goat.

And an open window.

An open window that's not very large, because it's a bathroom window, but it's still a window.

I use the shower curtain to shield me from the door, just in case Pop decides to come in, and yes, he's Pop to me too, because he's Pop to everyone , though most people from Sarcasm call him that Shithead Pop .

"No, Pop, I just wanted half an hour to read a book," Grady says somewhere beyond the bathroom.

"What book?" Pop demands.

" The Wicked Wallflower ," Grady answers.

"You read romance novels? And why are you all wet?"

Shit . That really is Bridget the reporter.

And where did Grady pull that book title out of? Does he really read romance novels?

I'll have to text him later and ask.

And then threaten to send Bailey over to soft serve ice cream his front yard if he lies to me.

Oh my god.

Who am I?

I don't do things like that .

And more importantly, I need to leave.

Now .

The window's big enough. I can fit.

If my heart quits pounding so hard. It's making my chest swell.

The bigger question, though, will be if I can get away.

Because the bird's sitting on my car.

Watching me.

"Intruder! Intruder! Intruder!" he squawks.

"Sue, go eat the parrot," I whisper.

Sue leaps up on the toilet seat and crows out an offended Maaa!

But it's enough.

The parrot takes off.

And so do I.