“They’re all Armbrust cabins,” I tell him. “Armbrust Resorts?”
“I’ve heard of that.”
“There are several dozen resorts around the country. Nick Armbrust is famous for these rustic-luxury cedar cabins.” I pause. “Lauren used to date him. It was a pretty ugly breakup.”
Griff looks at me like I’ve shared something unexpected. “Handy to have a sister who’s a shrink when you go through stuff like that.”
Tiny needles of self-doubt prick the edges of my heart. “I—suppose so. I wasn’t really around much when they split.”
She didn’t seek me out, anyway. It was Lana who picked up the pieces, who let Lauren cry on her shoulder. Not that Lauren’s the crying sort, but surely there were tears at some point.
“Think they’ll be surprised you adopted Leonard?” he asks. “Your family, I mean.”
“Maybe. We’ll all be at Gabe’s for dinner, so I’ll tell them tonight.”
He smiles and drags a hand through his hair. “Well, I should get out of here. Get you bonding with the bird and all.”
I should let him go. Inventing reasons to keep him here just ups the risk we’ll end up kissing. My gaze drops to his mouth, and I remember what it felt like to have his lips crushing mine, to feel his body big and hard against me.
“Would you like a drink?” I blurt.
So much for that.
Griffin smiles. “I’d love one, thanks.”
I try to recall what I have to offer as I slip past him into the kitchen. “There’s mineral water, white wine, orange juice, and some questionable buttermilk.” I bought it thinking I’d learn to make Patti’s chocolate buttermilk muffins but haven’t gotten around to learning. “Also red wine and probably some gin in the pantry.”
Griff clutches his chest like he’s mortally wounded. “Not one beer?” He reaches past me into the fridge, brushing my hip with his arm. “Why’s the buttermilk questionable?”
“I thought it might be expired.”
“You’ve got five days to go. Want to try Morir Soñando?”
I took Spanish in college, but I’m rusty. “To die dreaming?”
Griffin looks surprised. “My grandma grew up in the Dominican Republic. She made it with yogurt and milk and OJ, but Soph likes it tart, so we use buttermilk.”
“That sounds…interesting.” What’s interesting is that Griff looks right at home in my kitchen, plucking the orange juice from the fridge and locating a whisk in the bin beside my stove. “The trick is to pour the OJ into the buttermilk and not the other way around.” He whisks as he demonstrates, filling one of my tall pint glasses. “That keeps it from curdling. Also helps if they’re the same temperature.”
“You’re quite the culinary master.” I watch as he adds a little sugar and a dash of vanilla extract, then tastes his concoction.
He looks at me and grins. “Perfect. Want your own glass, or should we share?”
The thought of putting my lips in the same spot as his feels embarrassingly tantalizing. “Can I try yours?”
He hands me the glass, fingers brushing mine. “It’s filling, so we can share if you want. I need to get home soon to fix dinner for Soph.”
And I need to stop swooning every time he looks at me with those gaslight blue eyes. I take a sip. It’s creamy and smooth, a little like an Orange Julius. “This is amazing.”
He grins. “Glad you like it.”
I take another drink and hand it back to him. Griff gestures to the table. “Want to sit a minute?”
“Sure.” I ease into one of my ladderback dining chairs, and he takes the seat beside me, knee brushing mine as he sips the drink and then hands me the glass.
This time when I lift it to my lips, I feel Griffin’s eyes on me. My pulse kicks up for reasons I can’t grasp, and when I lower the glass, there’s heat in his eyes. “God, you’ve got a great mouth.”
“I—um.” I swallow hard, wiping my lips with the back of my hand. “Thank you?”
“I was watching old clips of your show the other night,” he says a bit sheepishly. “And I just kept staring at your mouth thinking, ‘I’ve kissed her.’ That gorgeous, smart woman talking right into the camera—she’s mine.” He laughs and shakes his head. “I know you’re not mine. That came out wrong. I just—well, it’s hard to look at you and not think ‘God, I want to kiss her again.’”
Heat floods my face. Not just my face, but other parts. Arms, legs, the space between my legs. Everything about this man turns me on, and I’m fighting to remember why I shouldn’t give in to temptation.
“Griffin.” I have every intention of telling him we can’t do this. That we should finish our drink, shake hands, and call it a day.
But the heat in his eyes makes me forget all that, and I lunge for him. Just launch myself into his lap like some deranged harlot.
Griffin’s ready, arms clutching my waist as our mouths collide and my thighs clench his hips. He tastes like citrus and spice and everything delicious. As his tongue grazes mine, I moan and press my body tight against his. His chest is a hot wall against my breasts as hot hands cup my ass through yoga pants.
I shouldn’t do this.
I shouldn’t do this.
But my id kicks my subconscious to the curb. The pounding of my heartbeat drowns its shriek, along with Griff’s strangled groan.
“God, Mari.” He breaks the kiss, looking dazed. “These chairs aren’t great for this.”
Before I can speak, he scoops me up and stands. I give a squeak of surprise as he boosts me onto the table and wedges his hips between my thighs. “Better,” he says and kisses me again.
I’ve never felt as wanton and wild as I do wrapping my legs around Griffin’s waist and pulling him tight to my core. The hardness at his center claims the softness at mine, sending shockwaves of pleasure up my spine. I circle my hips, startled to realize I could come like this. Or I could drag him to my bedroom and—
“Fuck, Mari.” He eases me back onto the table, spreading me out like I’m a four-course meal he’s been craving. The lust flashing in his eyes is unmistakable. “Let me taste you.”
I don’t have to ask what he means. Good news, since I can’t find my voice. Somehow, I manage to nod, and that’s his cue to strip me bare. My T-shirt goes first, followed by yoga pants and panties.
I’m naked and aroused on my dining room table and trying to recall why this is a bad idea. As Griff drops to his knees, I give up trying and give in to the sensations. His tongue, hot and hungry, traces my seam. “Fuck, Mari. You taste so good.”
I know I should suggest the bedroom, maybe something aimed at getting us both off. But as Griffin’s tongue circles my clit, I’m helpless to do anything but cry out and clutch his hair.
“Griff.” His name slips out on a gasp as heat builds inside me. It’s been so long since I felt anything like this, and my climax barrels at me like a bike without brakes. “Oh, God!”
I shriek and squeeze my eyes shut as I hurtle over the edge. Pleasure blasts me into the stratosphere as Griffin slips two fingers inside me. His tongue lifts me to the next tier as I arch up and squeeze every ounce of pleasure from the moment.