Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,265

now, huh? Now you got your own show and all.”

Luke laughs, his bright blue eyes lighting up and crinkling at the corners.

“I’ve always been big time.” He offers an immodest shrug of his shoulders. “The rest of the world’s just catching up, thanks in large part to your girl here.”

“Yeah, she’s something else.” Grip’s smile dims a little, but he doesn’t look my way. “Well, congrats.”

Before any of us can say more, the director’s assistant interrupts, her harried expression and flyaway hair conveying the kind of day it’s been.

“Luke, Steven’s looking for you.” She sets her stress aside long enough to ping-pong admiring glances between Grip and Luke. I can’t blame her. Facing one another, they’re a study of beautiful contrasts, Grip’s darkness and raw sexuality a perfect foil for Luke’s blond hair and surfer-boy-next-door good looks.

“You said Steven needs me?” Luke prompts.

“Um, yeah.” She blinks the stars from her eyes and frowns. “He wants to talk through a few things for this next sequence.”

As much as I loathe the thought of leaving Grip even for a few minutes, I force myself to turn to him, prepared to ask him to wait for me, but again, it’s Luke to the rescue.

“Hey, I got this, Bris.” His kind eyes smile back at me. “I’m sure Grip didn’t come all this way to see me.”

My eyes lock with Grip’s, and I already see the reprimand behind his impassivity.

“Okay,” I say. “I won’t leave, though, until you’re done. Come find me. I want to make sure you feel good about everything.”

“That works,” Luke says, turning back to the production assistant. “Take me to your leader.”

He gestures for her to lead the way and they’re gone, leaving Grip and me alone.

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” He scans the studio’s parking lot, which is doubling as our set. We’ve broken for lunch, and the crew swarms around the craft service table like ants at a picnic, hungry and industrious. There won’t be much time for food. Every- one’s focused on the meal, but not too focused to miss Grip. His star has risen stratospherically since his album dropped. They pretend not to be starstruck, but their surreptitious attention presses in on the privacy this conversation requires.

“Luke has a trailer of sorts.” I flick my chin toward it, across the parking lot that has been cleared for today’s shoot.

“That’ll do.” A thick fan of lashes hoods whatever is in his eyes. I hate not knowing what he’s thinking, other than that he’s not pleased with me.

I can’t blame him; I haven’t been pleased with me since that damn panel.

We’re halfway across the lot, and the silence is suffocating. The air hasn’t been this heavy between us since before we got together. I hate that I did this. He walks beside me, a gulf-sized space between us and his eyes set on the trailer like it’s a finish line. Once we’re inside, I walk farther into the room, setting my back against the wall and watching him across the few feet separating us. Grip leans against the small bar stocked with Luke’s favorite drinks and stares back at me. Everything is heightened in the small, tight space. Tension coils between us, pushing against the flimsy trailer walls. While a thou- sand ways to apologize fill my head and rest on my tongue, the silence tautens and lengthens.

“I was coming to New York tonight,” I finally say. As apologies go, it’s pretty lame, and not quite actually one.

“I heard you saying that when I walked up.”

Grip looks good. He always does, but after more than a week apart, my eyes are as hungry for him as my heart is and I can’t look at anything else in the room. He’s wearing dark jeans and a Kelly green T-shirt that says JOBS NOT JAIL on the front.

God, did I mention he looks good?

I just want to skip to the part where he’s soothing this ache at my core, where he’s banging me like he’s a bull and I’m his china shop. His still somber eyes tell me we’re not there yet, but the compulsive clenching between my thighs reiterates that I’m ready to be.

“I’m sorry I pulled rank on you.” His quiet apology when I was wrong on so many levels—when by all accounts, I should be apologizing first instead of just eye-fucking him—squelches my raging hormones.

“No, you were right.” The words fight to get out of my mouth. “Not confronting Angie was the right call.”

“I know that.”