Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,285

we need to know instead of say them. With my chest pressed to his back, forgiveness, love, understanding, and tenderness transfer noiselessly between the layers of our clothes, an emotional osmosis through blood and bone, through hurt and fear. I don’t know how I realized this was what we needed, but I did. It’s hard to touch when you’re fighting. The anger is like a force field, keeping your bodies as far apart as your opinions. I knew if we could feel each other, my breath syncing with his, my heartbeat seeking the rhythm of his, my nose buried in his neck, his hands hooked under my legs— if we could get back here, touching, we could right ourselves.

And we have.

Even on the elevator, he doesn’t put me down, like we’re afraid to break the truce our hearts negotiated through these points of contact. At our door, he slowly lowers me to the floor, turning to press into me with his arms on either side of my head.

“How about a good night kiss?” he asks, like this is a date and we’re parting ways instead of living under the same roof and sleeping in the same bed on the other side of that door.

A wordless nod is the only signal I give, and the only one he needs. His breath warms my lips after the cold walk home. The sweetness, the rightness of it squeezes around my heart. His mouth is familiar, the shape and texture, the soft fullness I’ve memorized with mine, and yet every time, every kiss is a revelation, a mystery trapped between his lips, hidden under his tongue for me to discover. I will kiss him a million times in our life together and never tire of it. My lips will always cling, curious and searching. His touch is an endless thrill. I don’t know if we’ll have five years or fifty like the O’Malleys, but I will never get used to this wild yearning, will never get enough of this deep contentment.

I can only hope we end every fight with a kiss.

Chapter 21

Grip

“WINE?” I ask once we’re inside.

“God, yes.” Bristol sits on the arm of the couch and gingerly takes off her boots like her feet might come off with them. I owe those boots new soles, a spit shine—something to express my gratitude. If it weren’t for them, Bristol and I might still be snapping and snarling at each other on a New York sidewalk.

That’s not to say we don’t have to finish our conversation. We do, but with calmer heads and hearts back in alignment.

“Meet me in the greenhouse,” I say, heading for the kitchen to grab a bottle of whatever is already chilled. When I get out there, she’s curled up on one of the thick-cushioned outdoor couches. Her legs are folded under her, and her head is tipped back as she stares up at the stars through the tinted glass.

I pour us both a glass of Bordeaux and take my place beside her. There are many kinds of quiet. The kind we shared the last block of our walk home needs nothing added. Then there’s silence like the one we’re sitting in now, one that’s primed for confession.

“That white pussy,” I say, barely loud enough for her to hear. I don’t want her to.

“What?” She turns her head, still tipped back on the couch, to watch me. “What’d you say?”

“That white pussy,” I repeat. “That’s what Clem Ford whispered to me. He said the thing we have in common is that we both love that white pussy, and that fifty years ago I would already be dead for fucking you.”

I suppress the anger that immediately ignites in me again at the words he said, at the way he looked at Bristol before he said them. I’m such an idiot. I knew he was setting a trap for me, but he used the only lure I would never leave in his snare. As much as I told myself not to respond, my hand had a mind of its own as it wrapped around his fleshy throat, and in the moment, it felt like my hand had the right idea.

“Oh, my God.” Bristol gulps, indignation stealing her breath. “I can’t even . . . That’s awful.”

“Yup.” I sip the Bordeaux, waiting for the expensive liquid to settle me, not feeling the effects yet. This situation may require weed.

“As much as I want to kick his ass myself,” Bristol says, anger straining her features,