The Friend Zone (Game On, #2)(49)
“What up, Killer G?”
His deep voice is a caress against my ear. “Mac, that was literally painful to hear.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “Hello, Mr. Grayson, and how are you on this fine evening?”
“Why, I am very well, Miss Mackenzie,” he drawls. “You decent?”
“Is this a trick question?” I grin into the phone. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m outside. Open the door for me.”
Suppressing a squeal that would make me sound pathetic, I hang up and practically skip across the room. I open the door in time to see Gray walking up the front steps, grocery bags in one hand and his gym bag in the other. And I’m in so much trouble because, damn, he does it for me.
Instantly, my heart kicks against my chest, my breath going light and quick as heat rushes up my thighs. He’s giving me that lopsided grin of his. The one that looks a little bit boyish and a little bit naughty, as if assuring that you’ll have fun while he does dirty things to you.
The old university sweater he’s wearing can’t hide the width of his shoulders or the strength in his arms. Worn jeans hang low on his narrow hips, but stretch tight around his massive thighs and lovingly cup the distinct bulge between his legs. I shouldn’t look there, but it’s impossible to miss; Gray is obviously built on a grand scale all over.
My fist tightens around the doorknob. Because I have to hold myself back. I know how warm he’ll be, how firm that body is, and that he’ll smell like home and sex all rolled into one.
But what hits me the most is the way just seeing him makes me feel as though night has turned to day. Everything around me feels brighter, fresher. Gray is my joy. I know this now.
And maybe I’m his, because his eyes are on me and there’s a restrained happiness in his expression, as though he’s holding back too. Or maybe I’m imagining things I want. I can’t tell anymore; this man had turned my world on its head. I can only watch as he bounds up the stairs in that effortless way of his.
“I thought we’d make steaks.” He holds up the grocery bag by way of greeting.
“Wow, big spender.”
“Okay, don’t judge, but the grocer is a fan and gave me a sweet discount.” He gives me a guilty little grin.
“Playing the football card? I approve, because steaks!” I lean against the door. “You brought your gym bag too.”
Gray’s smile turns sheepish. He’s so close now, the vanilla-citrus scent of his skin wraps around me like a blanket. “I…uh…well you might have a relapse.”
“I might.”
“Don’t worry, Special Sauce.” He gives my forehead a peck. “I’m here to save the day.”
Gray Grayson. My hero.
* * *
Gray
I lean back into the pillows with a sigh of contentment. I’m a man well fed and content. We’d had dinner, the best I’d eaten in ages. I’d made a pan-seared hangar steak with caramelized onion-bacon relish and roasted butternut squash. And now dessert. Dessert being Ivy’s gig.
She’d gone for simple, making super-creamy vanilla shakes. And they’re perfect. How she does this, picking the perfect thing for the perfect moment, is beyond me. Like suggesting that we watch TV in bed.
Okay, perfect torture. We’re sitting side by side under the covers like some old married couple. It freaks me out how much I love this. How much I want this to be an option every night.
Of course, we had stalled a bit when getting into bed, me in my T-shirt and boxers, Ivy in her usual tank top and little cotton shorts. When she’d been sick, I’d been able to block the reality of her being barely dressed and concentrate on her illness. Now? Yeah, endless legs, the rounded swells of her hips, and the skimpy top that clings to her sweet breasts are messing with my mind. Thank God she’d kept her bra on or no way would I be able to hide the effect she has on me.
It was hard enough when we stood on either side of the bed, staring at each other, tension heavy in the air as we’d slowly peeled back the covers. Here we were, getting into bed with each other with the intention of sleeping together, and there was no excuse of illness to hide behind. We just wanted to. I knew. She knew it.
Ivy’s eyes had been huge in the delicate oval of her face, her pink lips parted and soft. She’d looked at me, hesitant, confused. And for a moment, I’d feared that she’d ask what the hell we were playing at, why was I here? So I’d panicked and jumped into bed, stating I got remote-control privileges.
That had cracked the tension. After a brief but torturous wrestle for the remote, all was perfect once again. Well, except for the fact that Ivy has the remote.
I rub my nipple, which still burns, thanks to Ivy’s evil, pinching fingers. “You know, you’re lucky I can’t retaliate in like manner,” I mutter.
“If you did, you’d be clutching your balls right now. In pain,” Ivy adds emphatically, because she knows me too well.
“At least I’m comfortable,” I say. “Have I mentioned how much I love your bed?”
Ivy gives me a sidelong glance, her lips twitching. “So what exactly do you love about my bed?”
That you’re in it. With me. “You have a California king,” I tell her instead, which is the truth as well. “Fucking gorgeous, this big-ass bed. I can actually fit in it without my feet hanging off. And how is it that women have the ability to find the best sheets, comforters, and pillows, and put them together to create a cloud of comfort?”