“Mia?” Grant’s voice floats on the other side, casual and deep, that perfect brand of slow drawl that always melts something dangerously low in my spine.
“Come in!” I call out.
The door creaks open and there he is—Grant Taylor, all six-foot-three of smug, infuriating heat—leaning one shoulder against the doorframe.
His eyes find mine and a small smile plays across his face. “I'm heading into Wellington for a meeting. Need anything while I'm out?”
My stomach does that ridiculous flip it always does at the sound of his voice.
“I'm good. How long will you be gone?”
“Couple hours.” Then, with zero warning and all the casual confidence of a man who knows exactly what he's doing, he adds, “And baby, when I get back, we’re moving your things into my room. I need you in my bed from now on.”
Just—boom. Like he’s talking about cloud coverage or checking the weather. Meanwhile, my brain short-circuits so hard I forget how to blink.
He tips his head, utterly unbothered, and tacks on like it’s an afterthought, “Also, there’s lunch in the fridge if you get hungry.”
Oh cool, yeah. Let me just nibble on a turkey wrap while my frontal lobe tries to reboot from that verbal detonation.
“Thanks,” I say, voice weirdly high-pitched, brain very much not operating on oxygen.
His eyes flick from me to the bikini now sprawled across the bed.
And sweethell,that slow grin he gives me?
That’s not polite. That’s a promise.
“You know,” he says, voice rougher now, eyes locked on that red scrap like it personally insulted him, “I would give just about anything to see you in that later...”
He comes closer—slow, deliberate steps that feel more like a hunt than a stroll—and then he’s right in front of me, his body heat wrapping around mine before he even touches me.
My mouth goes dry.
“Just so I can drag the strings down nice and slow with my teeth and taste you until you forget your own name,” he adds, tracing his finger slowly down my shoulder, his voice a shade lower now, thick with suggestion.
My knees threaten mutiny as a shiver runs though me.
“Grant,” I whisper, but it’s not a protest.
He lowers his lips to mine and kisses me like he’s starved. Like I’m water in the desert and he’s been crawling through heat for days. His other hand tangles in my hair, pulling me deeper into him, like he could erase time and geography and every piece of sense I have left.
By the time he pulls back, I’m dizzy. Breathless.
Wrecked.
He studies me for a second, eyes sweeping my face like he’s trying to memorize it.
Then he steps back, a hand dragging down his face like he's physically wrestling his control back into place.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “I actually came in here to tell you something else.”
I blink, still catching up. “What?”
He groans softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I... don’t remember. Seeing you, thinking of you in that bikini, then kissing you— wiped my damn brain clean.”
I laugh, brushing my fingers over my tingling lips. “You’re lucky I won’t hold it against you.”
“Oh, I fully count on you to hold a lot of something against me later,” he tosses back with a wink, already backing out of the room.
