If serving dinner was my primary objective, I guess I went about it all wrong.

Considering the lack of groceries, there is something halfway decent simmering in Grady's slow cooker, something I had to take out of its original box, still taped shut. I managed to get a Texas chili together with what I could scavenge from his pantry and freezer, both near empty.

His "bachelor pad" needs a woman's touch, no doubt about it. It'll take some time, though. Making this place livable, long-term, for the both of us is something we ought to do together, and Grady's schedule won't be particularly accommodating, especially over the next few weeks. This Quinn endeavor sapped us of so much time and money. Even on a budget, it'd cost a pretty penny. That'll fall into my camp to rectify, but, as marketable as my skills may be, finding a job won't be without its challenges, beyond that of just a yes, no, or maybe.

While life is still on hold for us, I'm doing what I can to be useful. After a day of hard labor, the place is probably cleaner than it's ever been. I can hold my own in the kitchen as well, and I find it kind of funny that I've become the girl I've gone out of my way to avoid being. But don't you worry, at least not about me. Domesticity will never be the highlight of my girlfriend resume. I have other points in my favor, and that's certainly true today, when I'm trying extra hard to prove that we made the right choice and that we didn't rush into this.

I did listen to him. That's a start. It wasn't even much of a fight. Don't go anywhere was for the safety and wellbeing of us both.

Cooking, cleaning, doing as told . . . and on top of that, I'm wearing only a threadbare t-shirt and a thong, through no fault of my own. The air-conditioner isn't quite keeping up with the oven and heat of the evening, and there's a mountainous pile of laundry that we haven't yet come up with a plan for. I would have taken care of it, but it would have violated the agreed upon house arrest. So, what I'm wearing is pretty much all I have left that's clean. I could have tapped into his wardrobe, but I'm well aware that I look better in my own.

When Grady walks through the door after a long day of crime-fighting, his initial response is a smile. It quickly shifts into a bit of a gape. Add in a blush, and it's no mystery what he's thinking.

I've seen hints of that look before. The self-doubt was a mighty shroud, though. Now that I've got a good look behind it, it's more telling than words could ever be.

Grady stiffens and pauses to do so, but then his good manners kick in. His eyes dart to what's cooking, and he finds the next step of his stride.

Our greeting is pretty standard, like we've done this a thousand times. It starts with a kiss, which isn't quite chaste, but the dry spell we've been enduring makes it feel like it. We both seem to avoid the fact that I'm pantless, braless, and almost bottomless altogether. My shirt covers everything, but only just, and that's not necessarily true if I'm doing anything other than standing still with my arms down.

Grady dips into the bedroom and doesn't close the door when he unbuttons his uniform shirt. He tosses it into that overwhelming pile and pulls his undershirt out from the confines of his belt, which he unbuckles next. The pants get tossed, too, and gym shorts replace them.

I wasn't ogling or anything, but he wasn't being particularly discreet, and the apartment isn't quite big enough for any secrets. So, while I'm setting the table, I catch a glimpse of those muscles in motion and the hefty package. My body responds, and not in a way that might facilitate digestion and good conversation. My heartrate is too high. My brain function is too low. And despite the recent shower, my moisture balance is suddenly all out of whack. Everything on me is suddenly slick and damp except for my mouth, which is as dry as west Texas in August.

The cornbread is just about ready. Grady is strolling out of the bedroom just as I'm reaching for the potholders on top of the refrigerator. This doesn't strike me as particularly tantalizing until I hear his steady approach and catch the shadow of him rising over me.

I whirl around when he touches my sides. He's closer than I anticipated. At my gasp, the potholders bobble out of my hands. With his size, strength, and resolve, he corrals me into the corner of the kitchen counter with such ease that I should probably be frightened. The thought probably stems from all kinds of trauma, and not all of it recent. It's fleeting, however. It melts away when Grady lifts me up beneath my thighs and sets me on the counter like I weigh nothing. It brings us face to face for the kiss I've been waiting days for. My legs open and he fills that space. I can feel him. Hard to miss. And I'm sure he can feel me, all hot, damp, and thrumming, like it has its own heartbeat.

"What are you trying to do to me?" he pants out when my mouth drifts to his ear.

He curls his fingers around the sides of my thong and takes a whiff of my damp hair.

"I wasn't trying to . . . I didn't mean. . ." I'm forced to stop when his hand drifts. His thumb slides beneath the tiny triangle of underwear and he hits the mark with such precision that it makes me jolt. "It is . . . it should be laundry day." 

With a swift tug, he gets the thong out from beneath me and wrangles it off my legs. "Is that what this is?"

Despite my greatest effort, I can't hide my embarrassment. My whole body is probably going red with it.

What was I thinking? That I could go prancing around in a thong and not get called out for it?

I have no defense for that, and now I have no underwear at all. All I can really do is pull his head back to mine and own it. Yes, I was trying to seduce you. And yes, it's working.

He tosses the thong aside and then we're making out again. Just the edge of my ass is on the counter. The rest of me is in his arms, around his hips, and pressed against his body and face. When his head drops to my neck, he leans in and tugs me even closer. Just the friction of his lower abdomen is doing things to my body that I'm not ready for. I don't want this to be over before it begins.

"How did you stay single for so long?" I blurt while scooting backwards. As much as I don't want it, I need some space.

He chuckles by my ear and then takes a half step back. "Well, let's see. . ." He pulls his shirt off and it gives my question even more substance. He's got expressive eyes, a hot five o'clock shadow, a beautiful body, and a lower level that leaves nothing to be desired. Above all, and I truly mean that, he has the patience and good humor to answer my question honestly. "Picky, intimidating, damaged, flat broke most of my life. I could probably come up with a few more. . ."

"I like that you're picky. It means you waited for me. Intimidating is a point in your favor, too. It's probably why they're not here yet."

I meant that last part to be a compliment, but I can tell I hit a sore spot. I know he's still angry, and a lot of that is self-directed. For anything that went wrong, he blames himself, and he lets loose a sigh that seems loaded with all those ifs.

His sad gaze wanders to the oven. He picks up the oven mitts and pulls the cornbread out. It's a little extra toasty, but it's nothing we can't counteract with a little dunking. He sets it on the stove, seemingly lost in thought, and not in a way that involves me, half naked on the counter.

It's not the most comfortable position, but I stay put and pull off my shirt, more determined than ever to push past this. We've avoided this topic—how we go about living our lives knowing Keith's flock of crazies could show up at any time. It's something I need to process alone before Grady and I can ever hope to do it together. I'm not trying to make excuses, but we really haven't had the chance to hash anything out beyond the basics, the don't leave the apartment. On the road, we had Quinn in the back seat for the first leg, and then we took turns trying to sleep. And not long after he collapsed into his own bed, he had to leave it, and he's been working ever since.

This conversation needs to happen, but it can wait. The food can too, but I can't. And I'm glad Grady is reeled back in so easily. We're going at it again, so close that every breath and heartbeat is making me forget.

I need this so bad, I could almost cry.

"You're right," he mumbles, his mouth hovering between my cheek and shoulder.

Am I? His light grazing kiss finds the most sensitive, vulnerable part of my neck. What were we going on about again?

"I am intimidating," he pauses to say, "and they'd be fools to come here. If they ever lay another hand on you. . ."

I zone out. My mind's eye flashes to Keith's hand on my bare thigh. You're here to help me help others. I got a little pat and squeeze for that. His hand was hot and sweaty and the way it was sticking to me, it was pulling my skin in unnatural directions.

I haven't mentioned this to Grady, and I'm not sure I ever will. 

Screw that and screw Keith.

We all have our vices, Taryn. . . 

We sure do.

I emit a little moan when Grady takes my breast in his mouth. There is teasing. Suction. It's hot and then cold when he departs. His approach alternates between soft and sensual, and a little aggressive, and he's been darting from one breast to the other. I can't detect a pattern, and I brace myself with my hands on the edge of the counter, ready for anything. He still manages to surprise me, and I don't mind letting him know it.

As his mouth drifts down my stomach, I lean back and set one foot down on the adjacent counter and rest my other on the back of a slightly displaced chair.  Let's just say the kitchen isn't very big, especially for fooling around like this.

If we rid ourselves of as many vices as we can . . . if we spend the day working hard, serving the Lord and helping our community, I promise, you'll lead a happier, more fulfilling life. . .

How about go to hell. I will get my fulfillment when, where, and with whom I choose.

And that's the last time I intend to let Keith intervene here. I smother the thought of him, literally holding my breath, wishing I could do the same to him. With a pillow while he sleeps. . .

I hold it for too long, and it bursts out of me at the first swipe of Grady's tongue through my slit. He swirls to a landing on the sweet spot. I surprise myself by how much I make my pleasure known. I cry out to an extent that I should probably worry about the neighbors.

With little control of the twitching, I strengthen my grip on the counter and move one hand to the side of Grady's head, weaving my fingers through his hair. I also curl my toes around the back of the chair. It'd be dangerous and mortifying to fall right now. The counter is slippery, though, and my left leg is too enmeshed in clutter to provide much stability.

It would be wise to move this to the bedroom, but this is the most arousing thing I've ever done. I've had sex in unconventional places before, but not with him, and that's what makes all the difference. I'm actually turned on, as high as these things go, and this won't take very long. He's also very good . . . too good, despite this being our first attempt at this. He's gentle, because he wants to be, not because he's tired. He's also firm, exact, and a consistent side-to-side. He isn't roaming around. There aren't any bursts of speed or wildness. . .

It's a relief. Pure pleasure, really. And he's bringing me closer to the top by the millisecond. But, I admit, it's also a slight irritant. He's admitted to a drunken one-night stand phase, a few flings that lasted no more than a month, and a debacle with a virgin that dragged on for longer than he wanted. He would have waited as long as he thought she was worth waiting for, but he wasn't enthralled and got out once she was expecting a ring.

He's twenty-six years old and experience is to be expected. That's not what bothers me. I just fear that, in regard to a woman's pleasure, most of what he learned, he learned from Quinn. She's acted like she's known everything about sex since she was thirteen or so, but I'd written it off as baseless bragging and nothing more. Now, I'm not so sure.

I know it's all part of the package. It's what I signed on for, and I have no regrets. It's just, in times like these, I can't help but wonder. What really happened between them, and why'd she let him go? Knowing what I now know, I can't imagine there'd be any bedroom issues. But who knows?

Maybe Grady is still wondering all this himself. They got their attempt at closure yesterday, but that wasn't really Quinn. It was an empty husk of her, so did it really count?

I smother all thoughts of Quinn and her with Grady. Maybe not as violently as I did with Keith, but thoroughly all the same. I don't need her here with us right now, and Grady doesn't either. He's working so hard, so eager to please. He doesn't cut corners, play games, or bail early for selfish reasons.

A lot can be said about how a man goes down on a woman, and he's . . . oh dear God. It comes on suddenly and explosively, way earlier than usual.

While my pelvis is doing flips of joy, I throw my head back. I hit it a little too hard on the cabinet behind me. My foot, in need of some traction, slips on the counter. I kick the toaster off, and on the way down, it hits the wall, the trash bin, and the windowsill before settling to a noisy finish on the floor. I think I say both fuck and sorry as I lose my grip on everything. My behind shifts off the counter. Grady has to stop what he's doing to break my fall. I hit one elbow on the counter and knee him in the side. But I somehow get my feet beneath me. We come to an awkward landing, him on his knees, and me on my unsteady feet. 

I suppose we're lucky we didn't break anything, except for maybe the toaster. I apologize once again, but he doesn't dignify that with a response. He's not a toast person, I guess. Instead, he grips my ass cheeks and leans back in, giving me a few more deep strokes with his tongue. With my fingers clinging lightly to his hair, he lifts me to my tiptoes, and I let loose a few more tremors, feeling giddy and lightheaded. I actually giggle and squirm away before he's truly given up on the endeavor.

I almost succumb to the urge to turn around. In my vision, I'm bent over the counter and he's plunging inside of me while I'm still wet and engorged. There's the condom issue, though. We still need one, and I don't know where he put the extras, or if he lost them to the chaos. I consider going down on him instead. I certainly want to. It'd be a monumental challenge, but not one I'd shy away from.

Unfortunately, the choice is taken away from me. Both of us, really. We're interrupted. Again. We're two-for-three and I'd call that a losing battle. There's an angry knock on our door . . . and the mood is just . . . gone.

Grady and I lock eyes. He looks afraid. I can only imagine what I look like. I start shuddering from head to toe. I'm not even cold.

I should run. Hide. We both should. But I just freeze, trembling there, naked. Grady has to nudge me toward the bedroom. I somehow manage to stay on two feet and stumble inside. The last thing I see before I close the door is Grady snapping the magazine into his gun and pulling the slide.