He removes his helmet and his bandana while I slide off the Harley. I could watch him all day. The meticulous way he puts our helmets on the shelf and wipes the bugs off his bike mesmerizes me. Griffin takes care of everything he owns-the new shiny things as well as the old, weathered things like his house and garage.
"I think you're an old soul, Griffin Calloway."
He hangs the rag on the hook and shoots me his sexiest grocery-store-guy smile. "Why is that?"
"My parents used to tell people I was wise beyond my years because I knew stuff most kids my age didn't know. That was just knowledge, random facts, not wisdom. But you … you have an appreciation for things and you take care of them like someone twice your age might do."
"My parents always took care of things. They still do. It's just how I was raised." He shrugs.
"No. Hayley and Sophie are complete disasters. I've seen their rooms. Chloe is a little tidier but still not you. I don't think you were conditioned to be this way, I think it's nature more than nurture."
"An old soul, huh? From another time?" He pulls me into his chest and nuzzles my neck while lifting me off my feet.
I hug him with my arms, legs, and entire being. It took twenty-one years, but I finally found where I fit in life, and it's every inch of my body pressed to his.
"You make me feel safe," I murmur but it sounds more like a moan warring between physical pleasure and emotional pain. It's an unsettling feeling that I have such a strong need to feel safe. I don't understand it.
"You are safe," he says between kisses beneath my ear.
"You make me feel like I belong." My breaths race to catch up to my pulse.
"You belong with me." He walks us to the garage door, shuts off the light, and closes the door behind us.
He's my mind's favorite place to go. When I think of him-of us-I don't feel crazy. And maybe I should feel crazy because we're both young and inexperienced in life and love. But I don't want to think about the numbers that make up our ages or the months we've been together.
We crash through the front door like the first big gust of wind at the front of a storm.
"You make me feel needed," I whisper just before his mouth claims mine.
His house is bigger than my apartment, but only by one bedroom. We don't make it to either bedroom. He deposits me on the sofa and shrugs off his shirt.
"I need you." He unties his boots and kicks them off while unfastening his pants as I shimmy out of my clothes. "In fact, I am pretty fucking sure you're all I truly need."
Twenty-three-year-old guys don't say that. His soul is not simply old, it's ancient like that of a great poet … who may have said fuck a few times.
I tug at his partially unfastened jeans.
He grabs my hand. "Close your eyes."
"Why?" My head cocks to the side.
"Because I know you don't want to see the tattoo on my ass."
"Shut. Up." I bat his hand away and tug down his jeans with both hands. A few moments of silence settle between us as I stare at his form before me. "I still blush when I look at you." My gaze trails up to meet his eyes.
Griffin steps out of his jeans and briefs and kneels on the sofa between my legs as I lie back. "I know what else makes you blush." He slowly dips his head between my legs, and my fingers curl into the sofa cushion.