The Unidentified Redhead (Redhead #1)(72)
Author: Alice Clayton

After I changed, I walked through my house, my home, thinking of how much I was already looking forward to making it lived in. Jack packed up my things from last night, and met me by the back door in the kitchen. The mood had shifted this morning, the energy was different. He was quietly resigned.

I was quietly … excited?

I was excited.

As I walked through the kitchen, I slapped a post-it note on my new Sub Zero fridge, where not even a jar of mustard lived yet.

“What’s that for?” he asked, smiling tiredly. I laughed, grabbing his sweet face with my hands and scrunching it up.

“I left myself a note for when I come back.”

“And what did you tell yourself?” he asked, holding the door for me as we walked out toward my car parked in the driveway.

I threw my bag in the car and grabbed the keys from him. I wouldn’t get to drive in New York, and I wanted to soak up as much as I could. I smirked at him as he frowned at getting in the passenger seat. I dropped the top, fired up the tunes, and said, “It says, ‘Welcome home, Grace.’”

Chapter 25

Breakfast was quick. Jack made Holly and I oatmeal while I made coffee and she sliced up bananas for our bowls. We talked hurriedly about last-minute plans. I would be leaving my car at Holly’s. We figured it would be better to have it somewhere that someone actually lived. The two of them would check on my house about every other week or so. There were still a few pieces being delivered, but between Jack and Holly, they had it covered.

I actually offered Jack the use of my car while I was gone, and he laughed, telling me he “quite enjoyed” his broken little car and, “now that the Car Snob will be away, I’ll be pleased to drive it again.” Jack and I beat a hasty trip upstairs after breakfast, determined to sneak in as much time alone as we could before we needed to leave for LAX. My flight was at one, and we figured on leaving for the airport around ten.

It was already eight-thirty.

We headed straight for the shower, dropping our clothes as we walked through the room, efficient and expedient in our undressing. I laughed at the seriousness with which we approached this, our final shower.

“It’s like Dead Man Showering,” I quipped, as he plodded across the room in only his boxers, clothes strewn messily about. I was no better. I was wriggling out of my bra so fast it was like someone was holding a gun to my head.

“It does have a certain finality to it, doesn’t it?” He chuckled wryly, watching me as I struggled to get the last clasp. “Can I please help you with that?” He sighed, the sound turning into a full on belly laugh as I contorted myself this way and that, trying desperately to get out of it.

“Smartass,” I said, poking his ribs as he approached me. He stood behind me as I held my hair up, and when it was finally off, his hands slipped lower to my waist, hooking his fingers through the band of my panties and beginning to slide them over my hips.

“I don’t recall asking you to help with those, Sweet Nuts,” I scolded, my breath beginning to catch in my throat.

“I don’t recall asking for your opinion on this matter, Nuts Girl,” he growled in my ear as the panties went down. He threw them over my shoulder, and I watched them soar through the air.

“Shower?” I asked.

“Yeah. Let’s get wet,” he teased, pushing me toward the bathroom.

“Too late,” I stated, feeling the entire lower half of my body beginning to warm as his hands began to explore.

“Is that a fact?” he asked, spinning me around and walking me backward into the bathroom.

“Oh, like you’re not totally turned on. I can see that you are, George,” I murmured, letting my eyes peek at Mr. Hamilton Jr. poking at his boxers. My hands came up to his shoulders, and I ran them down the length of his arms, while his snaked around my waist, pulling me to him.

“And why the hell do you still have these on?” I asked, snapping the band on his boxers.

“You tell me, Crazy,” he said, reaching past me to turn on the shower.

“I’m on it,” I answered, removing the offending boxers in the time it would take you to say Hamiltonian Wake-Up Call.

We scrambled in, the water covering us as we lathered quickly. He washed my hair, letting the water run down my body, covering me in bubbles. He, of course, held my boobies while I washed his hair … for balance. He truly never tired of playing with them. I honestly think if he had his own pair, I might never hear from him again. Luckily, I never tired of him playing with them, either. He had me moaning within seconds, and then groaning a minute later.

He was taking my washing up very seriously this morning, and there was not a place on my body he didn’t attend to. He brought me to three quick intense orgasms, and before I knew it, we were out of the shower and on the floor of the bathroom, with me on top, riding him in a frenzy. We were getting water all over the floor as we tried to stay on the bathmat.

In the end, neither of us cared that we strayed off the bathmat.

We f**ked frantically, laughing when he knocked over the tower of toiletries with his foot while baby powder and tampons rained down on us. We laughed when the squeak of his ass against the marble became almost louder than my groaning. And we really laughed when we came together, tension and giggles giving way to satisfaction.

I rolled off him, landing squarely on my flat iron. I yelped, and when he tried to roll after me, he hit his head squarely on the toilet.

I looked around at the state of the bathroom—the open shower door, the Always with Wings and mascara strewn about the floor, the flat iron under my bum and Jack Hamilton rubbing his head where he had bonked it on the bowl.

I laughed and laughed until tears streamed down my face, my naked body jiggling in places that I knew couldn’t look good. And I didn’t care.

“I … love you … so … much … ” I choked out, wiping my face off with a piece of toilet paper from behind me.

“I love you too, Gracie … Always,” he deadpanned, holding up a maxi pad.

I started into a fresh round of laughter, holding my stomach it hurt so much. He crawled over to me, knocking bottles left and right with his knees and kissed me square on the lips.

“You’re crazy, but you’re my Crazy. I love it.” He stood, helped me up, and then walked out into the bedroom, flexing his buns for me.

“We need to get a move on—it’s getting late,” he said over his shoulder.

I glanced at the clock on the counter and saw that it was already nine-fifteen.