Love on the Rise: Book Two of The Against All Odds Series

by Gemini Jensen

  He continues, “Tonight was just coincidence again. I wanted to let off some steam so I went to the club and happened to see you out on the dance floor. When Pierce,” he says his name like it causes a bad taste in his mouth, “came up and started dancing with you, I just stood back and observed. I was kind of curious as to how you’d act, what you’d do. ‘Til you started to leave with him. That was fucking stupid, Valley. Dangerous! Tell me, do you make a point of having one night stands often?!” He suddenly gets angry, and his voice booms, bouncing off the walls inside the small enclosed area.

  His sudden outburst makes my chest burn as my veins grow white-hot.

  Just who does he think he is, talking to me like I’m a child?

  “When you chose to cut ties, you lost your privilege to have a say in what and especially who I do. My sex life is none of your damn business!” I snap.

  A shadow passes over his face, his eyes darkening in an instant. He stands so abruptly the couch moves backward several inches. I faintly catch the vibration of metal furniture pegs scraping across the floor, no doubt permanently scarring the wooden planks. Making two quick strides, Gray crosses the room until we’re standing chest to chest only a second later.

  Reaching out, he wraps his strong fingers tightly around my wrist. With each thump of my heart, I feel the pulse thrumming in my fingertips. Seconds tick by as he glares down at me, his irises pirouetting with manic intensity.

  “Your sex life, along with everything else about you, will always be my business.” His smoky rasp shoots straight to my core. Before I can register what’s happening, I’m being pulled flush against his body. All logical thoughts insist I go into this hesitant, eyes wide open. But my traitorous flesh is defiant. Lithe arms encase me as his lips crash into mine.

  I yield, lost in the frenzy and giving in to the notion I’ve just been welcomed home after being away for far too long. The taste of cinnamon tinged with Gray’s unique flavor explodes on my tongue, and I open a little wider, desperate to have more of anything he has to offer, praying this isn’t just another one of his vivid nightly visits in my dreams.

  I sigh against his lips, my mind whispering something of anger and lies, but I’ve forgotten the specifics. It’s hard to remember anything else when I’m caught up in the tumultuous emotions paired with the pattering in my chest. My heart literally aches with happiness and satisfaction. This right here is what I’ve been craving. Needing. Longing for. My preferred poison, and my antidote all at once.

  My body trembles from his delicate touch as he slowly pushes my leather coat off my shoulders and all the way down my arms, the fabric quietly thudding behind me as it hits the ground. Gripping the crisp fabric of his shirt, I thumb the material for a moment, pondering whether or not to go easy on the expensive material before tugging it free from where it’s tucked away nice and neat.

  I don’t want Gray nice and neat. I need him unhinged, rugged, and rough.

  I’m indecisive about whether to attack him in a frenzy of passion or to savor each and every moment, hoping tonight lasts forever. It may not be a real possibility, but I’ll still try to make it one. Silently cursing my fumbling fingers and their inability to keep up, I finally get the last of his buttons freed, brushing back the fabric to reveal his bare chest. I nearly gasp out loud when my eyes take in how much he’s changed. If he was defined three years ago, he’s ripped now, and I’ll admit, it’s kind of intimidating.

  Even in the dim lighting, I can tell he’s added some more ink to his body. There’s now an illustration the size of a fist right over his heart, though I can’t make what it is exactly. My fingers trace the object forged in ink, encouraged by his rushed intake of breath. I take the time to appreciate his body for what it is: artwork upon artwork.

  It’s like God himself had a hand in its formation, creating two separate pieces. An intricate mural painted on the perfect canvas. The sinewy sculpture of a man etched in granite, each divot and muscle expertly defined. When the painting dried, the canvas was tautly stretched over the sculpture’s surface, fusing them into one immaculate piece.

  He’s astonishing.

  Glancing up into his eyes, I allow the affection in them to wash over me. It’s bizarre how I missed it earlier, how I doubted he still cared, because it’s unmistakable now, written in their depths like a tale as old as time.

  He’s regarding me with awareness, allowing me to take control as my eyes and hands peruse his body, reacquainting myself with it and adjusting to the changes. My palms move over the hard planes of his chest, the impressions in his abs, before I take a slight step away, giving myself room to remove my tank and kick off my heels. I quickly unbutton my jeans and in one swift swoop, slide them down to my ankles, stepping out of them right as they hit the floor.

  I’m now standing before him in just my bra and panties, and with my revelation of my near-naked body also comes a feeling of uncertainty. I’m reminded of the weight I’ve gained since he last saw me, and unlike his, mine is not made of muscle.

  What if he doesn’t like what he sees?

  I never would have thought it was possible, but his appearance has improved. Hopefully, it’s just my self-consciousness and eagerness to please, but my opinion of myself is the opposite.

  As I cross my arms over my waist and hips in an attempt to shield myself from his eyes, I watch as they suddenly glint with anger. His jaw tightens as he reaches out to pry my arms away from myself. When I try to move them back in place, he growls and pins them at my sides.

  “So, we’re back to this bullshit again?” his gravelly voice scolds. Then, more assertively he instructs, “I’ve told you, never hide yourself from me.”

  “But…my body isn’t the same as it was before,” I whisper in humiliation.

  “Neither is mine,” he states.

  I scoff. Isn’t that the truth?

  “I’ve gained weight. You’ve gained muscle.” I point out.

  Like a predator, he slowly circles around me, causing me to inhale a shaky breath. Not moving an inch, I stand motionless, holding the air inside my lungs for a few counts before releasing it slowly. He makes a full 360, stopping once he’s facing me again.

  “Damn,” he says, and I nearly flinch until I realize he’s biting his lip, eyes drinking me in. “You have changed, Buttercup. But it’s because you’ve filled out. You’re every bit a woman. A fucking enchantress. I bet every man you walk past has to stop in his tracks to do a double-take.”

  His words cause all the tension in my body to release, my muscles to relax. Reaching out, he grasps my hand and yanks me toward him and presses my palm against his steely erection.

  “See what you do to me? Just from the sight of you?” His smoky voice breathes against my ear and my scalp pricks.

  Pulling my earlobe between his teeth, he reaches behind me and slowly unhooks each clasp of my bra one at a time, adding to the anticipation I’m already overwhelmed with. He sucks on my earlobe for a moment, before releasing it with a soft pop as his lips slide free.

  My nipples harden as they’re exposed to the open air, then, even more so from his darkened gaze. Placing his hands on my shoulders, he guides me back onto the couch. His muscular thigh pushes between my knees and slides upward, widening the space between my legs. Dropping his other knee to the ground, he still manages to tower over me.

  Dipping his head, he claims my mouth again, this time more possessive than punishing. Our tongues dance a slow, tentative tango, just enough to have me writhing beneath him.

  Impatiently, I slide down the couch an inch until his hard and muscular thigh presses firmly against my sex. My clit begins to throb, growing desperate and insisting we cut through all the good parts and get straight to the best part. But when I try to grind against the pressure, he pulls his leg away from me.

  “Good things come to those who wait,” he tsks.

  “It’s already going to be good,” I whine.

  “Trust me, Buttercup. I’m gonna make it even better.�
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  His soft lips find my throat and he drops a million kisses down my body, alternating the force of each individual one. Sometimes he even gifts me with a flick of the tongue or a slight nip so that I never know what to expect, and each one torments me.

  He teases one nipple, then drags his tongue down my stomach. Kissing his way back up my ribcage, he takes the other pebbled bud between his lips. My fingers skate through his ridiculously soft hair, my body lost in his caress. When he pulls back to blow a cool gust of air against the sensitive flesh, I swear it hardens to a point—a sensation so acute, I give a firm root-to-tip tug in response.

  Placing his chin on my abdomen, his scruffy beard tickles my skin as he peers up at me through thick lashes. My heart is pounding as I stare down at him in astonishment, still wondering whether I’m just blessed today or experiencing the best dream to ever exist.

  A tuft of hair tumbles over his forehead, landing at brow-level, reminding me of a darker Elvis. “We’re going to play a little game.” He smirks up at me with dimples on full display. His whiskey eyes dance with mischief.

  “Um, we are?” My voice is strangely tight and distorted.

  “It’s simple. You close your eyes or break eye contact with me, I stop what I’m doing.”

  “Okay…” I consent in confusion. “But why?”

  His grin widens before he husks, “It’s better if I show you.”

  It’s the only explanation I get before he dips his head between my legs.

  Chapter Four

  Gray

  HER MOONLIT-SILVERY EYES are sparkling as her gaze connects with mine. It comes as a shock that after all this time, my chest still squeezes and my heart constricting just from a glance. One look in my direction and I’m more like a kid than a grown-ass man.

  For a second, I almost regret the stipulations of the game: don’t break eye contact. What if she sees straight into the heart of me, bypassing all the bullshit and right into the darkness, into the jumble of truths and untruths, of lies and deceit? She doesn’t know what I’ve done, what I’m still doing.

  If she did, would she understand? What if she didn’t like what she saw?

  I’m not the same man I was when we met. Everything from the time she left Central Valley up until now has been for her. Has been because of my love for her. But will that love be strong enough to right all the wrongs, to wash away all the bad—even if the bad was necessary?

  One day she’ll find out. It’s as inevitable as the day turning into night and back again. Then again, that’s life. It comes dispersed with equal amounts of light and darkness; of good and bad.

  I’ll worry about that tomorrow because it’s risky just being here. I’m risking her, me, everything. There’s always that chance tonight’s the last time I’ll ever see her. It’s a very plausible possibility something could happen to me. Heaven forbid, if that’s the case, I want it to be the best night of my life. And hers.

  This time, I don’t tease her but cut straight to the objective. After all, we’ve both been needing this for too long. Back in the day, going more than twenty-four hours without her body would turn me into a grumpy and impossible-to-be-around asshole. A thousand plus days is coming close to the verge of insanity. It’s no wonder I’ve been so damn crazy and reckless the past few years.

  I study her face as my tongue flicks across her soft folds and strikes her clit, taking in every change of expression playing out over her beautiful features. This is the reason for the game, not just the intensity she’s going to feel and the increased connection between us, but so I get to witness that fire in her eyes when I pleasure her. Nothing makes me feel more powerful—or satisfied—than knowing I’m the one who put it there.

  Continuing to swirl my tongue around her sensitive pearl of flesh, I catch her fighting control, rebelling against the urge to let her lashes flutter closed in pleasure.

  And it’s so damn gratifying, even more gratifying than her going down on me.

  “Hmm mmm,” my voice vibrates against her skin, giving her a friendly reminder of the rules.

  At the same time, my hand glides up her side, delicately tracing along her curves until it meets her breast. I alternate between kneading each with my palm and then teasing slow circles around the rosy buds with the pad of my thumb. First one, then the other, because I can’t neglect perfection. Before Valley, I deemed myself an ass man, but hot damn does she make it im-fucking-possible to choose.

  A soft mewling noise escapes her lips and she grips my forearm, giving a firm and reassuring squeeze. She’s close; I can tell. I give her ten seconds before she breaks the rules…

  Eight.

  Seven.

  Six.

  Five.

  Four…

  Overpowered by pleasure, her eyes slam shut.

  I stop immediately, pulling back just enough to speak.

  “Look at me,” I command before adding, “unless you’d rather I stop...” Holding her gaze with a wicked gleam in my eye, I drag my tongue over my lip, tasting the remnants of her essence. I do it to rub it in; to highlight the point that I’m in charge. I’m the referee, the coach, and the MVP all at once. Hell, I’m the owner of whatever league this is we’re playing in. It’s my game. She can submit to my rules and play my way, or she can take the bench. “Your choice,” I throw in for good measure.

  She’s already glaring down at me as I wait here poised between her thighs, but it was necessary I make my point.

  “Gray,” she groans in exasperation, “please.”

  I throw her a lopsided grin and get back to work. I know she’s pissed; she was right on the brink when I stopped. What she doesn’t realize, is how much better it’s going to be now.

  See, the trick is getting her close then withholding and allowing the tension to rebuild. Kind of like delayed gratification. Do that a few times, and it’s going to be like fireworks; like the grand finale on the fourth of July.

  I knew before I even started that she’d close her eyes, that’s always been her habit once she reaches a certain point. Plus, I wanted to add an extra rush of potency to the act. It only takes a minute or two before she’s right back where she left off, climbing the sensations in blissful expectation. As I insert two fingers into her slick heat, I feel the need to remind her of the rules once more.

  “Don’t close them this time. I want you to watch,” my voice vibrates against her swollen flesh, and just as I’m speaking I watch her eyes gloss over. I curl my fingers forward.

  “Ohmygah,” she cries out in one quick word, the inside of her thighs suddenly squeezing against the sides of my head as she shudders beneath me, her tight walls clenching around my digits. I smile, or I attempt to the best I can with my tongue still rolling over and tracing the outline of her clit.

  I don’t pull away, don’t cease my current pattern... Not until she’s ridden out orgasm number two and has begun to beg.

  “Gray, I need you. Inside. Now,” she stumbles over the words, voice still strained with pleasure.

  I ignore her, pretending not to hear, but mostly just being a dick because, honestly, I enjoy making her hot. It’s damn adorable when her temper reaches its boiling point and is just one in a long line of many things I’ve missed about her.

  She bolts upright in the seat, pushing me first off of her and then backward as she swiftly undoes my pants, working them down my legs. I rise up to make it easier for her and she flings them behind the couch.

  Fuck, I love when she’s all needy and demanding.

  When I glance into V’s eyes, I see nothing but the driving force of desire. Impatient and wasting no time whatsoever, she grips the bottom hem of my Calvin Klein’s and yanks them down my legs. By now, I’m rock hard and throbbing when my erection breaks free from the restraints.

  A war rages between my conscience and the undeniable temptation placed in front of me. My body says to take her now, hard and punishing. My head is insisting I go slow and cherish every inch of her. Relish in every second.
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  Carefully, I attempt laying V back against the couch, really wanting to treat her like I’m a proper gentleman tonight, although I’m feeling anything but. Her fingers latch onto the back of the furniture gaining leverage as she pulls her body forward, her breasts crushing against my chest as she wholeheartedly fights my suggested position. Straddling my lap, her lips connect with mine, kissing me fiercely as she reaches to grip my thickness in her fist. Pumping twice, she aligns her hot entrance with my swollen crown and begins to slowly ease herself down around me.

  “So tight,” I grit out, and for some reason, my mind briefly recalls the weekend in the cabin, the day I sketched her. So many times since then, my eyes have sought that luscious nude form drafted in lead.

  Fuck. I’m going to have to really focus if I want this to last—allow her to completely take charge, and I’ll without a doubt embarrass myself.

  “Damn you feel too good,” I grunt as she slams down on me the last few inches.

  “I’ve missed this so much,” she whimpers against my lips.

  “I know, Buttercup. Believe me.”

  She begins riding me, undulating her hips just enough to create an electrifying friction, and God does it feel good. But I still can’t wholly focus on the here and now. Thoughts of her walking up to that limo, beginning to climb inside, ready to willingly leave with another man, propel through my head.

  She looked changed, experienced, not quite as innocent in that leather jacket and matching spiked heels; ripped denim sitting low on her delicious hips; white tank skimming the curves of her breasts. And speaking of her curves, there are more of them now. How in the hell she thinks I wouldn’t like them is beyond me…I’M A MAN for christsake.

  I noticed those curves the first moment I laid eyes on her earlier in the day while she was walking to her car. And I almost had to double back to my hotel room just to take a cold shower. She’s a walking centerfold. The textbook definition of every teenage boy’s wet dream come true. The type of woman a man obsesses over making his for life.