“Grip.” Bristol’s breath stutters and her eyes drift closed.
Holding Martin to my chest, I trail kisses over her jaw and down to her collarbone.
“Go wait for me,” I say, my voice low and lust-rough. “I got him.”
She stands and quickly leaves the room while I lay my son in his crib.
He squirms and twists as soon as his little body hits the mattress.
“Missed you today, handsome boy,” I say softly, pushing thick curls off his round face.
His eyes, dark like mine where Nina’s are gray like Bristol’s, snap open. I catch a curse, hoping he goes right back to sleep so I can go fuck his mother. Our gazes lock in the lamplight for a few seconds before his long lashes flutter, his head lolls to the side, and he falls back asleep.
Who would believe such a little person would require so much work? So much vigilance? Bristol is back in the office for half days, but the rest of the time she’s here with Nina and Martin. I’m here when I can be, and a nanny, whom Bristol vetted like the FBI, helps for a few hours a week. Sarah, Bristol’s assistant, is at our house all the time working. Bris is constantly in Zoom meetings and on teleconference calls. She works harder than ever.
I help, of course, but I’m preparing for the next album and a tour. I’ve been more absent than I like to be. On the surface, everything is working, but there’s a restlessness I’ve been trying to ignore so I can go through the motions of managing this complicated life of ours. I miss my time with Bris. I need more of her. If I sound like a whiny, needy wuss, I don’t really care. If there is one thing I’m in tune with, it’s my most base needs. And there is nothing more essential, more fundamental to my happiness, than my wife.
When I make it to our bedroom, I’m still considering her heavy workload, the time she devotes to our kids, and most of all—most selfishly of all—how little time I’ve had with her since Martin was born.
Those thoughts fly away on a horny breeze when I see Bristol naked in Lotus pose in the middle of our bed. Her breasts are bigger. Ass is fuller. She’s always been slim, and still is, but there’s a ripeness to her body after Martin that is sexy as fuck. She keeps trying to Pilate it away and yoga it off, but I love it.
“Did Martin wake up?” she asks.
Our bedside lamp casts light over the supple lines of her body, showing me the wide, sensual curve of her mouth. The thick, rosy lips exposed between her legs. The delicately muscled plane of her stomach. The small scar from the C-section she had with our first child.
“He’s asleep, yeah.” I stand at the side of the bed and brush my thumb under her eyes, evidence of just how hard she’s been working and how little rest she’s getting. “Which is what you need to do.”
I should let her sleep. Guilt reaches every part of me . . . except my dick, which obstinately remains erect, undaunted and unsoftened by guilt.
“What I need to do,” she says, eyes locked with mine while her hand latches on to the pole poking through my briefs, “is take care of my husband.”
I haul air through my nostrils and expel it harshly through my mouth at her touch. I train my eyes above tit level because, if I look any lower, I’ll be all over her, all up in her, ramming from behind, from the side, from any angle I can get it.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
I mentally repeat the mantra like I’m walking a tightrope.
“I’m all right, babe.” I lie through gritted teeth. “Really. Get some sleep.”
Disappointment flashes across her pretty features, quickly followed by determination. She leans back on one elbow and spreads her legs, slipping a hand between them.
“You go on to sleep, Grip,” she says, dropping her head back and moaning. “I’m just gonna come at least once before I turn in.”
Motherfucker.
Literally.
Without acknowledging her dirty trick, I grab behind her knees and drag her to the edge of the bed. Her husky laugh floats around us in the dimly lit room.
“Changed your mind?” Her eyelids fall to half-mast over smoky gray eyes.
“You changed it for me,” I reply, tipping one side of my mouth. “Touching my pussy.”
“Your pussy?” A lift of her brows challenges my possessiveness.
I shrug and drop to my knees, putting my face on level with the pussy in question.
“You be the judge,” I say before lowering my head, widening her thighs with a press of my hands, then spreading her lips with my fingers and burying my tongue in her wetness.
We both groan.
There is nothing like this pussy. I run my nose along the slick slit before swiping my tongue through her juices.
“Oh, good Lord,” Bristol breathes, rolling her hips into my greedy mouth. “Fuck, yes, Grip. Don’t stop.”
To quote GRiZMATiK . . . as we proceed.
Two fingers plunge inside, and I suck on her clit. She bucks against my face and loops her long legs over my shoulders, digging her heels into my back. I tug until her ass hangs just off the bed and she’s supported by the grip I have on her thighs. I devour her, table manners discarded. Grunting, slurping. She comes once, and I want seconds.
“Grip, stop!” She gasps. “I can’t take . . . please.”
“Whose pussy is it, Bris?” I ask, biting one plump lip and then the other.
Silence. Stubborn woman makes this so much damn fun.
I apply my mouth with more enthusiasm, and then run my thumb through the wetness before plunging it into her ass to the knuckle.
“Ahhhhhh! Shit!”
Her scream pierces the quiet. With my thumb working her ass like a job, I reach up to cover her mouth.
“Whose pussy, Bris?” I demand, my tongue darting into one hole and my thumb fucking the other.
“Y-yours,” she mumbles under my hand, the word breath-starved and choppy. “It’s your pussy.”
I plunge my thumb in deeper until my palm touches her ass, and she bucks wildly, her hand gripping the back of my neck and holding me in place while she thrusts against my lips. Once the tremors racking her body die to twitches and her moans settle into tiny whimpers, I carefully lift her, taking her place on the edge of the bed and turning her to spread her thighs over mine. She snuggles into my neck, the scent of her skin and shampoo mingling with the sweet muskiness covering my face and coating her thighs.
“Holy shit,” she says, her deep-throated chuckle rumbling into the curve of my neck and shoulder. “I can’t think straight. Did you suck my brain out when you were down there?”
“Focus. I think you mentioned something about taking care of your husband.” It’s my turn to lean back on one elbow. I gesture to the briefs I’m still wearing and the obviously eager erection straining to get out and in.
“It’s all coming back to me.” She shoots me a mischievous glance from under long, curly lashes.
“If it ‘comes’ any louder, you’ll wake the neighbors and the kids,” I warn her, my grin smug. “And the way I feel right now, Martin will just have to cry until Daddy’s done.”
“Ah, speaking of Martin,” she says, her smile and the look in her eyes devolving into something baser.
My dick gets even harder. She grins. She knows. She leans up and cups her breasts, her thumbs stroking the fat nipples.
“You can taste. It’s just us, Grip.”
She caresses her breasts in hypnotic circles, and I’m mesmerized by how the nipples peak and harden. I grip her back, my fingers meeting on her spine, and I pull her breasts to my face. They’re slightly damp when I pull one into my mouth and suck so hard that she draws a sharp breath above me, but I don’t stop. I find a rhythm, my mouth and tongue and teeth cooperating to get what I want. When a few drops of her milk hit my tongue, it drives us both into a frenzy.
“That is so fucking hot,” she gasps, scrambling to get my briefs down and off before she scoots as close as possible on my lap, the smooth skin of her thighs dragging over the rougher skin of mine.
She holds my cock
in her hand, fisting it tight, pushing up and down, her thumb caressing the head.
“Don’t play with it, babe,” I say abruptly. “Take it.”
I need to feel her tight and wet and hot around me. Beyond the horniness—which let the record show, is at an all-time high—I need that connection. The one we’ve forged through years, through pain, through unimagined highs and heart-crushing lows. So much in our lives is changing, but this never does. This scorching slide of her flesh on mine, of her taking me in so tightly, is a sweet chokehold on my cock that makes me hiss. I would know this pussy in the dark. I could be blind and half-dead, and you couldn’t fool me with another woman. Just this one. This fit. This perfect friction. The grooves of our souls fit as tightly as our bodies do.
Her forehead drops to mine, panting breaths misting my lips while she rides me, her arms hooked behind my neck. The pace grows more frantic as I thrust up aggressively, meeting her pussy halfway. I grab her ass cheeks, spreading them and taking over the rhythm so I can slam her body down onto mine over and over, deliberately. We’re grunting, rutting animals mindlessly taking our pleasure by force. Our guttural sounds bounce off the walls. Bristol’s head tips back and then down, tears sliding over her cheeks and onto her bouncing breasts. I lean forward, lapping at the mixture of her milk and her tears before sucking her nipple hard. Biting her breast hard.
“Grip!” Bristol comes like a rocket, flattening her hand against my chest for support.
The sound of her coming undone, the contraction of her body squeezing every ounce of pleasure from me, sends me over the edge. I swallow my shout, having just enough presence of mind not to wake the kids. It doesn’t matter if I own Bristol’s pussy. This woman owns my heart. She’s got my mind, my will, my soul, my emotions—all of it on lock. Happily trapped in the palm of her hand.
She’s still trembling against me when I pick her up and lay her against the pillows. Now that we fucked the edge off, there is room for other things. Like exhaustion. She’s already half asleep.
“Love you,” she murmurs, turning onto her side and tucking her pillow between her head and her shoulder.
I was exhausted, but now I’m wound up, unable to sleep. Mind-blowing sex opens the floodgates. Everything pours into my mind at once. Possible fixes for the song that wasn’t working tonight in the studio. The memory of my kids up the hall, snug and secure in their beds, and almost too beautiful for words. The sounds of Bristol coming, her whispers fueled by pleasure.
The shadows under her eyes.
As much as it feels like the planet shakes when we make love . . . that the very foundations of the earth shift, tectonic plates sliding to make a whole new world, it isn’t. Those dark circles under her eyes remind me that the things I was concerned about before we made love still need to be addressed.
First light filters in through tiny cracks where the drapes aren’t completely drawn tight. I hook a leg over Bristol’s hip and an arm around her waist, possessively anchoring her back to my front.
Tomorrow.
I’ll ask about the shadows under her eyes and work and the kids, and the question I asked her once before and have to ask her again.
Did she mean it when she said she would follow me anywhere?
* * *
I don’t think my boobs will ever be the same.
Seriously. Why are they so big? I alternate between fear that they will never return to their original size and dread that they will deflate and hang low and be saggy balloons with nipples. I was still breastfeeding Nina when I found out I was pregnant with Martin. Back-to-back babies meant very little recovery time for the rack.
And I know for a fact my feet will never return to pre-baby proportions. A half size up, and I can’t wear any of my Louboutins. Also, I am not above re-vagination if things start feeling loose down there. I need a tight-fit fuck. Though given the size of Grip’s cock, I don’t think that will be a problem anytime soon.
Damn, he fucked me into a coma last night.
Not complaining. I can attest to the fact that a good slumber fuck is waaaaaaay better than melatonin. With all that I have going on, you’d think sleep would come easily, but mine has been sporadic. No rest for the weary.
Or the busy.
I can’t seem to turn my brain off even when my body is ready to tap out. Between feeding Martin in the middle of the night, trying to keep up with the warp speed of Prodigy’s expansion and growth, and keeping Nina’s little adventurous self alive, I’m half-zombie. I’m just really good at covering it. Lots of concealer. Lots of yoga. Lots of juicing.
What’s LA without juicing?
I’m doing everything I can to keep all the balls in the air, and I think it’s working. Sure, I’m exhausted and smell faintly bovine most of the time, but the kids are healthy, happy, and spend more time with me than anyone else, which is important to me. My clients are all flourishing, climbing and succeeding. Prodigy is a force. I set up the New York office before Martin was born, but I really wanted to be in LA for the birth, surrounded by my family. Now the New York office needs some TLC, so it may be time to head back. I have to talk with Grip about camping out on the East Coast for a while, and I’m dreading it. I’m thinking, though, if the kids and I stay in New York when he goes on tour in a few weeks, it should be fine.
I’m feeling especially good today. Frieda, our nanny, came early because I have a meeting this morning. So she has the kids for a few hours. After Martin’s first feeding, a nice long shower has me relaxed. I’m wearing my favorite knee-length cardigan, and I actually fit into a pair of pre-Martin jeans. The sex last night has my blood singing hallelujah as it flows through my veins. I didn’t realize it has been over a week since we had sex. That’s a long time for Grip.
Hell, I guess it’s a long time for me, too.
I tiptoe through our bedroom, trying to be quiet and keep the room dark so Grip can sleep. Between working on the new album, and prepping for the tour, he’s been stretched as thin as I have.
I walk into our closet to study the shelves of shoes, half of which I’m not sure I can wear anymore. I’m considering a pair of Gucci stilettos when Grip walks in.
“Morning,” I say over my shoulder with a smile. “I hope I didn’t wake you.
“Nah.” He sits on the tufted ottoman in the middle of the closet, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I wanted to talk before the day gets away from us.”
“Talk?” My hand freezes over three pairs of red pumps. I turn to face him, temporarily distracted by the stacks of muscles flexing in his stomach and rippling under the taut skin of his chest. A thin, silky trail of hair bisects his abs and arrows down to the drawstring of his sleep pants. I can see the morning wood-ish outline of his dick. My mouth waters. When was the last time I gave Grip head? I can’t remember.
Oh, God, I can’t remember.
“Bris?”
“Huh?” I jerk my eyes from his crotch to find one thick brow quirked over amused dark eyes.
“You know you can get it,” Grip drawls, leaning forward to grasp my wrist and pull me down to his lap. He cups my jaw with one big hand and takes my mouth as a willing hostage. Our tongues twist, and I taste toothpaste and his natural addictive flavor. His hands wander beneath my tank top, and he finds my nipple, squeezing gently.
“Baby, I have to go,” I mutter against his lips and then move to stand.
“No.” He spans my waist and firmly pulls me back down. “We need to talk.”
“We can.” I drop a kiss onto his lips and get up, grabbing the Gucci heels and wiggling one foot in. “Later. Gotta go.”
“Where are you going?” He frowns. “I thought you weren’t in the office until this afternoon.”
“Yeah, I had to flip my schedule for this meeting. A producer for that big new period piece wants to cast Kai.”
“Is there nudity?” A grin lights his handsome face. “Because you know Rhys is not about that life.”
“There is a little nekkid.” I lean one
hand against the wall and balance to put on the other shoe. “And Rhyson will have to grow the fuck up and get over it.”
“What’s that mean?” His grin drops.
“It means this is a great opportunity for Kai, one she wants to take. She shouldn’t let his outdated caveman hang-ups stop her.”
“Last I checked,” Grip says, “that isn’t how they run their marriage.”
“You’re right. I’m sure he’ll manage to convince her it isn’t right for them and she’ll turn it down.” I roll my eyes and walk back toward our bedroom. “I hope not. That’s why I’m going to this meeting. To salvage any of the offer we can and see what compromises can be made.”
“Maybe we have some compromises of our own to make,” Grip says softly from behind me.
I stop and turn, one hand on my hip and head cocked to the side.
“Now what’s that mean?” I demand.
He sketches a quick frown and shakes his head.
“We can talk about it tonight,” he says. “I don’t want to make you late.”
“Is everything . . .” I search for the right word. “Okay?”
Are we okay?
We’ve known each other more than fifteen years, and half that time we weren’t even close to okay. I was scared to risk loving him for a long time. I never want to be not okay with him again. We had amazing sex last night, but I know with our schedules, we haven’t been nearly as close as we’re used to.
“It’s fine, Bris. I just . . .” He licks his lips and blows out a quick breath before meeting my eyes. “I miss you.”
My heart slams to a stop. I know this man like I know my own skin. Something’s not right. I take a few steps back inside the closet until I’m standing in front of him. I step between his legs, forcing the muscled thighs to widen and bracket me. I slip one hand behind his neck and the other cups his jaw, tilting his head up until our gazes lock.
“Tell me,” I whisper, searching his eyes for the answer he hasn’t offered yet.
“I thought you had a meeting.” His hands slide up my thighs and he squeezes my ass.
“Five minutes. I can give you five minutes.”