by Kate Stewart
“At least Qwest doesn’t have to be high or drunk to tell me how she feels.”
That low blow lands just above the belt in the vicinity of my heart.
“Fuck you, Grip.”
“I already know you wanna fuck me.” He raises both brows and tilts his head to the other side. “I’m wondering if you’ll ever tell me how you feel about me.”
He drops his bag to the floor and settles against the door, as if he has all the time in the world to wait.
“Or are you such a scared little girl you can’t?”
“Scared little girl?” Indignation starts at my feet and works its way up to my head. “I’m not . . .”
I can’t even finish the sentence. The truth smacks me across the face, and Rhyson’s words ring as clearly in my head as if he’s standing beside me.
You’re braver than that, Bristol. You’re the most fearless person I know. And you let the threat of something keep you from having what you really want?
Am I? Brave? Fearless? In most things, yes. But with this, with Grip, there’s too much at stake. Too much to lose. If I give him a little, I’ll give him everything.
Grip’s waiting for me to finish, to respond, but whatever I was going to say flies right out of my head. While I’m standing here, trying to figure out how to hide from him, he’s hiding nothing from me. There’s so much raw longing in his dark eyes. There’s so much emotion on his face it punches right through my heart. I’ve taken years to build a fortress against this man. I’ve learned to resist him. And he has over and over, time and again, put his heart on the line. Worn it on his sleeve. Persisted when I turned him away.
He’s been brave. He just kept coming after me like a tank, even when I refused. Even when my brother told him he shouldn’t. Even when I steered him in the direction of someone else. He even let me manage him for the chance to be closer to me. While I’ve drawn my armor tightly around myself, Grip stood naked in the heat of battle, stripped all of his armor away and made himself vulnerable. In my fear of becoming my mother, I think I’m becoming my father instead. The one who takes and takes, risking nothing. Always defining the relationship and expecting Grip to take whatever terms I offer. To take whatever’s left. It’s so selfish and so weak and so unfair, I feel sick, not because of the alcohol, but sick of myself. Sick of living in fear.
He wants to know how I feel? As if seeing that book of poetry didn’t tell him. As if finding that worthless whistle didn’t show him. As if I haven’t already told him in a million silent ways. He already knows, but he wants to hear me say it.
I want him.
For the first time, watching him poised to leave my front door, poised to walk out of my life, my want feels stronger than my fear. The threat of Grip breaking me weighs less than the possibility of never having him. Before I know it, I’m swallowing my pride. I’m eating my words and mustering the courage to tell him everything and praying it isn’t too late. I’m walking to stand in front of him.
“You want to know how I feel?” I can barely push the words past the tumbleweed in my throat.
He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak, but I know him too well not to recognize something flicker in his eyes. Hope? That I’ll finally be brave enough to be honest?
“I want you so much it scares me,” I say in a rush before my fear stops me. “The way I feel about you terrifies me.”
I train my eyes on his Jordans because I can’t look at him.
“I’m afraid you’ll cheat on me, take advantage of me, and that I won’t know how to stop wanting you. I’m afraid I’ll settle for less than I deserve because I’d take whatever you’d give me.”
He’s completely silent, but his chest in front of me rises and falls with deeply drawn breaths.
“You want me?” he finally asks, voice husky, making no move to touch me.
I nod, sliding my glance to the side, looking for an escape route, though I already know there’s nowhere left to hide.
“You want to be with me?” he presses.
I hazard a glance up, not sure how to take his impassive expression.
“I know you’re with Qwest, and this is awful timing, but I—”
“I broke things off with Qwest last night,” he cuts in softly.
My eyes zip up to meet his head on.
“You did?” His words kindle a small, fiery hope to life inside me. “Why?
He tilts his head, a smile tipping one side of his mouth.
“You know why, Bristol.” A small frown bends his eyebrows to meet. “It wasn’t fair letting her think there was a chance when I couldn’t get over you.”
The blood slams against my wrists and at my temples in a frantic rhythm. My breaths grow shallow, fear and excitement and possibility mingling in my veins. He tilts my chin up until I’m forced to meet his eyes again.
“I won’t be getting over you,” he says softly. “And I would never cheat on you. As long as it’s taken me to get you, you think I would jeopardize that with some piece of ass that doesn’t mean anything to me?”
His words, his reassurances, loosen some of what’s been tight inside me since I walked in on my father.
“You don’t have me yet,” I whisper, managing a tiny teasing smile.
He takes me by the hips, pulling me into his big body against the door, dipping his head until he hovers over my lips.
“Keep telling yourself that, Bris.”
Anticipation crackles between us as I wait for him to take me, to claim me. Because there’s no way I can stop him now. Despite any fear that may still linger, I don’t want to stop him, but he’s made every move for years. It’s time for me to move first.
I tip up on my toes and press my lips to his, tentative as if it’s our first kiss. I’m careful, as if he might turn me away, but he doesn’t. With a groan, he spreads one hand over the small of my back and slides the other up into my wild hair. He angles my head just the way he wants and commandeers the kiss, nothing tentative or uncertain about him pulling my lips between his. Nothing careful about the way he plunges into me, his mouth slanting over mine, his tongue sweeping against mine. On repeat. Over and over. Avid. Desperate. Hungry.
He slumps against the door and takes me with him, searching hands venturing under the chambray shirt to cup the bare cheeks of my ass. With one foot he kicks my legs apart until he’s between my thighs. I gasp at the stiff erection pressing into my panties. Involuntarily, my hips roll into him. We groan into each other’s mouths at the heat, the hardness, the wetness of us touching. Of us together.
“Bristol.” He trails his mouth down my neck to the spot that’s basically a blank check to my body. “I want to hear the whole sordid story of why you’ve put me through all this shit all these years. I really do.”
I nod, hastily loosening the buttons of the chambray shirt and sliding my arms out until I’m only wearing the strapless bra and the thong.
“Damn, baby,” he whispers, dipping his head to nudge the sheer material of my bra down, baring my breast. He takes my nipple into his mouth, drawing on me so hard it’s almost painful, but I’m glad he doesn’t stop when I whimper.
“Grip.” I clutch his head to my breast and grind myself into him over and over, a hurricane building inside me. “Please.”
“Please what?” He paints my areola with his tongue. “What do you want?”
“You know.” I’m almost in tears it feels so good and I want it so bad. “You know, Grip.”
Without asking for more, his fingers slip into the sides of my panties, rolling them over my hips and down my legs. His eyes eat up my nudity. I feel exposed, and realize that my head may not be pounding as badly and I managed to brush my teeth, but the rest of me still looks and smells like last night. I’m a wreck from head to naked toe.
“Grip, wait.” I pull back, reaching down to grab the shirt from the floor and sliding my arms in.
“You’re going in the wrong direction, Bris.” Grip shucks his shoes off again and rips the tank over his head
, revealing his sculpted chest. “Clothes should be coming off.”
“I . . . well, um . . .” My breath stutters when the jeans slide down his powerful thighs. Through his briefs, I see what he’s working with, and it’s more than I’ve ever had.
Shit.
My poor pussy may not be ready for this. I feel like I should have been in training to fuck him, the way I would for a marathon. Surely, all that dick isn’t something you just wake up one morning and take.
He hooks an arm around my waist and drags me against him, his erection announcing his intentions. He teases my lips apart and sucks on my tongue until my knees turn to rubber. For a second, my brain is gooey with desire, and I can’t think past the throbbing heat between my legs. I pull back to speak before I lose the ability.
“Remember I reek?” My lips lift at the corners with the relief of not having to hide from him anymore. “And our first time will not be with me looking and smelling like drunken debauchery.”
His eyes are so open and tender on my face, and he laughs with me, dropping his lips to my ear.
“Okay, Bristol.” His warm breath in my ear makes me shudder. “We’ll do it your way. First I wash you.”
He steps back, sweeping a smoldering look over my nearly naked body, his desire stroking me like a physical hand.
“Then I fuck you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Grip
I’VE HAD SOME pretty wild dreams about Bristol Gray. But in my wildest dreams, I couldn’t imagine that, not the nakedness of her body, but the nakedness of her soul, would be the thing that tempted me the most. Her eyes, so open and vulnerable—I couldn’t have known that would be what was most precious to me. I feel like the guy who ran around for years screaming that the world was round when everyone insisted it was flat. I knew I wasn’t crazy, that Bristol cared about me. I knew there was something undeniable between us. The greatest validation lies in those silvery eyes, completely unshielded for the first time in years.
“I guess I’ll shower,” she says once we’re in her bathroom, reaching into the spacious, tile-walled unit to turn on the water.
“That’s a great idea.”
I peel back the flaps of my chambray shirt, which she has folded over her chest instead of buttoned. Her bra is right where I left it, tugged under her breasts so her nipples are exposed. We left the thong at her front door. I push the shoulders back, watching the sleeves skid down her arms. The shirt puddles around her feet. I take my time surveying the finely boned ankles, the infinite legs, tanned and toned. I devote a moment to appreciate the smooth triangle of flesh at the juncture of her thighs. I’m planning to gorge myself on that pussy. When I force my eyes over the curve of her hips and the dip of her waist, the tight tips of her breasts, it’s her cheeks that make me smile.
“Are you blushing, Bristol?”
She’s so bold, so brazen. I would never expect a little nudity to embarrass her.
“Shut it. Don’t make fun of me.” Her nervous laugh floats away on the steam from the shower. “I’m just . . . self-conscious.”
“Maybe it’s because I have on too many clothes.”
I tug my briefs down, freeing my rampant erection. Her eyes drop to my dick and go wide. Under her stare, I get harder, my balls feel heavier as the seconds tick by. I’ve been with a lot of girls, but never has anyone made me feel like this without even touching me. I’m so ready, Bristol could breathe on me and I’d probably come all over her. I need to get this under control because from what I’ve inferred, the men in her life, in her bed, have not impressed her. I don’t want to think about them too much because it makes me slightly insane. If she can put up with all the women I’ve been with, the least I can do is pay her the same courtesy.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“If you’re wondering,” she says softly, lifting her eyes to my face. “You don’t have to worry about Parker. There’s nothing. . . . . . we’re not together.”
I can get details on that later. It actually hadn’t even occurred to me to ask.
“I wouldn’t care if Parker was in the next room.” I take her hand and place it on my bare chest, dipping my head to whisper in her ear. “I’d make sure he heard you scream.”
She scans my face for any signs of distress, curiosity—I don’t know what she’s looking for, and I don’t care.
“Parker and I aren’t together,” she says again.
“I know you’re not, because you’re with me.”
“But what I’m saying is that we . . .” she lowers her lashes over cheeks still marked with faint mascara tracks. “We aren’t—”
“Bris.” I press a finger over her lips. “The last thing I want to talk about is the last asshole in your bed. He’s rearview, just like Qwest and anyone else I’ve ever been with.”
She nods, and her eyes lock with mine as she kisses my finger. I trace around her lips, tugging them open, touching her tongue, her teeth, the lining of her jaw. It’s painful how badly I want this warm, wet mouth around my cock. I take her hand and lead her into the shower, gently setting her against the tiles to kiss her. Her arms climb over my shoulders and clench behind my neck. She’s pressing against me, her breasts straining against my chest. She’s wet and slippery, and I could lift her legs around me and take her right now, but I have no plans to rush.
Instead, I turn her to face the wall, reach for her shampoo, and slowly work the lather into her tangled hair. Her head falls back, and she sighs as my fingers massage her scalp. I pull the showerhead off the wall, rinsing out the shampoo and repeating the process with her conditioner. Still with my front to her back, I soap up my hands and run them over her firm thighs, tight waist, under her arms, and over the slender bones of her shoulders. I squeeze her breasts, rubbing my thumbs over the distended nipples until she cries out. Languidly, my hand journeys between her breasts and over her hipbone to palm her, my middle finger sliding into her slit and over the bud of flesh tucked inside.
“Grip.”
My name on her lips when she’s on the verge of coming hums through my blood. Knowing it’s me doing this to her. Hoping that no other man ever has the privilege of touching her this way again, it’s almost more than I can stand. I trap her clit between two fingers, rubbing up and down between the lips. My other hand roams over her ass, and I slip a finger between the firm cheeks. She stiffens, unsure of what I’m about to do. I sip at the water flowing in rivulets over her satiny skin. My teeth nip at the curve of her neck, at the elegant slope of her shoulder.
I match the rhythm I set in her pussy with the rhythm between her cheeks, caressing that puckered hole with each stroke, gathering her wetness and then slowly inserting my finger.
“Oh, God.” Her face crumples as she pushes against my finger, urging me deeper in. “You have to . . . I’m going to . . .”
Her words twine with the steam, hotter than the steam. She slaps one hand against the wall, her head tipping back on a silent scream. Her knees buckle, and I catch her under her arms, seating her on the small bench tucked into the corner of the shower. Her head lolls back, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slack, breasts heaving. She looks undone, but I’m far from done with her. I go down on my knees between her thighs.
“Spread your legs for me, Bris.”
It’s part plea, part command. Either way she complies, her long legs yawning open for me. I swallow deeply at the sight of the thick, slick lips, pink and wet. Her clit is swollen from her orgasm. I have to resist the temptation to take it in my mouth and suck until she comes again.
“Hold your lips open.” I can barely get the words out. My teeth slam together and my jaw clenches painfully as she obeys, opening herself with her fingers, her hungry eyes watching and waiting.
I set the showerhead to massage and let the warm water flow between her legs. She jerks, her eyes going wide and her mouth gaping on a sharp cry.
“That’s it, baby.” I roll the showerhead up and down and over her, watching her eyes squee
ze closed and her face collapse when she loses the fight to maintain control. I twist the setting to vibrate and press it into her. Leaning forward, I capture one piqued nipple between my lips, rolling my tongue over it, drawing it deeply into my mouth.
“Grip, oh God. Please.”
Her fingers tremble holding the lips open. Her head thrashes against the tiles. All the while her hips gyrate into the spray desperately, her rhythm uneven and broken with her desire. I need to taste that desperation. I drop the showerhead to the floor, not bothering to turn it off before I bend at the waist and pull her clit into my mouth.
“Bristol,” I groan against the plump flesh. “You taste . . . Fuck .”
I shove her fingers aside, spreading her as wide as she’ll go, nipping at the lips with my teeth, slipping my tongue inside.
“Ahhhh.” One of her hands clutches my shoulder, the other grabs my head, pressing me deeper into her rocking hips, deeper into her sweetness. Her taste intoxicates me. I hook her legs over my shoulders and devour her, my head bobbing furiously between her thighs. I want my mouth right here waiting to receive her when she comes. I take her nipple, rolling it between my fingers while I continue licking and sucking and supplicating at her altar.
She comes, shattering against the wall, shoulders shaking with dry sobs, her thighs trembling on my shoulders. I drink from her like a fountain. I’m thirsty, zealous. She claws the skin off my back, but I don’t care. I want her wild, and the pain of her unleashed passion is worth it. I want her unhinged. I want her to feel what I’ve felt every day since we met. I’ve dreamed of having her a million times, and when she jerks and weeps and writhes under my hands, my name coming to life and then dying on her lips, I finally do.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bristol
OBVIOUSLY I’M DEAD.
I can’t feel my body and a dark angel hovers over me, so this must be heaven. The fluffy white duvet covering my bed is a cloud at my back.