I close the last of the distance between us and kiss her—deep, slow, filled with all the tension that had built around hearing her sing my lyrics on stage for the whole world to see.
“I didn’t just want you out there tonight, Mia,” I murmur against her lips. “I needed you. You anchored me to something real when I was about to lose it all. You were the only thing that made sense tonight.”
“I wasn’t sureIcould do it,” she admits. “Not until I saw you, and then everything else just faded away.”
“I always knew you could,” I tell her, with every ounce of truth that I have as I tilt her chin up.
My other hand stays on her waist while my eyes lock with hers. The room is dim, only the soft, buzzy overhead lights above us, but everything about her and those eyes feels like warmth. All I can see is her.
I kiss her again, those pouty, perfect lips parting underneath mine as we explore each other with the trust that can only come from someone who’s seen you at your worst and stays anyway.
She presses closer, wrapping her arms around my neck, letting her fingers thread into my hair like she’s anchoring herself to me. I let my forehead rest against hers for a moment. It’s the first real moment we’ve had truly alone since the first night in LA that isn’t in the middle of a public park—I don’t want to waste a second.
My dick twitches to attention as her hands are already under my shirt, dragging her nails across my chest like she owns me. I shiver at the contact and pull the dark blue canvas tee over my head in one swift motion, tossing it somewhere behind us. The way she looks at me as she continues to explore my bare skin—like she’s starving for me the way I am for her—makes it impossible to think about anything but burying myself in her and never coming up for air.
“Tell me you want this,” I whisper, my voice hoarse and tight as I walk her backwards.
She never lets go of my gaze, her eyes sparkling with something dangerous and intentional.
“I want this,” she says. “I want you, Grayson. I’m done with taking it slow—I want to feel what it’s like to have you fill every inch of me.”
She’s right.
We’ve been dancing around this for weeks, been patient, careful. I’ve tried so hard to prove that this isn’t just about sex for me—because it’s not.
So hearing her say she’s ready for me? That she wants me to fucking fill her up?
Yeah, fuck self control.
Her legs bump the armrest of the old, brown leather couch in the corner of the room and she gasps when I grab her by the hips and lift her effortlessly as she wraps her legs around my waist.
I drop down with her in my lap, trying not to think too much about how many other people have done what we’re about to do on this very same couch. She straddles me with ease, like it’s the only place she wants to be, already grinding against the bulge in my faded black jeans with a breathy little whimper that nearly makes me come in my damn pants.
“You okay?” I ask, my breath ragged.
She nods. “I think I’m more okay right now than I’ve ever been.”
I lean forward to meet her lips and her body melts into mine like we’re made for each other—and I’m completely sure that we are.
I slide my hands beneath that incredible skirt she’d borrowed—the one that’s been torturing me all damn night—and feel bare skin.
No panties.
I can’t help it. I groan under my breath, dropping my forehead against her shoulder.
“Fuck, Mia. You went on stage without fucking panties?”
She smirks because she knows exactly what she’s doing, and knows it sets my inner caveman off.
“Should I not have done that?” she pouts, all fake innocence and wicked satisfaction.
My eyes darken and I use one hand to clasp the back of her neck and bring her face just an inch away from mine.
“No one else sees you like this,” I growl, possessive and unhinged. “No one. But me. Understand?”
She lets out a needy little sound as I stop touching her, hovering my fingers over where she wants me most, not giving her anything until she gives me an answer.
“No one else,” she affirms softly, and I can hear the neediness in her voice begging me to continue. “Just you.”
