Then his attention comes back to me.
His hand lifts. The back of his knuckle brushes under my chin, gently nudging my face up toward his.There is nothing casual about him now. Nothing playful, nothing blurred, just straight up crossing lines we’ve already smudged into the earth.
His mouth meets mine, slow and sure, unhurried, certainly not overly worried about the four-year-old in the next room who could walk in at any moment. The warmth of his lips leaves my head spinning, his quiet little breath against me feeling far too real, far too quickly.
I don’t even realize I’ve gripped the front of his shirt until his hand wraps around the back of my palm. It’s just instinct now, just him and me and what that apparently means now.
This isn’t fake anymore.
When did that happen for him? For me? Somewhere between the first time he kissed me and all the thousand little things that came after? Movie nights, the football game, Colchester Ski Resort, the way he looks at me across the kitchen, the way Penelope folds me into her little orbit like I belong there?—
But this is the first time he’s said it.
As far as everyone is concerned.
Chapter 30
Grayson
I waituntil I’m absolutely, positively sure that Pen isn’t faking sleep anymore to inch off her bed and creep to the door. Her chest rises and falls in even little breaths, Daddy Bear tucked against her side, her face turned away from me, and I close the door so quietly that I can barely hear it myself.
The second I step away from it, every hastily built defensive wall in me comes crumbling to the ground.
I move down the stairs quickly, each step sure, beelining for the living room. When I swing the corner, Carly’s sitting there on the couch in her shorts and my Broncos hoodie, her knees pulled up, scrolling on her phone like she doesn’t have something better to do.
Her gaze flicks up to me as I cross the line again.
My hand closes around her phone, setting it on the coffee table, while my other slides over her cheek, cupping her jaw, one knee pressing down into the sofa beside her.
I don’t say anything. Don’t knowwhatto say. But I want her, want her properly, want her more than I have any other timebefore — and maybe that’s because there are fewer guard rails now, maybe it’s because I admitted it to myself, maybe it’s because I admitted it to her.
As far as everyone is concerned.
Her mouth parts like she wants to speak, and I don’t let her. I kiss her, mirroring my hold on her cheek with my other hand, keeping her there before either of us says something stupid. The smallest little noise comes from her throat, and my god, I want to bottle that sound and keep it forever.
My hands slip into her hair as I deepen the kiss, pushing past her lips, exploring her mouth, tasting the glass of wine she’d had after dinner.
Mine, my brain screams.
Mine, I answer back.
My hand moves of its own volition down her neck, her front, over the bunched fabric of the hoodie to her waist, and I pull her up a bit, needing the closeness — but it’s not enough. Christ, why isn’t it enough?
“Want you,” I mutter, trailing my mouth from her lips to her jaw, then down as her head tips back, along the column of her throat. My fingers press in a little harder. “Come upstairs with me.”
Her breath stutters as she exhales. “Okay.”
* * *
There are no words for this. Or maybe there are, but I’m far too weak to say them.
We barely speak. What little sounds are made are ones of praise and whimpered, hushed moans, Carly’s mouth either buried against my skin or covered by her hand, quiet without being asked, which on its own makes my chest ache. I know how loud she can be when she wants to be. And I know she’s not because of my daughter.
I cannot get enough of her.
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been touching her, how many times she’s come, how many times I’ve murmuredgood girlorone more for me. It’s never just one more.
She tastes like God himself sent her just to tempt and torment me. Her arousal coats my lips and chin and tongue, my fingers curled inside of her, and her weak little whines into the pillow she’s turned her head in to only fuel my need to drag more of them out of her. Every flick of my tongue makes her thighs twitch around my head, every gentle graze of my teeth makes her fingers twist harder in my hair, and I just want to keep her right here under me for as long as I physically can.
