Her walls tighten around my fingers, spasming, her thighs gripping me harder, deafening the world around me. She’s close again. I know her too well now, know every sign in her body, know the way she starts to hold her breath and the way her abdomen tenses and the broken little gasp that sounds the same every single time. I’m memorizing it.
Memorizingher.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” I rasp against her.
And she does. Again.
Her body breaks, her breath returning, her grip loosening, a wild but muffled whine drowning in the cushion of my pillow. I keep going until her grip turns desperate, until she’s pulling me up by my hair, my body crawling over hers like it’s second nature.
She knows the dance now. Her legs wrap around my waist, her mouth meets mine, and I sink myself in her so deep that my brain stops working. I’m barely ready to go again, hard but god knows it’ll be a herculean effort to actually get a release, and I don’t care — it’s not about me.
It’s about her. Everything is about her.
“So good for me,” I rasp against her lips, each little movement of my hips making her nails dig harder and harder into my back and shoulder. I lift my head just enough to look down at her, and god, she looksperfect— brunette hair fanned around her head, brown eyes half-lidded and almost drunk-looking, staring up at me like she couldn’t ever imagine looking at anything else. “God, look at you.”
“Gray,” she breathes, her lips staying parted as I adjust my movement, my pelvis shifting against that swollen, overworked bundle of nerves. She pulls at my skin like she wants me close enough to crawl under it, and I fold right back into her, burying my head in her neck, wrapping my arm around her waist.
“Mine,” I whisper. “Mine.”
I mean it. I can’tnotmean it anymore. I let myself believe it for one night back at Wade’s resort, but it wasn’t enough. It will never be enough.
And that, on its own, should scare me — especially after Halsey. Especially when it was never like this with her, and I had a goddamn child with her, married her. But it doesn’t scare me,at least not right now, not when we fit like two puzzle pieces, not when she calls meGraylike it’s hers to say, not when the things I’ve wanted stumbled drunkenly into my life and offered themselves up on a silver platter.
My free hand finds hers at my shoulder, my fingers threading through hers, and I press our joined hands into the mattress beside her head.
“Never—god, never had this before.” The words slip out unguarded, unchecked, and I’m too far gone with her to even consider walking them back. “Never felt like this. Not to this… degree.”
A little whimper escapes her, and I’m not sure if it’s because of what my mouth or my hips are doing. But her other hand glides up from my back, knotting in my hair, keeping me held to her like she doesn’t want me to slip away.
“What are youdoingto me?” I croak. “Why is this so different?”
“I-I don’t know,” she murmurs, her nails scraping lightly over my scalp. “But I feel the same.”
The words land somewhere low in my chest, and I groan a little too loudly, squeezing her hand, the relief of that single sentence making my head spin. She feels the same.
She feels the same.
“You’re ruining me,” I huff, a breathy chuckle bleeding into my words, my hips moving just a little faster. “Absolutely ruining me, Carly.”
“Good,” she says, and the grin I can hear in her voice undoes me in ways I don’t know if I’d ever admit to. “Because you’re ruining me, too.”
Chapter 31
Carly
One Week
I have become verygood at lying by omission.Not to Grayson, never to Grayson, but to Penelope.To work.
There is a huge difference between fake dating your boss and secretly sleeping with him every chance you get while trying not to let his four-year-old catch on.And that difference is mostly made up of stolen kisses in his kitchen, his hand at the small of my back when Penelope isn’t looking, whisperedcome upstairsagainst my ear after she goes to sleep, and sex so good it makes me feel a little insane for the rest of the following day.
I’m happy.Disgustingly, embarrassingly happy.
Happier than I ever was with Aaron, which maybe shouldn’t be a revelation considering Aaron cheated on me and once told me I was overreacting when I cried because he forgot my birthday. The bar, in hindsight, was on the floor.
We still haven’t put an actual label on it. But labels feel a little irrelevant when a man looks at you like you’re his favorite thing on the planet and touches you like he’s already memorized every inch of your body.
A week ago, his receptionist sent through the bachelor party details to his email at work.
