“There you go,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”
“Shutup—” The words are breathy, half moaned, my nails digging into him for stability. Pleasure hums through my body like a live wire. “Don’t talk to me like you’re coaching me through some football play.”
“Would you prefer I talk to you like you’re a brat who won’t shut her fucking mouth?” He snaps, turning us just enough to lean his upper half on the dresser.
“I’d prefer you fuck me hard enough that I can’t talk at all.”
He groans out an amused little laugh, his grip turning bruising on my ass cheeks. “Challenge accepted.”
He slams me down on him with enough force that an unfortunately loud whine breaks free from my throat, and the smart little remark I desperately want to throw at him dissolves before it even has a chance to fully form. I move my fingers quicker, more desperate, that spark turning into a blaze between my thighs.
“Fuck, yes,yes,” he chokes out.
“Close.” My free hand shifts to his hair, tangling in the strands, pulling just shy of aggressive. He hisses. “Don’t stop, please, don’tstop?—”
He doesn’t. He keeps the same speed, same aggression, but his lips find my temple, pressing a kiss there, his little grunts and groans right next to my ear, and that’s all I need.
Legs shaking, my pleasure spikes, and I press my mouth to his neck to keep the sound at bay as my orgasm crashes over me. My body seizes, my muscles clenching around him, and he sputters something I can barely hear through the ringing in my ears before following after me a handful of thrusts later.
We slowly come to a still, his body relaxing back onto the dresser more fully, his hands still gripping my rear and our breathing still ragged.
Neither of us speaks. My smart-ass remarks are gone, nothing but a pleasant little buzz remaining in my head. But I can feelitstarting to creep back in, the overwhelm of knowing we just crossed a line we can’t uncross, and I close my eyes, hoping I can keep the inevitable regret quiet just alittlelonger.
Chapter 18
Carly
Ten Weeks
I barely manage to sleep.
I lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling in the dark before sunrise, replaying every terrible decision I made last night.Every time I close my eyes, I’m right back there, in my doorway after the argument. My brain replays the way he came across the hall like his self-control had finally snapped, the heat of him, the weight of him, the gravel in his voice when he’d said my name or called mesweetheartlike it was second nature.
I groan and drag a pillow over my face.This cannot keep happening.
That thought hits me first around one in the morning, then again at two-thirteen, then three-forty, then four-ten when I finally throw my blanket off and sit up in bed like maybe I can physically outrun my own terrible judgment.
This is not some harmless little fling.He is my boss in two different roles.He is also annoyingly, unfairly,catastrophicallygood at making my brain turn to mush.
By the time I shove myself out of bed to get Pen ready for school, I’ve gotten maybe two hours of on-and-off sleep, and I’m exhausted, irritable, and weirdly furious with my vagina for caving so easily when he kissed me properly.
I shove myself out of bed, drag on leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, and shove my hair up into a bun. If I’m going to be the only adult in this house with any common sense, I should at least look moderately alive while I do it.
Grayson’s usually either already left for work or finishing his morning swim around now, depending on how early he got up. Maybe I can get Pen ready for school, get through the morning, and figure out how to have a calm, rational, deeply professional conversation later without running into him and being forced to look at his stupidly attractive face.
I head downstairs without thinking much beyond waffles, lunchboxes, and whether I’ll have time to stop and talk to Zoe before having to somehow pretend to be a person at work.
I walk into the kitchen and stop dead.
Grayson is there.
He’s standing near the island in a dark henley and slacks like he got half dressed for work before deciding to take it slow this morning. He turns when he hears me, and there is not even a flicker of awkwardness on his face, not shame, not regret. Not even panic.
He just lifts a mug of coffee and holds it out to me, and for a second, I just stare.
The coffee steams between us.
I begrudgingly take the mug because I’m desperate for caffeine. Part of me wants to say thank you, but the other part that is far larger wants to hit him upside the head with it, so I stay quiet.
