His mouth curves just slightly before he stands, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs. We don’t rush — there is no desperate, frantic energy from the resort or like there’d been in my room. This feels different, slower, intentional.
His bedroom is mostly dark except for the ambient glow of a lamp on his bedside table. The room is massive, larger than mine, with a tall four-poster bed in the center and dark walls throughout. He shuts the door behind him, mostly out of habit, I’d guess, and turns to face me, both of his hands coming up to cradle my jaw as he kisses me again.
My hands find the hem of his sweater, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to let me pull it over his head before he lifts mine as well, my arms going up to let him.
He guides me backward until my knees hit the bed, and I sit, then shift back onto my elbows as he follows me down, his mouth dragging across my collarbone, my chest, the curve of my breast. His hands are everywhere, warm and unhurried, mapping me like he has all the time in the world. His lips close around my nipple, and I let out a breathy little moan.
He takes his time before his hands slide down to my shorts, tapping my hip to tell me to lift, then drags them down my thighsalong with my underwear. He finally sits back on his heels and looks down at me sprawled beneath him, flushed and wanting, and the way his expression softens makes my chest tight.
“Come here,” he says softly, shifting until he’s on his back, his hands grabbing me by the hips and pulling me with him.
“What—?”
“You,” he says, his hands guiding me over him until I’m straddling his lap, “on top.”
Oh.
I sit on my knees, suddenly hyper aware of how bare I am while he’s still half-dressed. My fingers find his belt, and he watches me work it open, helps me drag his jeans and boxers down just enough to set him free.
When I finally sink onto him, we both exhale slowly, shakily.
His hands slide to my waist, steadying me, and I brace my palms flat on his chest, shivering as I adjust to the stretch. It’s different with me like this, and when I start to move, his grip tightens just enough to slow me down.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “We’ve got time.”
I bite my lip and obey, letting him control my body and set the rhythm, slow little rolls of my hips that drag pleasure through me thick like honey. His eyes stay on my face, watching every little reaction, his eyes half lidded and mouth parted.
“Good.” His thumb brushes my hip bone. “God, just like that, sweetheart.”
My pelvis grinds against his, and I whine, my spine arching. His hands slide up my stomach, over the bottom of my ribs, resting just beneath my breasts, not grabbing but holding.
Like he wants to feel me breathe.
It’s too much. The slowness, the eye contact, the way he’s looking at me like he wants to savor me.
“Gray,” I whisper, his name softer than I mean for it to be.
His jaw ticks, and he sits up more, one hand pressing into my lower back to guide me and the other cupping the nape of my neck, pulling me down until our foreheads touch. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
My release, when it comes, builds slowly and breaks even slower, waves of pleasure only heightened with every touch of his hands. He follows me a moment later, a low groan muffled against my throat as his fingers dig into my skin, keeping me pressed to him.
We stay there, tangled together, our breaths slowing in the come down.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I laugh softly, the sound muffled against his skin, and he presses a kiss to my collarbone. “I’m more than okay,” I whisper. “Way more.”
Chapter 28
Grayson
Things are getting real.
That’s the part I know now.
Whatever the hell this is with Carly stopped being a one-time mistake somewhere between Colchester and me hauling her into my bed after the CSU game. The lines are shot. Obliterated. We blurred them, we crossed them, then we backed up and ran them over with a truck.
I’m having drinks with Maddox and Cole at the brewery when I finally admit some version of that.Not the whole version. They don’t need the whole version.
