Page 73 of Grace

I place my phone back on the nightstand and lie motionless in this deep, sticky, suffocating emptiness while he’s showering. I listen to my barren soul.

When Cyrus steps into the room, he brings the suffocating humidity with him, along with his familiar, fresh, masculine scent. I inhale it deeply.

He carefully lifts the blanket. When he lies down beside me, I snuggle against him and rest my head on his shoulder. My hand slides to his chest, which is dusted with sparse hair. I press my palm to his warm skin.

Cyrus lets out a long, deep, bitter exhale.

“I was with her.”

“I know,” I reply and stare into the darkness. “I asked her to do this.”

He turns his head toward me. “Grace…”

“Now I know it was a mistake, but… I thought I was doing the right thing. You understand why I did this, don’t you?”

“I took care of things at the station. You don’t have to go give a statement. I don’t want you to be in the crosshairs of vultures again.”

His fingers disentangle from my hair and trail sensually down my spine.

“This is all comforting, but I’m still a witness. How are they going to get him? And my statement could matter in court.”

“Grace…”

“Hmm?”

“You forgot to clean up the blood.”

Our hands halt at the same cursed moment—we stop caressing each other.

Cyrus cups my face in his hand and strokes my skin—flushed with shame—with his thumb.

“I don’t want you to experience that horrible thing again.”

I bury my wet face against the rough skin of his palm. I can’t wrap my head around how big his heart is.

I press my body tightly against his and hug him fiercely, clinging to him as if he were a lifebuoy in the stormy sea I’m lost in. As if he were the only thing keeping me afloat. But then why do I feel like I’m drowning? Why does my throat burn? Why does it feel like I’m inhaling water instead of air?

I stroke the scar on my palm with my thumb. I haven’t told Cyrus how I got it. People already think I’m crazy, and I don’t want him to think so too. He never needs to know I was protecting Chase. I hate him—yet I don’t want him to die. I want him to suffer for as long as he’s alive. An eye for an eye. I want him to live out his days knowing I’m never going to be his again.

“What are you doing, Grace?”

I straddle him and pull my T-shirt over my head. His raw, hot skin—his throbbing desire—presses against my panties immediately; he usually sleeps naked.

My long, wet hair clings together, trailing down my back and over my breasts. I inhale slowly, then let the breath slip out even more slowly through my trembling lips.

The room is dark and quiet. I’m grateful the blackness is swallowing us whole. I couldn’t look into Cyrus’s warm eyes while I’m thinking about another man.

The silence stretches between us. Neither of us moves—only Cyrus’s manhood throbs between my legs. My bare thighs press against his sides, the dark hair rough against my sensitive skin.

Cyrus touches one of my breasts gently. An icy, aching thrill runs down my spine. I close my eyes and press my lips together. I let him touch the other one. His penis pulses beneath me.

He suddenly sits up. I gasp and slide backward. My pussy presses against his toned thighs. He pushes his hair back behind his ears, then his tongue traces a slow line down the valley between my breasts. I steady myself with my hands. His lips close around my nipples; he sucks softly, one after the other, caressing and tasting them. His tongue drives me close to ecstasy, because… I don’t remember when I last had a proper orgasm.

He’s kissing me, licking me, caressing me—his mouth never leaves my breasts as his hand slowly slips into my panties. My muscles loosen when his finger finds its slick, wet destination. His lips suck, and his fingers rub. My sensitive breasts ache for more, rising and falling softly in front of his face. His beard is mercilessly rough against my delicate skin.

Cyrus gives me what I crave. He uses me dirty, with no regard for taboos at all. His two fingers sink into me. He lets out an animalistic growl—the sound vibrates against my skin. Goosebumps erupt all over my body, and my nipples harden even more in his mouth.

I tilt my hips higher. His fingers drive even deeper. He presses his large hand against my pussy—and while his fingers thrust in and out in a wild rhythm, I move my hips to grind against his palm. I’ve always found it unbelievable how completely desire can overwhelm judgment. That’s exactly what’s happening now. I ache for climax more than anything else in the world. I want it to detonate deep inside me and make everything bad disappear. I want my body to tremble with the force of it.