Page 54 of Not Home Alone

With a grunt, he presses into me.

My eyes snap shut. Everything contracts at first, my entire system homing in on this welcome intruder. Time stands still. Not a creature is stirring.

And then, Grant comes alive with a loud exhale, pushing in farther, to the hilt. Touching a part of me that has never been touched before. Impossibly, I am able to accept this. Him. I can hold him inside of me. Even though he terrifies me, I can stretch and grow.

For a few seconds, he relaxes, lowers his head, like he’s praying. Like he’s grateful. Like he’s finally home.

But in the next second, he’s flipped a switch. He’s a beast. Furious. I’m trapped between his veiny forearms, the most willing recipient of his angry thrusts.

I feel taken. This man is not some goofy Wet Bandit attempting to pillage my body parts, because I want him to have me. Grant is claiming my body with his body and—dare I think it—with his soul. For one night only. But it’s the night to end all nights.

“God damn it, why do you feel so good?” His voice is frantic. “Why? Why? Why?”

I hope that’s a rhetorical question, because I don’t think I can form words right now. Yes, is my answer. Yes.

He slows down for a moment, catching his breath. I can bend my knees. He hikes them up around his waist in one swift, determined motion. Why is that so hot?

I grip his biceps. Grant’s warm skin is slick with sweat now. I want more of his skin on my skin. I push down against the mattress and lift myself up to meet him.

The guttural sound he makes as my hard nipples graze his abs is like one bar of a Led Zeppelin song. So sexy. So primal.

I lick his gorgeous face, from the crevice in his chin, up to the tip of his perfectly sculpted nose.

We stare deep into each other’s eyes, for one infinite moment, until his expression hardens and he pushes me back into the mattress. The weight of his body on mine is making me feel delirious and safe. The radiant heat has spread to every inch of me. I am possessed. Not just by Grant, but by some wild, supernatural energy that Grant unleashed in me.

I swear I can feel a rumbling deep inside of him as he drives into me with more and more urgency. And then, the most amazing thing happens. His voice goes falsetto when he calls me baby and tells me he’s going to come. I wrap my arms around his neck and plead with him to come now and when he does—the way he says my name. Merrily. Like a tiny hymnal. With so much reverence.

I forget everything for one tender, electric moment.

He collapses on top of me. Snaking his arms around my waist. I can’t stop stroking the back of his neck. That beautiful spot just below his short haircut.

I could fall asleep like this. I would love to. But as soon as Grant has control of his limbs, it seems, he’s climbing off me, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom.

He returns, wearing gray boxer briefs. I guess he keeps a spare in there. And he holds out a bottle of water and a damp hand towel, like an airline attendant. “In case you’re thirsty and need to clean up,” he says.

“Thanks.” When I sit up, he goes around to the other side of the bed to get under the covers, turning off the bedside lamp. He turns down the comforter and top sheet on the side of the bed I’m sitting on too, wordlessly implying that I can sleep there, I guess.

And I do. Not because I want to spoon with him or anything, because I don’t. Because I’m tired, and it just wouldn’t feel right to leave after what we just did.

“Good night,” I say, lying on my side, away from him.

“Good night,” he grumbles. After a beat, he says, “Let’s call that a tie.”

“Fair enough,” I say, too tired to laugh, but glad he said it.

EIGHTEEN

MERRILY

We’re shopping for groceries because we didn’t have any more food in the house, and also because Grant thought it would look couple-y if we went together. But he didn’t suggest it in a fun way, like: Hey, we had some pretty amazing intercourse last night, so we should go shopping together because it’ll be cute! It was more like: Nobody even saw me do all that stuff with my mouth and my cock last night so it’s not gonna make the good people of Holly Grove like me more or keep Quinn away from me—what was even the point?

He has been serving me up a big dish of grumpy—that I did not order—with a side of mopey poopiehead. He clearly regrets what we did last night. But he has nothing to worry about. It will never happen again.

“Do you need some kind of nut milk or something?” he mumbles, pushing the shopping cart as we wander the aisles of The Heartland Market like sex zombies who expelled all their bodily fluids last night.

“Is that supposed to be a joke about me being nuts?” I snort.

“No, that was, in fact, a courteous inquiry regarding your dairy preferences, Tucker. Your intolerance of amazing men is obviously causing a reaction. I wouldn’t want you to trigger a lactose intolerance too.”