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“Louder.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He removes his fingers from my neck, watching the side of my face as he sweeps his hands down the back of my arms, past my elbows, his fingers sinking into my palms lying face-up which he rubs firmly backwards and forwards over and over before intertwining his fingers with mine. He rubs the sides of them, blanketing my entire hand with his as his fingers bend into the crooks of mine and he holds my hands tightly, pressing his fingers into the top of my hand.
There’s something so intimate about holding someone’s hands, the fingers interlaced. Kohl basically held my hand as if he were my cousin or something, and with Micah, he’d make me flinch when he grabbed it. There was nothing pleasurable about it by the end.
But the way Greyson’s hands dominate mine, holding them down, enveloping them most assertively makes my whole body unwind. As electricity zig-zags up my skin, he unfurls his grip and I get ready for the massage to be over.
But instead, he trails his right hand around the side of my waist and underneath my torso, his fingers exploring the skin of my belly, drifting close to the top of my panties.
As they skim the top of the black elastic, I wriggle a little, finding the top of his wrist with my hand which I pry under me.
“Grey...”
The yearning in his deep, low voice makes my heart stop for a second. “I want to make you come, Indigo.”
“You can’t,” I utter breathlessly as my body gets ready to pelt tomatoes at me for my pleasure-blocking ways. “My vow.”
“Your vow is about worshipping thedivine feminine, is it not? That’s what I would like to do.” A whimper evades me as his fingers slip under the band of my panties, the strength needed to stop him absent from my fingers. “It’s not often that I’m willing to become a slave for a woman’s pleasure, Indigo. In fact, it is the first time. Would you rather me leave yourinner goddessunsatisfied?” I know the wordsinner goddessare as amusing to him now as when I first said them at the dance at Carrie’s wedding, and yet the dangerous bite to his voice is so serious, so arousing.
His fingers slip a little lower. “Would you?”
“Grey,” I whisper as they delve over the bare skin of my pubis, slipping left to right over the hairless mound.
“It’sGreysonto you for the rest of the night,” he whispers as my hand coils tightly around his wrist, afraid of his fingers sinking into the glossy pool of juice enveloping the wet folds of my sex. I don’t remember being aroused like this for so long. It’s as if the floodgates to pleasure town have been pried opened, some dam breached.
He's going to know.
He’s going to know what he does to me.
“Is that understood?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Say it. Say my name.”
“Greyson.”
He groans his satisfaction at hearing me say it. “Again.”
“Greyson.”
“I like the way you say it in that little voice of yours.” As his lips caress my cheek, I let out a slight moan, shuttering it the second I hear voices—some couple walking along the beach below. “Someone could hear us.”
“Good. Let them hear. Now, am I stopping or are you going to allow me to give you the pleasure I want to? To make youcome.”
The sound of that tiny word suddenly tastes like hot fudge sauce being poured over ice cream. I think for a minute, wondering how the hell I got here, wondering if I should tell him the truth or whether I should fake it like I usually do.
“I… I can’t come like that,” I confess.
He stops all movement. “What do you mean?” he asks roughly.
“I can’t orgasm with men. I… I can only do it myself. Make… myself… come.”
I wilt in embarrassment as I say the words.
