Stealthily, he withdrew and returned to his own spot on the bed and I closed my eyes. A feeling of profound contentmentwashed over me. Sleep came quickly this time, pulling me under with the promise of more secrets to be shared in the dark.
The third time I woke, it was to the soft, pearlescent light of dawn filtering around the edges of the heavy curtains. The world outside was beginning to stir, but in our little cocoon, all was still. I was lying on my side, facing AB, his arm draped loosely over my waist. The others were breathing deeply around me, lost in their own dream worlds. The air was cool on my skin, but AB was a furnace of warmth beside me.
I blinked my eyes open slowly, and his were already open, watching me. There was no intensity in his gaze this time, no dark hunger. It was soft, open, and impossibly tender. He leaned in and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to my lips. It was a kiss that said good morning, a kiss that was full of a quiet, steadfast affection that made my chest ache.
His fingers came up to stroke my cheek, his touch feather-light. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice the softest I’d ever heard it.
“Hey,” I whispered back, a sleepy smile curving my lips. I snuggled a little closer, content to just float in this peaceful moment with him. But as I shifted, I felt him flinch beside me, a sharp, almost silent intake of breath. I pulled back just enough to see his face. His brow was furrowed in a line of discomfort.
“What is it?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
He gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “Just a cramp. And I’m sore.” He gestured vaguely with his free hand toward his thigh. “Too many hours folded over that laptop.”
I knew that feeling all too well. The ache of being held in one position for too long, the muscles protesting in stiff, angry knots. I looked at the tense line of his jaw, the faint exhaustion still lingering in his eyes. An idea, warm and wicked, began to form in my mind.
I leaned in, my lips brushing against his ear. “Do you want a distraction?” I whispered.
He let out a soft, breathy chuckle, the sound vibrating against my cheek. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine curiosity and a hint of intrigue.
I pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, and I gave him a slow, deliberate wink. “You have to be quiet,” I whispered, my tone a conspiratorial caress. “But I think this could work.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by a flash of heat that made my own body hum. He didn’t say a word, just watched me, his gaze intense and unwavering as I began to move. I kissed a slow, deliberate path down his chest, my lips tracing the hard lines of his muscle, my tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. He was warm, solid, and he tasted like home.
I continued my journey south, my mouth exploring the ridges of his stomach, my hands stroking his hips. I could feel his muscles tense beneath my touch, could hear the way his breathing hitched in his throat. I reached the waistband of his sweatpants and hooked my fingers into the soft cotton. I looked up at him one last time, my eyes asking for permission. He gave a single, sharp nod, his jaw clenched with anticipation.
I tugged the sweats down, just enough to free him. He was already hard, thick and heavy in my hand, the tip flushed and beading with moisture. I leaned in and took him into my mouth, a slow, deliberate glide that had him sucking in a sharp, silent breath.
Loving that I didn’t need to rush, I took my time. This wasn’t about frantic need or a race to the finish. This was about him. About taking care of him. I moved with slow, deliberate care, my tongue stroking the sensitive underside, my lips creating a tight, slick friction as I bobbed my head. I used my hand to stroke what I couldn’t take, my fingers curling around his base, my thumb brushing against his balls.
His thighs began to tremble and his hand came up to tangle in my hair. He fisted his grip but seemed to keep from yanking it. He was trying so hard to be quiet, to keep his pleasure contained, and it was the sexiest thing I’d ever felt. Every suppressed groan, every sharp inhale, every subtle shift of his hips was a testament to the control he was exerting, and it drove me absolutely mad.
I took him deeper, relaxing my throat, swallowing around him. The guttural sound that escaped him was muffled by the pillow he’d pressed to his face, and I felt a surge of feminine power. I was doing this to him. I was the one making him fall apart.
He inched closer, his body tightening like a drawn bow. I increased the pressure slightly, my strokes becoming a little faster, a little firmer, my tongue working him relentlessly. And then he was coming, his hips bucking up into my mouth as he spilled himself down my throat with a long, muffled groan.
Sealing my lips around him, I swallowed every drop until he was completely spent. I savored the ache in my jaw, the slight burn in my throat, the intimate proof of his pleasure. It was a mark of possession, a silent claim, and I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.
I slowly released him, pressing a soft, final kiss to his tip before tucking him back into his sweats. When I looked up, he was watching me, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and heavy with an emotion that went far beyond simple satisfaction.
He reached down, hooked his hands under my arms, and dragged me up his body until our faces were level. He crushed his mouth to mine, a deep, hungry kiss that tasted of him and of me and of everything we’d just shared. It was a kiss of gratitude, of possession, of pure, unadulterated need.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead was resting against mine. “Do you feel better?” I whispered, a smug little smile playing on my lips.
He let out a low, rich chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. “Immensely,” he murmured. “Want me to…”
I pressed a finger to his lips, I’d come a few times already tonight. “This was about you,” I whispered, nuzzling another kiss to his lips. “I love making you feel good.”
“Then mission accomplished, Gracie.” He shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling me with him, pillowing my head against his chest and tucking the blankets around us.
A part of me wondered how Voodoo would wake me up even as sleep pulled me back down with a smile on my face.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
VOODOO
Iwoke up to the scent of her. It wasn’t just the clean, sweet smell of Grace’s skin, though that was always there. It was the scent of sex—musky, sharp, and undeniably hers, layered with the deeper, rawer heat the other men had left on her. A claim staked in the dark.
