“Babe, I’m dying here.”
“You want to touch me?”
“Christ. Yes.”
I hear him move, then he hovers over me. His hands plant on either side of my hips as he stares down at my face. I grin at him.
“All right, then,” I say. I take my hand off myself. “Get me off.”
He murmurs into my skin as he kisses a trail down my chest. “You want my fingers? My tongue?”
“Both.”
He lays the flat of his tongue on my nipple, and I arch up off the bed. He kneads the other breast with his hand, and though I’m the one moaning and writhing, the look on his face is one of absolute rapture. I want to frame a picture of his face so I cango back in time to show this to him, just so he knows how he would worship me one day.
He continues his path down my body, skipping over the part where I want him the most. When he licks a trail up one of my calves, I jolt a little.
“Oh, God. Why does that feel so good?”
He chuckles.
I lift onto my elbows to watch him. He moves between my thighs, and when he licks me up my center, my breathy moan is one of relief and unabashed pleasure. He’s relentless with his tongue. I move with him as he devours me, staring as he shamelessly humps my bed. The sight of him overcome with that need to thrust might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life—he’s bare-chested, muscles glistening and hair standing at odd angles, as he moves in time with my own hips, like he’s imagining burying himself there. When he finally plunges a finger into my body and sucks on my clit, I go off in a shower of fireworks behind my eyelids. I chant his name the whole time.
“I’m going to come,” he breathes. He moves his hips.
“Stop,” I tell him. “No you aren’t.”
“Yes I am,” he grits out. He seems like he’s on the verge of moving again, then he collapses over my legs with an agonized whine. “Fuck.” He takes a shaky breath and lets it out. “I can’t stand this.”
“Really?”
“I just need a moment.” He wipes his mouth with his forearm before he covers me again. His kiss is sloppy, wet, and full of roving tongue. I want to keep him here.
“I’m not going to make it,” he says against my lips. “But I’m also kind of into this. The whole denial thing.”
I roll my hips against his. “Yeah? Maybe you shouldn’t take care of yourself at home, either. We’ll see how long you can go.”
He pulls back from me. His mouth lifts on one side. “You’regoing to drive me out of my mind.” He lets his hands drift over my waist before he rolls off me and lies next to me on the bed.
“This could be fun.” I turn my head toward him. His shirt’s still off, his lean muscles on display. I run my finger over his pec, and he trembles. He’s really wound up. “What time do you get up to go to the gym?”
“Who says I do that?”
I cock my head at him in response.
He sighs. “Usually around four.”
“Ugh, fuck off.” I smile at him. “I mean, you look good. But your schedule sounds like hell.”
He shrugs. “I make time for things I want to do.” To punctuate his point, he kisses a path along my shoulder, and I shiver in response.
We lie there for a few minutes and catch our breath. Grant’s shaky sigh tugs at my conscience, but I don’t give in to the urge to reciprocate.
“It’s amazing how much better I feel now that I’m able to exercise,” I say instead. “Not at four in the morning. But I think it helps. I’ve got this jacked up thyroid and sometimes I feel so shitty, like I can’t put one foot in front of the other, but then I feel better after I move. It’s a weird paradox.”
“It’s okay to complain about it,” he says. “I know how terrible autoimmune stuff can make you feel.”
I shrug. “I’ve never been a big complainer. I learned a long time ago it doesn’t make a difference.”
