“Again, Halloween. The discomfort is kind of the point.”
I know why he’s here, and what we should be doing—we have things we need to discuss. As we stare at each other, though, him with the look of someone starved, I can’t think of anything but how I want to lose myself with him for a while.
I close the door behind me. Before he can open his mouth, I grip his sweatshirt and tug him toward me.
When I touch my mouth to his, he pulls back, though with visible reluctance.
“Can we talk?” He grips my waist in his broad hands. His fingers pinch the material of my shirt, like he wants to rip it in half. I would let him, actually. When else am I going to dress up like a candy?
“I want to do this first. Is that okay?” I step into him, but I don’t make another move. “Please?”
He opens his mouth to speak, then his eyes flick over me and he groans, long and tortured. “Damn it.” He kisses me with the fervor of someone discovering it for the first time.
He backs me up against the door. His hands skim under my shirt, down to my thighs, roving everywhere he can touch skin. An inferno starts low in my pelvis and spreads to my thighs, and up my body, making my breasts heavy and my breaths shallow.
“Grant.” The breathy, high-pitched way I say his name doesn’t even sound like me. It spurs him on, though, and before long he’s grabbing fistfuls of material and tugging.
“I’d like to rip this fucking thing off,” he says when he leans back again, pulling on the hem of my blue skirt.
“I was just thinking about that,” I say. My chest heaves. “Do it. It’s cheap.”
He pulls at the skirt with both his hands, tearing the fabric, then he works with it until there’s a split up the entire side. The elastic won’t give, though, so I shove the whole thing down and out of the way. He tugs my shirt over my head, too, so that I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my heels, bra, and thong.
He steps away to survey his work. “I think I would give up everything I have just to touch you right now,” he says. It’s a simple statement. The boost to my ego could power a small star.
“You don’t have to go that far. I’m here.” I spread my arms out. “Touch me.”
He surprises me by kissing me again. It’s soft, easy, until we touch our tongues together, then we’re angling our heads and gripping each other. I work at his own shirt and he steps back so I can pull it off him. I run my hands over the hard planes of his chest. His body is the kind of thing people write songs about.
I pull him toward the bedroom and we laugh together when he unbuckles his belt and almost trips over the leg of his jeans. I never pictured him as someone I could laugh with, but here we are, giggling like we don’t have anything to worry about.
His eyes stay on mine when he slips my thong off, then unhooks my bra. When I sit on the bed, he slips his arms under my legs and pulls me to the edge. Watching him manhandle me might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
He literally licks his lips when he opens my legs. “I haven’t come in almost two weeks again. I can’t promise this won’t get me there, just putting my mouth on you like this.” His eyes flick up to mine. I’m propped on my elbows. “I made myself wait.”
“Good job.”
He shivers, then chuckles. “I never in a million fucking years would think I’m into that, but you’ve unlocked something.” He keeps smiling as he puts his mouth on me, kissingup one thigh, then the other, then licking a path all the way up to my clit.
I turn my head into a pillow to stifle my moan. My nerve endings light up as he works—and he does treat it like a job, like eating me out is the thing that gives him purpose. Soon I’m writhing and rolling my hips. When he plunges a finger inside me and crooks it so he’s stroking along the front wall, I tip over, climaxing so hard I call out his name.
His smug grin when he climbs up and over me brings a rush of warmth to my chest. Should I be alarmed? I don’t even care.
“How do you want me?” I tilt my head.
“Hands and knees,” he says, as though he’s been dreaming about it. He sits up like he might be going for the wallet he left in his pants, which are in a pile outside my door.
I start to move, too, but I look at him before I do. “Has there been anyone else?”
“No. No one but you. Not for months.”
“I’m okay with going bare this time if you are. I’ve got the IUD, and I haven’t been with anyone else either.”
He gulps. “I’ve never had sex without a condom.”
“Never?”
“Not with my last girlfriend,” he says. “And before that, I never dated anyone that seriously.”
