"Please--", is all I can manage.
The mounting orgasm surges with every thrust, the build so slow, so intense, I'm afraid to fall.
But I trust him. He won't let me shatter. He'll hold me together.
So I let go.
The orgasm doesn't crash--it detonates from my chest, exploding outward, blazing through me like fire. I'm drowning. Gasping. Sobbing his name as pleasure tears me apart, cell by cell. I feel him come a heartbeat later, his body locking against mine, his arms crushing me to him, my name a broken groan in my ear. I feel the pulse of him throbbing inside me, feel his heart hammering against my back as we fall together. And for an eternal moment, we're not two people, but one.
The comedown is slow, like cooling embers. Neither of us can move, the thunder of our heartbeats synchronized, goosebumps rising with cooling sweat. He holds me tighter, won't let me go, and we cling to each other with quiet desperation.
He kisses my shoulder, my neck, my cheek, then lowers us together to the bed onto our sides. When he retreats, I ache for him. And he guides me to turn over so he can gather me into his chest. For a long time, neither of us moves. His fingers shift lazily in my hair, and I'm useless, pounded to jelly, every muscle aching, the sting between my thighs lovely. It feels like a long time passes before he stirs.
"We should clean up," he whispers, stroking my hair.
I whimper, unsure if I can move. I'm not even sure I can speak.
"I know, baby. One second."
I watch his gorgeous ass as he leaves, then his gorgeous dick when he comes back with a warm washcloth, climbing back in. I want to curl back into him, but he cups my hip and guides me to my back.
"Let me take care of you."
He's so gentle, so reverent. I wince when he reaches my pussy.
"I know. Almost done."
He wipes my thighs, sticky and damp. Then, he checks the marks with a worried look on his face.
His fingers trail over the most painful bite on my shoulder. "I shouldn't have--"
"If I didn't like it I would have said so," I remind him.
He smiles, kisses me softly, the contrast between feral beast and gentle giant crazy. Inexplicably and undeniably, they're both him, both real. Both mine.
He tosses the washcloth toward my hamper, then wraps me up again in his arms, our legs hooking on each other’s--
My stomach growls so loud and hard, I'm sure Grey felt it in his. He looks down at me, amused. And then we bust out laughing.
It's a wild, hysterical thing, the kind of laughter you can't stop, the bed shaking with it. All the tension from the week, all the intensity, the happiness we feel, that we've found, pouring out of us in laughter.
"We never eat dinner," I note between giggles.
He's still laughing into my hair, deep and rumbling. "Fuck the pasta."
It's a mantra I decide I can live by.
CHAPTER 45
MORNING WOOD
GREY
This can't be real.
It's almost the only coherent thought I've had since I walked in the door last night. Molly's making coffee. I'm stirring pancake batter. She already put the pan in the stove to heat up and got out the eggs. We've been working around each other like this like it's second nature.
She catches me watching her and smiles, her hair wild and curly and shot with sunshine. She's wearing my jersey again, my name on her back, her feet bare and those goddamn shorts on. Her velvety brown eyes are soft and full of adoration and understanding and love, and I bask in it, in her.
