Page 108 of Off the Grid

I can feel his eyes on me as I walk. Each step awakens the slight soreness between my legs. My God, I had no idea it could feel that good. Just thinking about it . . .

The desire heavy in his gaze as he dipped his head down and slid his tongue between my thighs.

The coarseness of his hair grasped in my fingers as my hips bucked and thighs clenched.

Jesus, holy mother of all things. I’ve given myself orgasms. With a vibrator. With the stream of water in my shower. With my own fingers . . . but how is it even possible that the sensations were more intense, more overwhelming when they came by the hand—or rather the very skillful tongue—of Spencer Riggs?

I thought I’d get the buildup but never reach the point of no return.

I reached it all right.

I reached it and I never want to look back.

I close my door and slump against it, closing my eyes, my grin permanent on my lips.

Fuck.

Riggs looks up at me from between my thighs.

My arousal coats his grin.

My body still pulses—big waves that turn to little waves that morph to ripples. My skin tingles. My inner thighs still feel the scratch of his stubble. My pussy still feels his mouth as he sucks on my clit.

I feel every damn thing. In places I never knew my body could feel.

Even the sheets are almost too much for my new hypersensitivity.

But Riggs, shifting onto his knees where he is between my thighs, cock hardening again, is welcome to touch. To pleasure. To take whatever he wants from me.

And the satisfied grin as he crawls over my body and presses his lips to mine says he knows as much.

He props himself on his elbow and lifts an eyebrow. “Now please, please, please, tell me that wasn’t faking it. Because if it was, you deserve a goddamn academy award.”

He asks just as another tremor shudders through my body.

I chuckle against his lips, his tongue dipping to tease mine. “I’ve never been happier to not win an award in my life.”

I laugh into my empty flat. The sound echoes in the emptiness but feels so damn fulfilling.

For years and years, I’ve let Brandon LeCroix’s actions bind me.

His touch shackle me to feelings of doubt and insecurity.

His words inhibit my own sexuality. Constrain my body’s reception of any other touch.

But not anymore.

I may not be able to fully replace or repair those parts he stole from me, but Spencer Riggs just did a mighty job of showing me I can enjoy another man’s touch. Sex. I can orgasm.

I feared I’d never feel whole . . . sensual. But now?

The cracks I thought were broken in me just might be filled.

The scars will always be there—faded and beneath the surface.

But after tonight, after what Riggs showed me is possible, I might just finally be free.

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