Page 60 of My Grape Crush
“Are you sure?”
That question is out before I realize what a stupid thing it is to ask. Her eyes are fever-bright, no illusions. And the sky opens up before she can answer, rain sleeting down, the thunderclap like a sonic boom. I cradle her protectively against my shoulder, hearts pounding together. She palms my belly and then slides her hand under the band of my shorts.
Waits. Hovers.
My eyes shutter closed.
The heat of her hand so close tothereis borderline agony.
“You can touch me,” I whisper into the wet tangle of her hair. “Anywhere.”
Her hand dips, traveling far enough to find me warm and full and brutally ready.
“I was thinking,” she says, her breath warming my skin. “It would be a shame to miss out on that ridiculous bed. How do you feel about a sixty-nine?”
The constricted feeling in my chest tightens into a hard ball of disbelief. As I said, I’m not the numbers guy.
But that one?
I know it.
Every guy knows it.
“Is that a trick question?” I ask, just to be sure. Before I really lose my shit.
The velvety grip of her hand sends my brain spinning, and she lifts her eyes to mine in silent response. The jury’s out whether I self-implode before the storm takes me out.
“Dani,” I mutter. “Jesus.”
“Is that a yes?” she murmurs, voice thick like warm honey.
A wave crashes into the raft, spraying us with a fine mist. I steady her, feeling the tension in her limbs holding on to us. We're exposed out here, taking a risk in more ways than one. But darkness is falling fast. Will anyone notice us? And can we track anything other than the torment about to obliterate us?
Mere trivialities.
The fierce throb of my pulse is the only thing I can hear, the shitstorm of emotions coursing through me nothing short of exhilarating. Never before have I felt so unsure yet completely sure about everything. If I go down going down on her, so be it.
I cannot wait to taste her.
Hang the fuck on.
Chapter Nineteen
DANI
He smells delicious—ofdampness and summer, vanilla and spice. Like clichéd heaven. Or the finest version of perdition. My skin is on fire, blood burning from the feel of him beneath my fingers. All that huge warmth, so eager.
Ready to be savored.
Rhys rocks tight against me, trailing soft kisses down my throat. “I’ll lie on my back,” he murmurs. “You sit on top of me. Better me than you to get a splinter.”
He unties and shucks off his shorts. Little by little, I process the erotic onslaught. Standing tall and proud, he satisfies all of my curiosity. Rhys is beautifully endowed, from shaft to glistening crown. But on his face, wet with the slow, steady rain, a question lingers.
How reckless are we to sixty-nine in the middle of an electrical storm on a raft rocking tenuously on metal oil cans?
Too late now.
The wild waiting for me is right here—the danger is in leaving.
