Page 106 of My Grape Crush
“Rhys,” I pant. “What the hell?”
And he answers with grunts and dark animal sounds, driving his hot hardness into my ass. Not that I blame him. If I had a dick, it would be pointing due north and then some because JC and Gia are real-time possessed. Sonic soulmates synched on some higher level, conjuring up sexy black magic impossible to rehearse.
The band speeds up the tempo, the deep, punishing bassline thundering faster and faster, drums going manic. Rhys responds by frantically tag-teaming between scrubbing my clit and fingering my seam. Shockwaves of pleasure spiral through me, tension building and building like the music. Nothing has ever felt like this: ruinous and dirty and so right.
I ache for him. Burn for him to slide inside me.
I’m barely aware of JC, playing like he’s not hearing the crowd flip out, utterly lost in a torrent of furious notes, like I’m lost in the waves pushing me higher and higher. And Gia sways in the hot wind, a genie conjured by her musical magic lamp writhing on the stage between her legs.
Her voice pitches louder and louder.
Rolling. Rolling. Rolling.
I feel the muscles of Rhys’s chest tighten against my back. If he thrusts any harder into my backside, I’m going to blow apart. “You can only want me,” he growls into my ear.
Exquisite pain funnels lower between my legs until I’m all feeling and floaty, with no sense of time, space, or reality. The musical crescendo hits at the same time the obliterating spike of release rips through me. Black dots smother my vision, me bucking hard against his hand in the desperate desire to be one with him, the climax so intense, a shattered groan leaves my lungs in one delirious exhalation.
Rhys slips his thumb into the dark wetness of my mouth, muzzling my cries. His other arm clutches my waist as he drives into my backside with deep, rhythmic spasms, biting my neck, the feral sound of his release lost in the ear-splitting roar of the crowd and the spray of fireworks lighting up the sky.
Everyone wants a piece of future history. The crowd is ten deep backstage, jammed shoulder to shoulder under the pop-up tents. There were so many fireworks for the finale, it still smells like a bomb went off.
Gia spots me and drags me in a fierce, sweaty hug. “Whadda ya think, sistah?”
“Oh my god, Gia. That was like…” I trail off, and she fills in the blank for me.
“Like we were having sex?”
I stifle a laugh. Both them and us. “Kinda.”
She runs a hand over her mop of raven hair. Eyeliner melting down her face, lips stained scarlet, she’s the hottest thing in a crowd of a thousand hotties.
“Sweet. I wanted that effect. No time for basic in this world. And you.” She stands back to admire my ensemble. “On fleek, snatched, and lit, baby!”
She grooves to some silent beat in her head, wiry, jungle cat energy humming off her as she scans the crowd. I follow suit, triangulating on unfamiliar faces when my gaze collides with Sawyer’s. He’s on the sidelines, slightly removed from the craziness. Dress shirt buttoned to the neck. He holds up his highball glass in greeting.
Gia waves back and shouts into my ear, “What do you think of Mr. FBI?”
“I think you’re in good hands,” I yell back.
Gia nods, not quite agreeing. Skeptical, like any creative wildcard would be with a suit. It looks like she has more to say, but a fan storms between us, fawning and gushing praise. I take that as my cue and cut across the crowd to join Sawyer.
“You made it.” I elbow his arm, and he loosens up by one percent. “What a performance, huh?”
“Classic JC,” he says. “Bringing down the house.”
“Your instinct to pair them was spot on. You can’t buy that level of chemistry.”
His eyes slide off mine as he drains his drink. “Rhys might have convinced you otherwise, but I know what I’m doing.”
A flash of low-level shame passes through me. Rhys didn’t exactly sell Sawyer when I asked if he had designs on me. And I judged Sawyer—lumped him in with the likes of Brett. If that's not deserving of penance...
Clunkily, I try to change the subject. “You should join us on Corfu for New Year’s if you have the time.”
He considers this and offers a slight shrug. “That might work.”
A silence falls. Ninety-nine percent of me wants to find Rhys, but I hang back, observing Sawyer as he catalogs the famous crowd. Sizing up future clients? Probably. But this time I don’t lay down judgment. After the shock of Amelia’s secrets wore off, I sat with the idea of how even the people closest to us harbor thoughts and feelings we can never understand.
In Sawyer’s case, what is the personal cost of being on the money all the time? Of always being the strong one?
