Page 62 of My Grape Crush
Bliss for fucking ever.
Shudders rip through me, my eyes struggling to see straight, to see anything. My brain is an irretrievable mess, my heart near bursting, but Rhys and his body, his need, calls to me and draws me back in. Under the rationed light of dusk, I take him deep, as far as I can. His moan becomes one with the howling wind and the thrum of it sends a shockwave through my being, burning through me to the curling toes of both feet. I intensify my efforts, using one hand in tandem with my mouth to wrap around his dick.
“Christ, Dani!” he cries.
I feel the clench of his body beneath my still spasming one, bearing the final savage thrusting of his hips. Then he groans, his salted warmth spilling deep into my mouth, and I savor the taste of his sweet surrender.
I dreamed of this—two celestial beings under a blanket of stars.But in all my fantasies, Rhys and I swung together in his hammock overlooking the Ionian Sea during a golden sunset. We are not two drenched rats on a raft in Osoyoos bathed in moonlight, the air still and heavy. Undone by orgasms so violent, our breaths remain shallow and labored.
Hearts thundering.
Beneath the weight of my head, his chest rises and falls. Rhys runs his hand through the matted mess of my hair, pressing a kiss against my forehead.
“That was mind-blowing,” he says. “Thank you.”
Weaving my fingers into his, I bring our joined hands to meet my lips. “I think we guilt-tripped the storm into leaving. Try and match our force, sucker.”
I feel his smile spread against the back of my head. “But what we did was crazy.”
“I tried not to think about that.”
“That was a thinking-optional moment,” he concurs, snugging me closer, needier, like he wants me to be inside of him. Such a gentle soul.
I feel utterly euphoric, brain flying on equal parts adrenaline and dopamine. Danger thwarted and aglow with triumph. I don't question for a single second that he feels less impacted than me.
“Have you ever been to Greece?” Rhys asks.
My body stills, lungs not far behind. I feel the finely sculpted muscles of his chest tense in response. I breathe into the darkness, allowing the intention of his question to reverberate through me.
“I’m embarrassed to admit that my biggest globe-trotting adventure is an all-inclusive in Mazatlán.”
Rhys chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “We can easily change that.”
My heart contracts with a feeling so intense, I’m almost afraid of it.
We?
He shifts beneath me, eyes tracking over my face, searching with a focused awareness.
“What do you think?”
I swallow—or try to. My throat has thickened to the point of closure. But me in his gilded world? Hanging out with the social media elite and European trust-fund sucklings? Would they view me as another disposable fan girl? Would he?
I speak up to not evade the subject. “I’d like to visit.”
Rhys tips my chin higher with his index finger. He drags it back and forth over my lips, waiting, smiling. It’s a small, tender move that makes my heart flip, but for reasons I can’t explain, I think of him alone on Corfu, separated from his family by miles and years. His easy charm and affability are virtually trademarked, but how can someone be estranged from their family and not have it affect them?
And he should have a million girlfriends and doesn’t. Or none that I know of. Why me, of all people? And I hate it that my self-sabotage creeps in. That it feels impossible for Rhys to like me when I'm here with him, moonlight dancing on our skin after he made magic between my legs.
Charmingly assertive and deliciously insistent, he kisses me, one hand cupping my naked breast. All at once, that giddy feeling is back, swelling so fast in me, I feel like my body might explode. When we’re connected, nothing else matters. I lose myself a little.
He pulls off my mouth with a deep, contended-sounding sigh. I rest against his fast-beating heart and let the gentle rocking of the raft quiet my racing mind. Visions of me in Greece set alight. The thrill leaves me feeling like the whole world is in sync with my excitement.
“By the way,” he says, his foot nudging mine, “you have great feet.”
“Are you joking?” My quivering body tightens with utter disbelief. “I hate my feet.”
“Why?” He strokes the top of one with his buttery sole. “They’re wide and well-formed. Straight toes. Not arched and wiry like mine.”
