Page 93 of My Grape Crush
He searches my face, his still shaken. Healing from the drag along rock bottom will take Rhys days, perhaps weeks or months, but all the uncertainty within me crystalizes into a singular truth: my whole body knows he’s the one for me.
I tuck a loose strand of silken hair behind his ear, and a forlornmmmspills out of Rhys. “I fell for you a long time ago, Mr. Trenton.”
I let the words hang, not as a dare, but as a recognition. That I lied, and if we plan to get beyond this, he needs to forgive me.
“C’mere,” he says, sweetly tugging on my shirt.
He draws me into a deep, lusty, and desperate kiss. I can taste the salt of his tears and feel the heat of his skin. In me, emotions too powerful to name churn, a dangerous uptick of urgency in my blood. Our soul-stirring kiss turns urgent and torrid, saying everything words can’t. It puts both our engines in gear. He pulls me onto the hot sauna of his body, and I feel him swell against the parts of me in need of release.
“Make love to me,” he murmurs. “I need to feel us together.”
I catch my breath, mumbling, “Here?”
He cups my ass, drawing me closer until our breaths mingle.“Yes. I don’t want you to go far.”
“Because there are so many places to hide in eight hundred square feet.”
His laugh. Unbridled in a way that felt impossible minutes ago. It’s the release of tension we both need. I push up and sit back on the hard platform of his thighs. I unbutton my shirt, caressing my curves as I uncover them bit by bit. He eyes my best bra—black, satin, barely affordable—and the goods spilling out when I unclasp and shrug it off.
“I love your body.” He rises up to kiss my delicate flesh, my C-cups warm and heavy. He fingers my nipples into taut buds, playing, teasing, making me moan as a delicious shiver shoots up my spine.
The idea of coming apart in my house. With Rhys. And his zero-to-sixty-to-holy-shit brand of pleasure.
Yes, and yes.
“Stand up for just a second?” he asks.
I wish I could say I made some effort to help things along, but in a single fluid move, he peels his t-shirt off, tossing it into the ether.Then he wriggles free of his shorts and sends them flying across the room with a flick of one perfect foot.
He’s rock hard, and upon release, the swollen flesh smacks lightly onto his torso. Leaning back onto the rug, he cradles his dick in his hand and gives me a wide-open look.
This is me, is what it says.Not Instagram Rhys. The Rhys who just lost it, broken and crying on your living room floor. Nothing more, nothing less. Are we cool?
Yes, yes, and yes.
He is my kryptonite.
I ease out of my jeans, taking the silky fabric of my thong with them. He sucks in the view like a starving man. Before yesterday, I had no clue how my pearls affected him. No idea how talented of an artist he was.
He did draw me perfectly; I’ll give him that.
Me and my scandalous pearls straddle him, my fingers curling around his hard, satin skin.Fuck the foreplayis what my scrambled brain shouts. I’ll never survive slow and caring. We need to tear into each other and ride wave after wave of pleasure.
I angle him to my warmth and push onto his tip. A fluttery sigh escapes his lips, and Rhys pulls back slightly, the question of safety in his eyes.
“I’m in the clear,” I say. “You?”
He nods, and I ease myself down, eyes closed to savor every inch of sensation.
“Yes,” Rhys moans. “Yes, to everything you do.”
As we’re locked together, his fingertips draw slow tickling circles on my ass cheeks. He pauses there, watching me.
“Lean forward a little,” he whispers. “But keep me inside you.”
Hands planted on either side of his chest to bear my weight, and careful to keep him snugged tight, I lower to brush my lips hungrily against his. “What do you have in mind?”
He trails one finger over the curve of my butt, moving lower and lower until I feel the smallest hairs tingling. Destination: rosebud. His finger pad, rough and warm, circles in a maddeningly slow tempo. I quiver and clench, and we both go still for a breathless pause.
