Page 112 of PR Stunt

His grip tightens in my hair. His fingers dig into my waist. A growl rumbles low in his throat, vibrating against my lips. I’m gone. I melt into him, into the way his mouth moves over mine, into the way he takes and takes like he’s starving for this. For me. My guard drops like it was never a choice, like gravity has been pulling me toward him all along.

“Charlie,” he moans, and the way he says my name is ragged and desperate, like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. It undoes me.

The world spins.

His hand slides up my waist, his thumbs grazing the bottom of my breasts. Our kiss slows, his lips lingering before he pulls back slightly, just enough to drag them over mine, back and forth, teasing and taunting, like he’s taking his time with every second.

“Fuck, Charlie,” he groans, resting his forehead against mine, his breath ragged. “I need you, now.”

The words slam into me, knocking out whatever oxygen I have left. Like if we don’t leave right now, he’ll forget every reason why we shouldn’t do this right here and now. Grayson exhales sharply and then grabs my hand, waving down a passing taxi on the street. The car swerves to the curb, tires skidding slightly on the wet pavement. He pulls the door open and ducks inside, giving the driver the name of our hotel before turning back to me.

I oblige, slipping into the back seat, barely able to think.

He follows in beside me. The door slams shut. The sound of the rain is muffled, replaced by the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers. The scent of rain and leather clings to the air as the streetlights outside flash shadows across his face. Grayson exhales, his hands flexing. He’s soaked. Dark hair curling at the edges, water dripping from his jaw, down his throat, over the sharp ridges of his collarbone.

Then he moves. His left hand slides to my thigh, fingers curling as he pulls me closer. I gasp, my body shifting until my hip presses against his, the heat of his palm burning through my soaked skin. His grip stays firm, possessive, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles. I swallow, breath unsteady, as we make our way toward the hotel.

Chapter 33

We step into our suite, the blast of air conditioning hits sharp against my skin. The door clicks shut behind us, muting the sound of the rain. My clothes cling to me, heavy and damp, and I shiver as the cool air settles over me. Grayson runs a hand through his dripping hair, shaking out droplets before looking at me.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.

He steps closer, the warmth of his body seeping into mine. His hands come up, cupping my face, his thumbs brushing back and forth in slow, soothing strokes. Then, just as slowly, he leans in, takes my bottom lip between his, and gently sucks it. A whimper slips free from me.

His grip falters, like he’s about to pull away, but I don’t let him. My hands find the waistband of his pants, fingers curling into the damp fabric as I tug him back. I tilt my head up, meeting his lips again, need curling low in my stomach. His hand tightens on my jaw, his kiss deepening, hungrier now. His other hand finds my waist and then slides lower, over the curve of my ass, pulling me flush against him, and the hard press of him hits me all at once.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing into him as the wall suddenly meets my back. His breath is hot, his body solid against mine, and neither of us seems interested in slowing down. I need him closer. As if on the same wavelength, he slides his hand from my face, trailing it down my body. Then he grips me with both hands and lifts me. I wrap my legs around his waist, tangling my fingers in his damp hair as his mouth stays on mine, hungry and unrelenting.

He pulls away from the wall, carrying me with him, his lips never leaving mine as he moves through the room with steady control. Our breaths mix, quick and uneven, as he navigates the space with unshakable focus. We move through the bedroom, the air between us thick and charged. The only sounds are our breaths, the distant patter of rain against the windows, and the faint creak of the floor beneath his steady steps. He carries me like I weigh nothing, gasping when I shift against him, like he can feel the same restless ache thrumming through me.

We cross into the bathroom, and the dim glow from the lights casts soft shadows over us.

He sets me down. When he steps back, his gaze locks onto mine, dark and hungry. He turns toward the shower, the muscles in his back shifting as he reaches in and twists the knob. Water surges to life, the sound echoing in the quiet space, and steam quickly curls into the air.

Then he glances at me, voice low. “Be right back.”

He disappears into the bedroom, and I stand there, heart pounding, clothes clinging to my skin. A moment later, he returns, condom in hand, and he tosses it onto the counter, his gaze steady and unbreaking. His fingers find the buttons of his shirt. He undoes them one by one, the soaked fabric clinging for a moment before he shrugs it off and drops it to the floor.

Grayson walks over to me, stopping right in front of me, towering above, water still dripping from his hair. His gaze stays locked on mine as his fingers find the hem of my shirt and he slowly lifts it. The wet fabric clings stubbornly before peeling away, my breasts bouncing free, and when he finally tugs it over my head, it lands with a sharp smack against the tile floor.

His breath catches as his gaze drops, raking over me. I’m bare in front of him, and he lingers on my breasts. My nipples tighten instantly, a reaction I can’t hide, not with the cool air brushing over my damp skin, not with the way he’s looking at me.

His jaw tenses as he swallows, throat shifting with the effort, and moments later, he sinks to his knees. A slow exhale leaves me as his hands skim my thighs, broad palms dragging up until they find the waistband of my skirt. There’s a contrast to it. His hands, calloused and sure, against the softness of my skin.

He tugs, knuckles brushing against my hips as he drags the skirt down my legs, his movements unhurried, as if he’s unwrapping something precious. The damp fabric pools at my feet. I step out of it, kicking it aside. Only my red lace thong remains.

His hands splay against my thighs, his touch light, his thumbs tracing absent, teasing circles. Then, he leans in and presses a kiss just below my navel. His lips are hot, his breath warm against my skin, and my fingers instinctively slip into his hair. I suck in a sharp breath.

His fingers flex as he begins to slide his hands upward, inching higher with every breath. He hooks his fingers under my thong, dragging it down at a torturously slow pace. Unlike before, there is no rush or urgency, only a focused patience that has my pulse hammering and anticipation curling hot and tight in my stomach.

He helps me step out of it and then sits back on his heels. I am bare before him, exposed in a way that makes me flush.

His breaths are slow and heavy as his fingers tighten around the delicate lace in his hand. The way he looks at me is possessive and completely devastating.

He drags his tongue over his bottom lip before he rasps, “You are fucking breathtaking.”

My skin prickles, heat blooming across my chest. My thighs press together without thinking, every nerve alive with the rush he’s just drawn out of me. His eyes are wild, dark, untamed. The damp strands of his hair curl at the edges. Water still clings to his skin, sliding down the defined ridges of his abs and the deep cut of his hips, leaving nothing to hide the way every muscle is tight, coiled. But it’s his pants that make my stomach tighten.