Page 54 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
Seconds turn to minutes. Each one that passes a badge of honor for holding out, but I know it won’t be for much longer. There’s too much sensory overload, and I welcome every single moment of it.
The sound of our bodies connecting. The slap of flesh against flesh with each drive.
The feel of him. The girth of his cock. The way my fingers spread to fit his between mine.
The taste of him. His kiss on my lips. The hunger in it laced with desire and edged with the beer he had in the kitchen.
The smell of him. Soap and shampoo and fabric softener. And sex.
The look of him. Visual porn in every way imaginable. Muscles rippling. Sweat misting. Body aware.
And then the surge comes—every part of my body attuned to him, every nerve touched, every erogenous zone satisfied. I cry out when I come. At first, it’s a tidal wave of sensations—pushing me up, pulling me under, stealing my breath—then just when I’m about to drown in the pleasure of it all, another wave hits. One after another until I’m floating in a sea of ecstasy.
My hips lift to meet his. My nipples become ultra-sensitive to the feel of his chest grazing them. The muscles pulse around his dick and milk his own orgasm out of him.
It’s my name on his lips now. It’s my hands he crushes as the haze engulfs him. It’s my body he uses until he’s spent and lying on top of me, breath labored and lips pressed against the underside of my jaw as our heartbeats struggle to calm.
Eventually, our fingers loosen from each other’s and the gravity of the moment settles over me.
“Well, that’s one way to avoid talking about your fight.”
“Look at it this way,” he murmurs, his lips moving against my skin and sending chills over me. “We just had make-up sex and we haven’t even had a proper fight yet.”
“Next time I’ll throw a plate at you first.”
“Good idea.” He chuckles.
Next time?
Next time.
If this is what make-up sex is like with Grady Malone, then I sure as hell can’t wait to see what regular sex is like.
I wake with a start. My mind is scrambled from the dream that started out with Jett kissing me. Then, when he leaned back, it was no longer Jett but Grady whose lips were mesmerizing mine.
But now it’s no one’s. Now it’s only the muted light of the predawn and the chill of the morning air against my nakedness. Trying to snuggle back under the covers, I roll to my side and am met with Grady’s back.
My breath catches at the sight of it up close. Scars are layered one upon another in a plane of destruction. Some areas look tight to the touch, the scar tissue constricting the skin. Others look like a sea of lava slid its way down his back and left different grooves from spot to spot. There is red and pink and every shade in between, every texture from smooth to puckered, every indication of the hell he endured.
Add to that, there are tiny lacerations in various spots of his scars where his skin has cracked open some and bled.
The fight. The blood on his shirt. It wasn’t the other guy’s. It was Grady’s.
So many thoughts race through my mind. Are the small tears painful? And if so, will it ever get any better so he doesn’t hurt? Add to that, does it hurt when I touch him?
“We were in a three-alarm fire on the edge of town in an industrial park,” he begins in a whisper, but the pain is just as raw and real as the scars on his skin. He keeps his back to me but continues on, somehow knowing I’m awake and studying them. “Drew . . . God, Drew. He wouldn’t fucking listen. We were trying to knock down some debris in a room that was fue
ling the fire when he swore he heard someone calling for help. I couldn’t hear shit besides the crackle and pop of the flames. We’d been told the building was cleared, but he swore he kept hearing it.”
“Grady.” I don’t know what to say. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
“Well, it seems kind of pertinent since we are dating and all that.” I hear the smile in his voice, and for a brief second, I wonder if he’s being serious since we’re both in bed—naked. Then I realize he’s referring to the Jett situation.
I chuckle and give in to the urge to reach out and touch his arm in a show of silent support. He jerks when my fingers connect, but I keep them where they rest. Away from his myriad of scars but close enough for him to know they don’t disgust me.
After a few seconds, he exhales a shaky breath and relaxes.
Baby steps.
