Page 90 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
I grind my pelvis against his hand, which has my leg shifting, rubbing against his dick and eliciting a groan from him that I swallow. His fingers continue their torment of building me up and then letting me fall back down so I don’t hit my peak. I start the one-handed process of unzipping his pants. Of wrapping my hand around his cock and pulling it free. Of stroking it until Grady’s fingers tense within me because I’m returning the pleasurable favor.
And as if choreographed without words, the next few seconds are a clumsy dance of intimacy as I stand and discard my clothes while he shoves his pants down to his knees and protects us.
I climb back onto the couch and sit astride his hips. His hand slides between my thighs and holds his dick in place as I position myself over him and slide inch by pleasurable inch onto him.
Our collective moan fills the room as he stretches me, fills me completely. My head rolls back as his hands find their way to dig into my hips and hold me there so he’s sheathed fully inside me. Every part of his body tenses as he tries to hold on to his own control. “Oh my God,” falls from his lips in a long, drawn-out groan that sounds just like how I feel—desperate.
I hold his gaze through the dimly lit room as I begin to move, grinding circles at first that cause his head to fall back and the tendons in his neck to strain. Then on to rocking back and forth over his cock so his crest hits my G-spot as I slide one hand between my thighs to try to help it along.
A moan falls from my lips as the combination hits every zone it needs to and Grady’s patience snaps. His hands guide my hips up, and he thrusts at the same time as he pulls me back down. There’s no other name for the sound I make than pure pleasure.
And it is.
As Grady pistons his hips up and I grind my hips down, the heat within me builds to a fire. The ache starts to burn. And then, every nerve combusts in an array of sensations I couldn’t describe if I tried.
All I can do is feel.
All I want to do is succumb to every ounce of bliss they evoke and allow Grady to take me there and then some.
Because it seems like no matter how much he gives me, I still want more.
And he does. He gives me more until my head grows light and my muscles turn tense. I’m so spent by the time he climaxes that my only option is to collapse on top of him. So I do. I press my lips to the underside of his jaw and rest my hand over his heart so I can feel it jumping against his ribcage.
I try to find solace in the now. In appreciating the moment.
Eventually, when he catches his breath and his fingertips dance up and down the line of my spine, he murmurs, “Welcome home.”
The nightmares were relentless last night. Even with Dylan beside me, and the scent of her shampoo in my nose, they never let up.
It happened because of what I’m doing against my will. But I gave my word, and my word seems to be all I have these days.
But the panic attack still tries to take hold when I walk into the studio. I hate knowing I’ll be standing in front of a camera, documenting the body I can’t look at in the mirror most days. Mine. Physically strong. Horrifically imperfect.
I’m ready to walk out of the studio not two seconds after I walk in. Two fucking seconds, but what I see when I throw open the curtain in the studio breaks my fucking heart.
And solidifies why I’m here.
Brody, standing in front of a black backdrop. His little legs are drowning in Drew’s turnout pants, his dad’s helmet is huge on his head, and his eyes are looking straight at the camera with the same mixture of grief and pride that I feel every time I look at him.
My feet are rooted in place. My eyes lock on the little boy who has so much courage that there is no way I can walk out of here. There’s no way I can run from showing my scars when he has invisible scars he lives with every single goddamn day. And he’s five.
I watch with tears burning in my eyes and an ache in my gut that makes me feel physically ill.
You promised, Malone.
You promised Drew you’d take care of them. The calendar helps with that.
You promised the guys you’d do the shoot. That proves they can depend on me.
You promised Dylan you’d follow through. That proves that she means more to me than I’m willing to admit.
I wish he’d told me.
Our phone conversation replays in my mind as I turn into the parking lot, going a little faster than I should.
“I didn’t want to bug you because I know you’re busy trying to get the songs finished, but . . . would you mind coming here for a little bit,” he asked.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay? Always interrupt me.”
