Page 69 of Cockpit
The air fills with our shrieks and threats as I hit him and then run. As he dodges and then chases.
Around my car. Another stream of water. My sides hurt from laughing so hard, and I’m not paying attention as Grayson takes the hose lying on the ground and yanks on it, pulling the nozzle from my hands. I turn to run but realize I’m out of real estate. My back is against the fence, and Grayson is standing in front of me, nozzle pointed my way and a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say, hoping for an ounce of mercy when I showed him none.
I yelp when the cold stream of water hits me in the stomach. “Oopsie,” he mimics me, and all I want to do is strangle him as the water slides down the denim of my shorts and over my thighs.
“Grayson.” It’s a plea. It’s a warning. It’s an oh my God does he look gorgeous with his hair plastered to his forehead, the lighthearted grin on his face, and his shirt clinging to every cut inch of him.
“You know what they say about paybacks, right?”
“Yes. That a gentleman like you would never retaliate on a poor, helpless female like me.” And then I shriek as another spurt of water hits me.
“Oopsie.” His laugh rings louder than mine. “Nice try, but you’ve made it clear you’re no damsel in distress, so that doesn’t fly with me, Princess.”
Crap.
And that’s the only thought I get to have before I’m hit full-on with a longer stream of water. “Stop. No. Grayson.”
I rush him. I try to yank the nozzle from his hands, and when I do, I throw it to the ground and run. Through the gate. Into the backyard. Around the flowerbeds.
I make the fatal error of thinking I can run past him on my way back to the front yard, and before I know it, Grayson hooks an arm around my waist, and we both fall laughing onto the grass.
The fall knocks the breath out of us, but within seconds, I’m wriggling to get away from him.
Then I’m not.
My body freezes, fully aware of every long, lean inch of his body flanking mine. Of that instant burn in my belly and ache in my thighs when I stop moving only to find his face in front of mine. His eyes on me. His lips inches away. His body wet and warm all at the same time. His dick hard and pressed against my thigh, telling me his thoughts align with mine.
“Grayson . . .” This is a bad idea.
Kiss me.
This is such a bad idea.
Why isn’t he kissing me?
And then he does. A soft brush of his lips against mine. And then another. Sips and sighs of a kiss as we lie on the ground in my backyard with the birds overhead and a lawnmower sounding off elsewhere . . . but my entire world is focused on him.
On the rough brush of stubble against my chin. On the drops of water falling off his hair and onto mine. On the softness of his lips, the flex of his muscles, and the hints of restraint being tested.
There’s a tenderness in his touch, his kiss, but there’s the underlying edge laced with riotous desire that I can taste on his tongue and feel as he touches me.
Every part of me warms. Heats. Wants more when I fear it might only bring the agony of wanting more again.
His hand runs down my rib cage and slides under my shirt. I gasp as his wet palm brings a chill to my skin while his lips bring warmth to every other part of me. He finds my nipple over the wet lace of my bra and squeezes it ever so gently between his fingertips. The sensation is like a mainline to the delta of my thighs. Between his touch, the adeptness of his kiss, and the feel of him getting harder against my thigh, every part of me aches for more from him.
I lose myself in this world. The grass beneath us. The taste on his tongue. The groan of desire vibrating in the back of his throat.
The slowness begins to slip into want.
The tenderness builds into greed.
The desire morphs into need.
“Grayson.”
“Inside,” he murmurs against my lips between kisses.
