Chapter 15 Grayson
GRAYSON
When I wake up minus the headache that’s plagued me throughout my adult life, I forget where I am.
The comfort of a bed is unfamiliar—as is the scent of lavender and vanilla filling my nostrils.
I’ve smelled it before. Multiple times. But it was never this close or as potent.
It practically coats my skin, and it stretches my boxer shorts as they struggle to contain my morning wood.
When soft curls brush my chin, and my nostrils flare to suck in the scent of their shampoo, it hits me. I am in Macy’s bed. My arm hangs over her swollen belly, and she has clamped her legs around my thigh, as if she is seconds from riding it to climax station.
I am the definition of the body pillow Alex insists Regan will never have—pregnant or not. He won’t let anything come between them. Even something synthetically made.
Guilt washes over me when the sun filtering through the curtains announces the day is well on its way.
I was only supposed to stay until Macy fell asleep, but exhaustion must have also overcome me.
And not for a little while, either. If the clock on the bedside table is correct, I slept for almost seven hours.
What the fuck am I doing? I’m supposed to be focusing on finding Cameron and Kendall, not working out why my body responded the way it did when Macy moaned within a second of me placing my hands on her.
I was hard in an instant and struggling to remember that we aren’t sharing an apartment because we’re a couple. We are coworkers desperate to find long-lost loved ones.
The way I acted last night isn’t fair to either Macy or Cameron, and it sees me eager to sulk out of bed like I did the kitchen last night when Macy’s interrogation reminded me that I was the bureau’s prime suspect for the first six weeks of Cameron’s kidnapping.
With more care than I’m used to showing of late, I slide my arm out from beneath Macy, trying not to wake her. She stirs slightly but doesn’t wake up.
I stand at her bedside for a minute, watching her sleep. Guilt is still in abundance, though it isn’t solely for Cameron this morning. Macy appears peaceful, yet also vulnerable.
Her vulnerability stirs something inside me that I’ve forever struggled to contain when she is present.
I’d give anything to protect her from additional harm and to be there for her, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m taking advantage of the situation.
That I am exploiting her vulnerability more than I’m attempting to eradicate it.
Just because she isn’t seeking a relationship doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve one. This also isn’t a situation where I can burn off some restlessness, then close the door I forced open as if nothing happened.
Macy is my colleague and friend. I can’t chew her up and spit her out as if she means nothing to me, but that’s precisely how any adult interactions I’ve had since Cameron’s disappearance ended.
Needing to clear my head, I pull on a pair of black shorts over my boxer shorts and then grab my running shoes from under the hallway table.
I need to burn off the restless energy that’s rapidly building inside me, and I need to do it now before I stupidly believe the solution to my predicament is faintly snoring next to me.
The air is crisp after a recent downpour, and I suck it down while pounding the pavement. I push myself hard, striving to outrun the guilt and confusion bombarding me. The streets are quiet since most residents are already at work, and in minutes, I lose myself to the rhythm of my strides.
I’m unsure of the distance I cover, but when I finish, I’m soaked in sweat and my muscles ache.
Arching up, I rest my hands on my head and strive to catch my breath. The physical exertion has helped, but the guilt is still there, gnawing at me. It forces me to wear off another handful of miles on my running shoes before I eventually give in and call it a day.
I walk back to the apartment instead of running, but my heart still races as if I competed in a marathon when I reach the front door. Things have always been sparking between Macy and me, but it stepped over a line I’m comfortable with when I invited myself into her bed.
As my hand circles the doorknob, I realize I must have stepped in something unpleasant. The intoxicating scent I was sucking in like an addict after a prolonged stint of abstinence is nowhere to be found. The fresh scent is putrid, and it makes me smell as dirty as I feel.
I look down, a huff rumbling in my chest when I see dog poo smeared across one side of my shoe.
Great. This is just what I need.
Not wanting to track the mess inside, I take off my shoes and leave them outside the door. I quietly enter the apartment, mindful that Macy may still be asleep. Desperate to wash off the funk still plaguing me, I head straight for the bathroom, stripping off my sweaty clothes on the way.
I’m about to enter the bathroom when a faint moan freezes me in my tracks. It’s the same throaty mumble that thickened my cock last night, and it is as effective at turning my brain to mush now as it did then.
“Mace…” I murmur, padding closer to her bedroom door. She could be in pain, and my fucked-up head, which is often controlled by the one between my legs, isn’t hearing things right.
The door creaks when I push it open, but since I brace the hinges, it isn’t loud enough to wake Macy. She is still asleep as I left her, but her cheeks are flushed, hiding some freckles, and a spicy scent mingles with her hair products.
My boxer shorts act like they’re made from titanium when the moan I heard seconds ago rumbles through my ears again. Macy’s moans are as erotic in her dreams as they are in real life. They have my boxers pitching a tent and make my blood hotter than lava.
As her plump lips part to suck in a desperate breath, her thighs press together before her legs scissor. Her subtle movements cause the blanket to shift from the edge of her nightgown, which now rests around her abdomen, yet the motions are gentle enough not to disturb her sleep.
Her ecstasy-riddled face and flushed body are an enticing visual that grows more erotic when they leave no doubt about the wickedness of the dream she is having.
Her dream is as viciously deviant as the thoughts that rolled through my head last night when she moaned at my touch, and they have my temperature rising to a never-before-reached level.
“Fuck,” I murmur when it dawns on me that I’m eyeballing my friend having an erotic dream, like a creep with no morals.
Before the head between my legs can demand the floor, I twist away and race for the bathroom.
“Fuck,” I curse again when there’s no mistaking who Macy is dreaming about.
My name has never sounded so carnal, and I am usually front and present when it’s toppling from a woman’s mouth while she is in ecstasy.
I strip out of my boxer shorts with urgency, then step into the shower without checking the water temperature. I need it freezing. Icy-cold barbs piercing through my cock may be the only thing capable of taking care of the throbbing rod between my legs.
Water cascades over me. It washes away the sweat clinging to my skin, but it does little to calm the aches of my cock. I’m hard enough to drill through Antarctica, and confident that a quick rubdown will be the only thing capable of suffocating the urge to turn Macy’s dream into a reality.
Against the screaming protests of my head, I grip my dick in a determined hold, strangling it of its uncalled thoughts. My mind doesn’t stop racing. It keeps replaying Macy’s moans before pondering how much better they’d sound when heard up close.
My heavy breaths switch from eagerness to frustration when the glide of my hand down my cock doesn’t conjure up the images I usually summon while masturbating.
They’re not of Cameron’s flirty grin when she sucked my dick, or the teasing gleam her eyes got when she refused to let me finish down her throat.
I imagine a raven-haired woman who seems shyer than her sultry looks would suggest, and how her body fit mine perfectly.
Again, I fist my dick at the base, willing for some sense of normality to return before I make a mistake I can’t take back.
Nothing works. Just Macy’s rumble of my name has me edgy enough to come on the spot. My cock is leaking pre-cum, and no amount of coercion will deflate it.
Pissed, I give my shaft a handful of violent jerks. I force it through a tight fist, refusing to surrender without first issuing it some pain for its insubordination.
“Fuck.” My cock is even harder now, as ready to go as my nostrils when they catch the faintest scent of Macy’s shampoo in the air. She didn’t wash her hair last night. The scent stems from her hair tickling my chest all night.
Seven hours—Seven. Whole. Fucking. Hours.—Macy slept in my arms.
That’s a record, both before and after Cameron’s abduction.
This should feel wrong, but a pleasing zap rockets through my balls when my thumb gathers a droplet of pre-cum from the crest of my cock. I use its silky smoothness to quicken my pumps as the thought of stopping this train before it crashes circles the drain along with my morals.
While increasing the pressure on the vein feeding my cock, I close my eyes and part my lips.
My breaths are desperate and needy, as out of control as my strokes.
My heavy pants make it seem as if the shower water is scorching hot.
They fog the mirror and the shower tiles, leaving the imprint of my hand in the condensation, as the sensation roars through me, forcing me to steady my shakes before I tumble.
With my head hanging beneath the heavy spray, I widen my stance and then rock my dick in and out of my hand.
The suds of Macy’s body wash and the inane amount of pre-cum leaking from the crown make my pumps frictionless.
My cock’s glides are smooth and seamless, and they soon have me sprinting toward release.