Chapter 18 Macy #2
Sparks of the man I’ve been obsessed with for over a decade shine bright when he smirks.
“I have above-average stats. A monitor can prevent you from putting actions into play you’re not sure aren’t one-sided, but it doesn’t make the truth any less obvious.
” I feel like he’s talking more about the many conversations we’ve had over the net than the case we’re working on.
When I remain frozen in the kitchen, too confused to move, he tracks the backs of his fingers down my cheek like he did when I cried.
He is barely touching me, but my body responds as if he’s strumming my clit with his tongue.
His basic touch floods my veins with lust and has me wondering if there’s more truth to women being extra horny in the last trimester of pregnancy than what I’ve read.
My body hasn’t stopped buzzing with anticipation all day.
I call myself an idiot when Grayson pulls his hand away from my face a second before he blows the eyelash he caught on my cheek off his index finger. It floats in the minuscule portion of air between us before it lands on his big toe.
I’m one hundred percent convinced that the increase in blood flow during pregnancy has gathered in one region of my body when I admire the sexiness of his bare feet.
Is anything about this man ugly?
“Macy…” Grayson murmurs, drawing my focus away from his hairless toes.
My limbs feel the weight of concrete, but it is for an entirely different reason than a baby’s head squashing nerves I had no clue I had. It is from the way Grayson murmured my name. It was hot and virile, like the sweetness of our dessert is still clinging to his tonsils.
“Yeah.” I swallow to soothe my suddenly parched throat before peering up at him.
Grayson’s wolfish smirk when he spots my perplexed expression makes desire crackle through me like a glow stick being activated. Its effect is bright and immediate, and it creeps up my neck and across my cheeks as fast as it dilates my eyes. “I said goodnight.”
“Oh. Um… night.”
Although I bid him goodnight with both words and a smile, my feet remain rooted. A hormone imbalance could have me mistaking the tension crackling in the air, as it has multiple times today, yet it is so white-hot that sweat beads on my nape.
It also proves that what Grayson said is factual.
Whether through a monitor or in person, the truth can’t be hidden from a skilled profiler.
I want him, badly. I just don’t know how to be a woman and an agent at the same time, and I’m too scared to attempt a thorough study of my theory on a man way out of my league.
“Huh?” I murmur, still in a trance from how good my shampoo smells on his skin when Grayson repeats my name.
He strokes my cheek again, sending a flurry of activity breaking across my skin. “Do you need my help with something?” His dilated eyes bounce between mine as he steps closer—like there’s any room left. “These are your confused cheeks, aren’t they, freckles?”
“Um…” Too scared at the thought of losing him as a friend, I don’t kiss him as my heart is screaming at me to do. I downplay the tension by asking if he wants to sign up to be my body pillow again.
Even that seems a stretch when my eyes land on the file behind him. It reminds me that he’s not here for me and that I’m not meant to be wasting my time on anyone but Kendall’s abductors.
“I’m joking. I was just…” Out of lies, and not eager to use them again so soon after pledging not to issue this man even a little white lie, I mumble a second “Night” before heading to the bedroom to sulk in privacy.
My steps into my room slow when I notice a glass bottle sitting on the mattress. Its liquidity consistency isn’t obvious until I read the label.
Perineal massage oil.
I swallow loudly enough for Adeline to hear, and Grayson has me wishing he had placed squeaker dots on his socks instead of non-slip ones. “It’s safe for all regions of your body. Including…” A cough finalizes his reply.
Though I could end this conversation now and die a thousand deaths in peace, the past two hours of normality have my heart speaking first. “Am I meant to just rub it in or…?”
When he remains quiet, I spin to face him. His cheeks are as red as mine feel, and although I can’t see my eyes, I’m confident they’re as dilated as Grayson’s.
“There’s an entire chapter on perineal massages in your book.
” He gestures his head at the book I’ve spied him reading on a handful of occasions over the past few days.
“It gives a few pointers on how to use the oil to prepare for childbirth.” He enters the room, filling it with his delicious scent, before he thumbs through the book he referenced.
Once he finds the page, he licks his lips before peering at me through hooded eyes. “It even gives examples.”
The diagrams are graphic for a novice of graphic romance novels, but they paint the entire picture of perineal massages.
After taking in a passage that explains how the daddy-to-be can assist the mother with perineal stretching, I ask through a burning throat, “Do you think it will help?”
Grayson’s Adam’s apple bobs before he shrugs. “There’s no harm in trying. It won’t hurt anything. It will just loosen you up a little.”
Again, I continue flogging the dead horse I haven’t let rest today. “Okay. I’ll give it a go.”
“Now?” Grayson’s voice is so loud that if Adeline was asleep, she isn’t anymore.
“No, not now. Later.”
I can’t tell if it is disappointment or relief that crosses Grayson’s features. Whatever it is, it sees him mouthing goodnight again before he exits my bedroom as fast as he entered it.
After placing his gift on the bedside table, I change into sleepwear and then slip between the sheets. I groan, hating that the bedding is no longer swamped in Grayson’s scent. Last night, the sheets were drenched with his delicious aroma.
I toss and turn for several long minutes, vying to get comfortable.
When no amount of rolling lightens the weight of my stomach, I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
For several long minutes, I pretend the bottle I dumped onto the bedside table isn’t calling my name.
The more I ignore it, the more it beckons me.
I’m not horny. I am merely eager to prepare my body for the birth of my child.
Yeah, right. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.
I pray for the weightlessness of a feather when I slip out of bed and pad toward my bedroom door.
Grayson left it partially open, and although I acted as if I were perfectly okay discussing personal matters out loud, I’ve never had sex with the lights on.
The thought of touching myself is daunting enough, so there’s no way I could do it with the risk of being caught higher than necessary.
I breathe a little easier when I fail to find the shoes Grayson cleaned earlier today under the hallway table. They must be on the feet of their owner, who can burn off energy with a run since he doesn’t have a tennis ball pressing against the opening of his uterus.
Although I am alone and confident Grayson won’t be back for at least an hour, I brace the hinges on my door before closing it. When it closes without a squeak, I practically skip back to my bed, confident I can ease the tingles running rampant through my veins in under ten minutes.
The elastic on my underwear snaps against my skin when I slide them down my thighs with an eagerness I haven’t experienced in years. After kicking the damp material to the side, I snatch up the bottle of oil before slipping back beneath the sheets.
The pamphlet that came with the oil states that I should place two fingers inside myself, gently apply downward pressure toward my backside, then sweep my fingers to the sides.
My oiled-up fingers head in the opposite direction.
I tickle them past my clit and dip them between the delicate lines of my vagina before I coat the tips with a residue more slippery than the oil. My vagina dampens long before I brace my fingers at the opening. I’ve felt moist for hours, so this isn’t surprising.
Although penetration is nice, I pay more attention to my clit than the sweet spot inside me that no man has ever caressed. I roll it between my thumb and index finger before rotating it clockwise.
The buzz feels good, though it also feels weird.
I’ve never been a fan of going it alone, but the guilt is less confronting this way. I’m only stealing time from my sleep when I self-pleasure, and I’m not issuing any false promises of something more.
I can’t do more. That requires time and commitment, as well as three-course meals that take hours to prepare. I don’t have that much time—though it wasn’t an issue this evening.
The healthy thud of my clit steals my focus from recalling how many hours Grayson and I spent cooking, cleaning, and talking today.
It could be bursting with electricity recalling how many times I busted Grayson watching me under hooded eyes, and how his shower lasted far longer than mine.
Still, I pretend this kind of euphoric buzz is perfectly normal for me.
It isn’t. I’ve never been so tightly wound up.
As a bolt of electricity rockets through me, my nipples brush against the oversized shirt I’m wearing as a nightie. They’re hard and stiff, aching with as much desire as my pussy.
I can’t endure much more. My longing to come surpasses my need to breathe, but there’s only one way I’ll achieve the seemingly impossible.
I need to think about Grayson.
Even before hormones flooded my body, I only needed to imagine his face to climax. His hold over me should have taken a back seat when I told him the real reason I took the rap for Moses’s murder, but it didn’t wane in the slightest.
I haven’t come in over thirteen years without Grayson’s face helming my campaign, and tonight won’t buck the trend.
The fabric of my shirt slides higher when I sweep open my thighs and then spread my labia to expose the dampness of my vagina to the sticky humidity in the air.
“Oh god.”
I moan when a quick flick of my thumb over my clit teeters me close to the edge.
As I toy with my clit, I slide two fingers inside myself.
I don’t insert them all the way, but I act as though they don’t belong to me.
I picture Grayson’s icy-blue eyes, cut jaw, and brain-numbing face hovering above me as his hand works me into a frenzy.
I imagine the weight of his body pressing against mine, and the uniqueness of our combined scents when his desire to taste me becomes too much.
Moaning, I work my fingers in and out, over and over again.
I should feel embarrassed that I’m masturbating over a man who is way out of my league, horrified, but I am too far gone in the devastating spiral of ecstasy to stop now.
The thought of Grayson walking in and seeing me pleasing myself has my fingers moving faster, crudely. I finger-fuck myself for several long minutes until stars blister before my eyes and my muscles coil tight.
I can smell his sweat-slicked skin in the air, taste its saltiness on my tongue. It drives me wild with desire and has me coming undone in a shamefully quick timeframe.
My thighs shake as the wetness of my arousal coats my palm. I move my hips in rhythm with my thrusting fingers as an effortless smirk pushes me over the edge.
As the hunger for skin-on-skin friction ignites inside me, I twist and moan. Then I shake through a brutal orgasm.
Grayson’s name leaves my throat in a mangled roar as floating lights dance in front of my eyes.
A groan cuts short the brilliance of my long and draining climax.
While shooting my eyes to the door, I yank my hand out from beneath the sheets like they’re not hiding the immorally corrupt activity I just undertook.
The door is ajar, but there’s no shadow behind it, no witnesses to my farce, though the faintest glimpse of white laces under the hallway table announces that wasn’t the case only seconds ago.
Grayson’s shoes are once again under the hallway table, which sits mere inches from my once again open bedroom door.
Shit.