Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Faye
I feel the change come over him and I shiver.
But it’s not because I’m cold.
Actually, I’m really, really hot.
Like scorching hot.
His lips work mine, tongue thrusting into my mouth in sleek darts I hope to God will mirror the rough thrusts of his cock.
“Fuck, Faye,” he growls against my lips, his hand in my hair tightening, tugging my head back at the same time his other palm slides down my back, cupping my ass, massaging it…generally driving me freaking insane.
Hot and wet and deep.
Slow and steady and unhurried.
Meanwhile, I feel…
Needy. Desperate. Ready to strip all of his clothes off.
His releases my mouth, trails his lips across my cheek, my jaw, laving at my earlobe.
Then down, along my throat, across my collarbones, using his nose to nudge at one of my tank top’s straps.
It falls and then he’s kissing me there, the stubble of his beard the sweetest abrasion.
He takes his time, worshiping the spot with lips and tongue and the barest flash of teeth.
Then he’s softly kissing along my skin, gentle presses of his mouth that lift goose bumps in their wake.
Until he’s made it to the other side.
Until he’s nudging that strap down.
My tank top drops a few inches, catching on the tips of my breasts, one tug, one deep breath away from completely exposing myself.
The thought has moisture gathering between my legs, need coiling in my belly.
My nipples tingle and I hold my breath, the material teasing me.
Or maybe that’s Gray.
Because he’s started kissing his way down the tops of my breasts, growing closer and closer to the hardened buds of my nipples, but never quite getting there. Down, down. Close, closer. Hot, damp air. Slick, firm tongue. And then away again.
Until I’m trembling.
Until I’m diving my uninjured hand into his hair, holding his mouth against me.
Or maybe…I’m nudging it down, coaxing him toward the edge of the material, silently urging him to get it out of the way.
“Red?” His question is a hot glaze on my skin.
“Y-yeah?” I run my fingers through the silken strands of his hair.
“You ever done this before?”
I still.
Then my fingers tighten and his head shifts, eyes coming to mine.
“What are you asking?” My heart is pounding, embarrassment is beginning to claw at my insides.
Does he—? Could he possibly—? Oh, God, he thinks I’m a vir—
“You kiss like sin, Red.” A nip to the curve of my breast. “But you said you’ve been alone, baby. If you haven’t done this, that’s okay. I just need to know, so I can treat you right.”
More embarrassment.
But that’s quickly chased aside.
By affection.
“If I knew how wonderful you were,” I murmur, cupping his jaw, “I would have worked up the courage to talk to you sooner.” He leans into my touch and relief loosens something old and tight and ugly inside me. “But I’m not a virgin, Gray.”
“Thank fuck,” he groans, dropping his face between my breasts. “And you did talk to me,” he says against my skin, lightly rubbing his face, side to side, side to side.
A gentle motorboat.
Only, it doesn’t make me laugh.
It has sensation rippling through me, need coiling tighter.
“I-I talked to you?” I ask breathlessly.
“Yup.” He leans back, eyes twinkling. “You asked me to pass the potato salad at Donnie and Laurie’s thing, and then at Ron and Laila’s, you said yes when I asked if you guys wanted refills.”
I blush. “I’m really not that good in social situations.”
“Liar,” he teases, reaching for the hem of my tank. “I’ve heard you cackling with the girls during your wine parties.” He tugs lightly and, yup, I was right.
That’s all it takes.
And there goes my shirt, dropping to catch on my hips, bunching at my waist, exposing my nipples to the cool morning air.
And his gaze.
Which is very not cool.
It burns into me, causing my nipples to tingle and tighten, desperate for his mouth.
“It’s not a wine party,” I manage to push out. “It’s Book Club.”
He blows out a breath and I gasp as the rush of warm air hits my nipple.
I want him to lean closer, to take it in his mouth, to suck it deep and a little rough and—
“Do you actually read the book?”
Gasping, I glare down at him, my fingers tightening in his hair again. “I’m an author.”
“So you read the books,” he says.
I nibble at the inside of my mouth.
He grins. “Such a beautiful liar.”
“I read almost all the books.”
He lifts a hand, palms my breast, massaging gently…thus continuing to slowly drive me insane. “What does that mean?”
“Laurie picked a Winston Churchill biography o-once,” I say, words hitching when he traces his thumb over my nipple, sending lightning bolts of sensation between my legs. “Her dad recommended it ah-apparently,” I finish as he leans in and flicks his tongue out.
“Sounds interesting.”
“It was”—another lick—“drier than an overcooked pork chop.”
A chuckle that does all sorts of glorious things to my insides. “I don’t know.” His lips drift closer and closer to the hard bud of my nipple. “I think history can be interesting.” A long slow lick over the aching tip and my knees buckle.
But he has me, sweeping an arm around my middle and lifting me up onto the counter, the cold granite a shock of sensation against the backs of my thighs.
“Gray,” I moan in protest as he continues with his gentle touches, playing with me, taking care of me, slowly driving me to the edge of reason—something that has me reaching for him again, fingers clutching at his shoulders, nails biting into his flesh.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“Fuck, these things are beautiful,” he mutters as he palms my breasts, massaging them, running his fingers back and forth over my nipples.
Slow and easy.
As though I’m not on fire.
As though I’m not trembling from needing more of him.
More of his fingers, his tongue, his teeth.
But he just continues the slow, inexorable tease.
“Gray?” I ask, running my fingers through his hair.
Another flick of his tongue, one that has my grip tightening on those silken strands.
“Yeah, Red?”
I open my mouth, ready to demand we both strip naked so he can be inside me, but even as the words bubble up, he smiles wickedly…
And seals his mouth over my nipple.