Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
Ariana
“This isn’t how I pictured the first time standing naked in front of you again,” Grayson muttered, standing in the middle of my bathroom as I unbuttoned the shirt he’d borrowed from Mickey. “I don’t exactly look my best right now.”
I laughed softly, working the buttons one by one.
The shirt slipped from his shoulders, and he hissed sharply through his teeth as I guided it over his sling, his whole torso going rigid for a moment before he forced himself to breathe again.
My own chest clenched at the thought of causing him pain.
And then I froze.
The sight of him knocked the air from my lungs. A brutal mosaic of bruises bloomed across his torso—livid purples and angry reds stark against his tan. My hand rose, instinctively drawn to the bandage sealing his ribs, but I held it there, terrified of adding to his pain.
My eyes lifted to meet his, already glistening with unshed tears.
“It’s okay, Ari,” he said, voice gentle, though he kept each word short and measured, like deep breaths were still something he was rationing carefully. “I’m okay.”
I could only nod, my throat too tight for words, and let my fingers trace lightly across his chest, skimming past the worst of the bruises. His breath caught—a tight, shallow hitch—and he held himself still until it passed, jaw locked against the reflex to flinch.
“I also need help with my pants,” he murmured, his lips curved in a blend of pain and quiet amusement.
My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall.
I would be strong for him now. I moved around him and crouched behind, reaching for the waistband of the track pants Mickey had lent him.
His own clothes had been torn beyond use.
My fingers trembled against the fabric. Gently, I eased it down, careful not to jar him, and he stepped out of it—slowly, one foot at a time, pausing between each movement like any sudden shift in balance was something to be managed.
And then his bare back came into view—broad, cut with muscle, marked with bruises everywhere.
“I think my ass is saved from ruin,” he let out a careful breath, more relief than humor in his voice. “No bruises back there, right?”
I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “No. Still perfectly smooth.”
“Good.” His voice was low and rough, a faint tremor running through it. “Then you’d better get up quick, Ari, because I can feel your eyes on me, and it’s doing things to me.”
My breath caught as I rose, my movements deliberately slow. “Like what?” I whispered, my gaze tracing the painful constellation of bruises across his back.
His voice broke slightly, rough with exhaustion and pain. “Just come here and look at me.”
I stepped around him slowly, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my throat.
His gray eyes found mine instantly—dark, fever-bright, and heavy with the strain of simply staying upright.
He was leaning into the wall now, his weight shifting back against it unconsciously, his body making decisions without consulting him.
One arm was bound in a sling, his ribs throbbed with pain, yet beneath the fevered intensity of his gaze lay something raw, a silent plea that told me just how much he needed me.
“Grayson…” I breathed, my fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw, sliding lower to brush the rise of his collarbone.
He shivered, a raw sound breaking loose from his chest, and immediately his free hand pressed flat against the wall, steadying himself against the small tremor that even that had cost him.
“Take off your clothes,” he murmured, his lips tilting in a faint, pained smile even as his body swayed helplessly toward mine.
I did, piece by piece, while his gaze darkened, sharpening with every layer I shed.
When I stood bare before him, I leaned in, letting him feel the whisper of my skin against his.
His good hand shook as it caught my hip, pulling me closer—the grip tighter than intended, his knuckles straining, like holding onto me was the thing keeping him vertical.
His gaze swept over me, a look of hunger and reverence that seemed to unravel him. His mouth curved into a faint smile, but his voice was pure gravel, each word carefully spaced, rationed against the breath it cost him. “God, Ari… you’re so beautiful it hurts.”
My eyes drifted down. Despite his pain, he was already hard, his body straining against its limits.
He followed my gaze, a raw, primal grin twisting his mouth. “It doesn’t give a damn about the ribs or the arm. All it knows is that it wants you.”
“Just a shower for now,” I said, my voice laced with a teasing note. My fingers skimmed his chest, avoiding his injuries, before I stepped back with a soft smile. “Come on, Grayson. Get under the water with me.”
I slipped my hands around his uninjured arm, guiding him toward the shower.
His body was still hard with muscle beneath my touch, but every step was deliberate and slow.
He was being careful because his body demanded it, each shift in balance sending a visible tightening through his jaw.
He steadied himself against me, his weight pressing more heavily than he meant it to, and I felt how much effort it cost him to keep even that much in check.
“Easy now,” I murmured as we moved forward. The tiles were cool beneath my bare feet, the bathroom quiet except for the faint echo of our steps.
We stood facing each other. His eyes held mine, dark and burning, and I could see the sheer effort it took for him to remain upright—the hand pressed hard against the wall, the shallow rhythm of his breathing, the rigid way he held his torso to keep his ribs as still as possible.
I held the shower head and guided the water down his back, watching steam curl between us in the heavy air.
When I leaned closer, my breasts brushed his chest, and I felt the tremor in him.
I felt, too, the way he went briefly rigid against it, riding out the flare before he let himself lean into the sensation.
“Cold?” I murmured, my fingers pausing on the slope of his shoulder.
He shook his head slowly, his voice a low, rough whisper. “Hot.”
Even injured and struggling to stay upright, the raw pull in his gaze told me he wanted me as badly as I wanted him.
“Too hot?” I asked, a little breathlessly.
“Not the water.” His lips curved into a faint, uneven smile. “You.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I knew it wasn’t from the steam.
I reached for the liquid soap, pumping a generous amount into my hand.
Slowly, I began to rub it over his skin, tracing every curve and line, letting my fingers linger where they wanted to, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath my touch.
I heard him suck in a sharp breath, a wince breaking across his face before he could stop it, his whole torso contracting involuntarily, then locking down against the reflex, teeth gritted.
My chest tightened as guilt pricked at my eyes, hot and stinging.
I couldn’t begin to imagine the pain he was in, and knowing it was because of me cut deeper than anything.
But even through his own hurt, he saw it—the guilt I couldn’t hide.
“Hey,” he said softly, the word short and careful, his good hand brushing my skin lightly, grounding me. “Stand on your toes and kiss me,” he murmured, forcing the words out one measured breath at a time. “Every time it hurts… or you feel like crying, just kiss me. It helps me too, I promise.”
I nodded, rising onto my toes to meet his lips. As our mouths met, he grinned into the kiss, his warmth grounding me. “See?” he murmured when we broke apart slightly, voice rough and low. “Feels better, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I chuckled, letting my hands glide over his chest, careful around the bandages, as the warm water steamed between us.
I worked the soap into a gentle lather, tracing it over his uninjured ribs, down his torso, feeling the subtle shivers that ran through him under my touch, and the way each one made his grip on the wall tighten, white-knuckled, anchoring himself.
The steam curled thick around us, hot and heavy, but I focused entirely on him.
I held the shower head in one hand, letting the warm spray wash over his back and shoulders.
My other hand traced his chest, sliding over his stomach, lingering over the bruised ribs — a sharp, bitten-back sound escaped him before he steadied himself, and finally, my hand rested where he throbbed beneath my touch.
He groaned, low and raw, the sound breaking off into a hiss as his body caught between wanting to press forward and the physical cost of doing it.
He groaned softly, half hurt, half need, and I felt my pulse spike at how vulnerable he was. My lips brushed the side of his neck, inhaling the raw heat of him.
“We can’t right now,” I said softly. “You’re hurting.”
He didn’t argue, but his eyes held a raw, wanting look that said he’d trade the pain for any relief I could give.
I moved closer, my hands gliding over his skin as his muscles tightened beneath my touch.
I kissed the line of his jaw, down his throat, tasting him, claiming him inch by inch.
He groaned and pressed back against me, and the movement cost him immediately, a sharp, strangled sound tearing from his throat before he forced himself to breathe through it, shoulders shaking.
His good hand closed over my breasts, rolling my hardened nipple between his fingers, drawing a low moan from my lips.
Even that small motion made him hiss, his arm trembling with the effort of staying raised.
The hunger in his gaze said it all—if his body would allow it, his hand would already be between my thighs.