Chapter 30 Gracie
Two Weeks Before the Wedding
I’ve gotta say, I’m a little disappointed there aren’t more whips and paddles,” I comment when Jude lets us into his downtown apartment.
It’s in a building tall enough to have a beautiful bird’s-eye view of the river, and modern in a way that seems like a conscious F-You to Larkwood’s Gilded Age maximalism.
But that doesn’t mean it’s cold. Everywhere I look, the clean lines of the space are softened by furniture that seems designed to promote cuddling, and rugs thick enough to make snow angels in.
But you’re not here for cuddles, I remind myself firmly. You are here for kinky, commitment-free sex with the hottest man alive. And to trim his cat’s nails.
He smirks, and I grip my giant bag of popcorn tighter.
The last time I ran to Jude, I was emotionally spiraling.
Now that I’m (relatively) level-headed, it feels more like an active decision to be here, and I’m not sure where that falls on the morally gray scale.
Because even though I ended things with Henry, it’s hard not to feel guilty for hurting someone so genuinely kind, and for potentially setting fire to his friendship with Jude.
“Don’t tempt me to redecorate,” he says, pulling my attention back.
He drops his keys and things into a tasteful bowl on a tasteful entryway table before taking off his tasteful sneakers.
I do the same, suddenly deeply aware of my messy gremlin cottage with all its zombie tchotchke and romance novels.
This is the home of a functioning adult with an actual budget for things like furniture, art, and probably more than one set of sheets.
Sheets that, if I can stop overthinking everything, I could potentially get wrapped up in.
“Hey.”
Jumping slightly, I look away from his spotless, open-concept kitchen and up at him.
“Hey,” I say, leaning back against his front door.
“You’re nervous,” he says. Not a question.
I consider denying it. Consider flashing my boobs to distract him. In the end, I sigh. “Maybe.”
He looks at me for a moment before reaching down to grab the hand that isn’t clutching my mammoth bag of popcorn. At his touch, my shoulders melt.
“We don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to. We could watch a movie, or I could walk you back to your car.”
He says this so earnestly, it would be a shame to laugh in his pretty face.
“No, that’s not it. I definitely want—” I stop, toes curling under my feet.
His thumb strokes down mine. “Then what is it?”
I wince. “It’s just… are we doing the right thing?”
He takes a slow breath. Runs a heavy palm over his still-damp hair. “When it comes to right or wrong, there’s no ‘we’ in this, Gracie. You haven’t done anything wrong. But I…” He exhales. “No. I’m definitely not doing the right thing.”
My heart sinks.
“Because of Henry?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper.
He nods. “He’s a big part of it.”
“I ended things with him this week, but I didn’t mention you.” I hesitate. “Have you talked to him?”
He shakes his head, guilt etching creases around his eyes. “He keeps avoiding my calls, and it’s not something I want to tell him over text. But I’m meeting him for lunch this week.”
My throat moves in a dry swallow. “And you’re going to tell him about us then?”
“Yeah,” he says softly but decisively. “He deserves the truth, and you don’t deserve to be kept like a secret.”
My heart flips over, beating upside down. “And you don’t think we should stop this?” I say as his hand lets go of mine to trace up my arm.
His eyes close briefly. “I definitely think we should stop this,” he says, and my disappointment is a physical weight in my stomach. But then he shifts closer. “I just don’t think I can.” My breath hitches as his eyes find mine, blown out and hungry. “Do you want me to stop, Gracie?”
It’s wrong—for a thousand reasons, I know this is wrong. Jude and I are tied up in a bargain that could end disastrously, and nothing about this feels casual. But if I just keep telling myself this is meaningless, then I can ignore how loudly my heart is shouting the word Liar.
Breathless, I shake my head. “No. I don’t want to stop. I want—” But I can’t say it. Can barely look at the dark cotton strained across his chest, much less his face.
He tips my chin up, forcing me to look at him anyway. “Tell me.”
At his order, the bones of my knees turn to water, and the words are out before I can stop them. “I want to kiss you. I always want to kiss you.”
It comes out petulant, but I think he understands how frustrating it is to be completely consumed by the thought of someone else’s mouth.
He moves in slowly, his hard thigh pressing between mine until I’m forced onto my tiptoes, back against the door.
His thumb sweeps over my bottom lip, tugging it down until I’m openmouthed and squirming.
“That’s it?” he asks, his soft voice in complete contrast to how firmly he’s pinned me. “Just a kiss?”
I try nodding, but his grip on my chin is tight.
I never want him to let go. When he lowers his mouth to mine, the moan that escapes me is too loud for just a kiss.
I flush hot with embarrassment, but then his tongue is pressing into my mouth, slow and decadent, and I moan all over again.
When his hands grab my hips, angling me just right against his thigh, I drop the bag of popcorn and hear it scatter everywhere.
But I don’t care—can’t think at all when he starts working me against him, my skirt rising like mercury in a thermometer.
“Are you sure that’s all you want?” he asks, breaking away to stare down at me. His grip tightens, stopping my needy movements.
“No,” I pant, as whatever shreds of hesitation I felt before go up in greedy flames.
“Then what,” he asks, pressing me harder against him, “do you want?”
I whimper, squeezing my legs around what feels like a tree trunk, but the words won’t come out. I can’t tell him what I think about when I slip the cake shop Polaroid out from my bedside table every night—I can’t. I shake my head.
He makes a soft sound with his tongue like a tut. “I like how shy you are. But I need to know you really want this.”
My breathing comes in staccato gulps, my hips struggling to move against his iron grip. “I do,” I promise him, voice thready.
He makes a sound like he doubts it. “Do you want to show me instead? Can I lift this skirt and see what kind of mess you’ve made all over my pants?”
I clench so hard, I know he feels it. The blush staining my cheeks could heat a house in the dead of winter. But I’m nodding anyway, sucking on my bottom lip since I can’t have his.
His dark lashes flutter at my consent as his hands slide to the hem of my bunched and pleated skirt. For a moment, all he does is run his fingers over the edge, and I can feel my pulse in my stomach. But then he slides it up the rest of the way and whispers a harsh, “Fuck.”
I look down, and my simple white panties have been displaced, only half covering me.
They’re so wet, they’re transparent. His charcoal joggers are slick and dark beneath me, and his hands are hastily tucking the hem of my skirt into my waistband.
Self-consciousness curls in my stomach, but then he starts moving me again, and the back of my head hits his door.
“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” he says, yanking my hips forward.
His thumb finds my clit, still caught under my panties.
When he taps it three times, I jerk against him.
When he moves the fabric aside and starts stroking me in earnest, I come for the first time, keening through my teeth.
When I can remember my own name again, I want to make embarrassed excuses.
Tell him I’ve never been this way before. That I’ve always been—
“Made for me,” he whispers, eyes glazing over. “It’s like you were made for me.”
His rock-solid cock nudges against my thigh, and every late-night wish I’ve made while gasping into my pillow comes back to me in a hot rush.
“I want to see you, too,” I pant, hands going to his flexing biceps, my eyes drinking in every line of ink that disappears under his taut black sleeves. “All of you.”
His gaze stutters up to mine, like it’s the last request he expected. Like he couldn’t possibly imagine me wanting that, in the whole realm of what he’s willing to give me.
“Please,” I say breathlessly, and it really is the magic word. Something shifts in his eyes, and then he’s picking me up, throwing me over his shoulder.
“Jude!” I gasp. But then I see the flex of his muscular ass as he walks us deeper into his condo, and I shut all the way up.
Based on the shift from wooden floors to creamy stone tiles, I take it we’ve entered a bathroom. A low, warm light goes on before he sets me on my unsteady feet.
“Wait here,” he tells me.
No problem, I think. I’m too horny to walk in a straight line anyway.
He moves toward an obnoxiously large shower with a built-in bench. As he does, he grips behind the neck of his shirt and pulls. In one fluid, panty-scorching movement, it comes off, dropping to the floor in time with my jaw.
He’s opening the glass door of the shower and turning it on, but all my attention has been stolen by the thick shift of muscle beneath smooth skin. Vaguely, I notice he doesn’t have any tattoos on his back, and feel I should be applauded for stringing a single thought together.
Until he turns around.
Until he casually shoves down the waistband of his pants and boxer briefs in one artless movement before stepping out of them. As he removes his socks, something hot starts dripping into my stomach. It might be my brain.
I swim a little, he’d said. Like he enjoys the occasional dip. Not like he could qualify for the Olympics just from the wingspan of his lats alone. But his almost aggressive beauty becomes peripheral when my gaze drops below the sporadic gallery of tattoos spanning him from chest to hips.