35. Keeley #3
And then his hands are on my face, cradling my jaw then sliding into my hair. I expected him to be mad, to punish me for this, and I have no idea what’s happening right now.
His mouth lands on mine, his kiss demanding and desperate at once, and I am no longer confused. He was scared, and this is what he needs to reassure himself.
He needed me . And I needed him too.
He groans, his hands sliding down my sides to grip my ass and pull me closer.
His mouth, his grip, his urgency...it shuts down everything in my head but the most primitive impulses. I want him so much that my hands are shaking, and my breath is coming in small pants. If there was a magic spell to undress us both, head to toe, I’d already have released it.
My palms land on his chest then slide up around his neck, and I know I’ve lived this exact moment before: the moment of realizing how much he’d been holding himself back and feeling overwhelmed by it, feeling as if there was just …too much of him, and wanting it anyway.
I untuck his shirt.
He breaks the kiss only long enough to wrench it overhead and hurl it to the floor. “Take off the dress.”
I think of my body the way it is now—the stretch marks, my swollen breasts lined with fine blue veins, the seven-month swell of a human being pushing out from beneath my skin. “I—”
Before I can think of an excuse, his hands are on my hips. “Take off the fucking dress,” he growls. “I want to see.”
That edge in his voice, that barely restrained desire, makes me bolder. Even if I’m not the girl I was last winter, I get the feeling it doesn’t matter to him. That, impossibly, the current version of me is every bit as hot to him as the previous one might have been.
I lift my dress overhead and his eyes fall to my sheer lace bra.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You didn’t return the bra.”
I glare at him. “Are you seriously bitching about my spending now ?”
He holds my breasts in his hands, as if taking stock of their weight. “No.” He bends lower. “I want you to buy a hundred more.” His mouth closes around my nipple, and I let out a strangled moan.
It hurts and feels amazing in a way it never has before, and I’m not sure if it’s pregnancy or him, or the fact that I haven’t had sex in many, many months, but I’m pretty sure I could come from this alone.
“God, Graham, I want you to never stop doing that.”
He laughs against my skin. “No? You’re sure?” And then one hand is slipping between my legs.
“ Oh , maybe not,” I whisper.
My skin is hot. His palm is cool and rough, drawing goose bumps as it slides up, up, up to find me wet, already close to coming.
“Jesus Christ,” he growls. “Get on the bed.”
That he isn’t being polite , that he’s simply taking the things he wants, has me clenching, desperate for his fingers…
or something else. The second I sit, he’s on his knees, spreading my thighs.
He pulls my panties off to the side and then there’s one slow, glorious slide up to my clit, his tongue moving in small tight circles as two fingers push inside me.
“I want you to pull my hair when you come,” he says.
Not if you come. When.
He’s got not a moment’s doubt about the outcome here, nor do I.
My palm slides into his hair. “God. Keep doing that.”
My panties are removed, and then his flickering tongue becomes harder, more pointed against my swollen clit. His fingers inside me curl inward, and I’m gripping his hair not because he asked but because I’m already close and he’s barely begun.
“I’ve come a hundred times thinking about this,” he growls against my skin.
Oh God . The idea of him coming while imagining this makes me feel like I’ve just been kicked up another gear.
“ Ohhh …that,” I whisper. “With your fingers. That’s—”
He moans, the sound clearly involuntary, and I just explode, throwing my head back, the entire world disappearing. I want to tell him how good this is, how much I needed it, and how badly I want him inside me right now—but all I can do is tug at his hair. “Graham,” I groan, “ fuck .”
It’s a long minute before my eyes open and I realize how entirely selfish I’ve been. He has the feral look of someone who’s been pushed too far.
I love it.
“Stand up,” I command, and he does, watching as I tug on his belt and then slide to my knees, pulling his boxers and pants down as I go. He hisses as I take him, swollen and throbbing, in my hand. No wonder I was so sore.
“Jesus, you’re big. It’ll be like trying to put my lips around the head of a Coke can.”
His quiet laugh is cut off by the first flick of my tongue, and as I pull him into my mouth and moan, he stiffens and gasps. “Keeley, stop.”
I release him. “You don’t want me to?”
He winces. “Just the sight of you on your knees asking me that question is enough to make me come.”
“I thought that was the point.”
“The point is for me not to come in two seconds flat, which is something you’d never let me live down.”
I fight a smile. “That does sound like the kind of thing I’d dwell on, yes. Do you want me to talk about the patient I killed when I was a resident?”
His gaze holds mine. “Yes, but not now. Also, if I remain hard while you describe someone dying, I’m going to creep us both out.”
My gaze drifts to his lovely, sizable cock.
“I’m going back in,” I warn him. “Think about something unsexy. Calculate how much I could have invested if I hadn’t bought all those designer bags.”
He gasps again as I slide him into my mouth. “I’ve already done that calculation in Excel.”
I laugh against him, my hand rising to cup his balls then slide around his shaft.
My mouth will definitely require some help here.
“Do it hard,” he says, wrapping his hand around mine for a moment.
The bossiness in his voice is sudden, sparked by hunger.
He’s no longer reticent—he’s hell-bent on coming, and this burst of selfishness from him has me soaking wet.
This is the real Graham, unrestrained and demanding and laid bare for me.
I give him what he asks for, my tongue laving him while I let the pressure of my mouth suck him in, farther and farther until he’s jerking his hips forward, involuntarily, hitting the back of my throat. My gag reflex triggers, and I ignore it.
“Fuck yes,” he says. “God, I just felt the back of your throat. I’m never going to recover from this.”
His thighs tense and then shake. I increase the strength of my grip, which is probably how he grips himself when he’s alone, and the thought of it has me so wet I’m now desperate.
Inexplicably, he seems to get bigger .
“Oh Christ, Keeley, I’m gonna…I want—”
I get the briefest hit of salt on my tongue and then he’s pulling out, grasping himself as he paints my chest and neck.
He’s breathing heavily, eyes barely open, just taking in the sight. “Sorry,” he says.
I laugh. “Yeah, you look really sorry.”
He grins. “Okay, yeah, I’m not. I’ve jerked off many times, picturing that.”
My head tilts and I smile. “I figured you for the type who’d want me to swallow.”
He gives a low groan. “Yeah. That too. I’ve pictured a whole lot of things. Let me clean you up.”
I climb to my feet while he goes to the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth to gently wipe up the mess he made.
“Did you really kill someone when you were a resident?” he asks.
I laugh. “I failed to revive someone. Does that count?”
“I wouldn’t have lost my erection.”
I smile. “I’d probably bring that up on occasion.”
“Publicly.”
“Not, like, into a microphone at your brother’s wedding. Maybe at lunch with your mom, though.”
He gives a quiet laugh. “About what I expected.”
My nipple tightens as he brushes over it, and his eyes flutter closed. I’m not done. I wonder if he isn’t either. I’m thoroughly clean, but he’s still sliding the washcloth over my skin. My body arches toward him against my will, but I guess I should politely extract myself and—
His hand slides between my legs. “You’re so goddamned wet. Don’t even try to tell me you’re done.”
I want to open my eyes but his fingers are perfect . “No, but I assume you are.”
He pulls my hand to his cock, which is already hard again. “What do you think?”
“I think you must be subbing out with an identical twin because there’s no way you got hard again that fast.” I grip him tight, the way he likes, and air hisses between his teeth.
“You clearly have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this. I want to come inside you. Is that okay?”
The question alone has me clenching around his fingers.
“Nothing you haven’t done before, apparently.” I glance down at my stomach. “Though I’m not sure how we do this, under the circumstances.”
He gently pushes me onto the bed, his mouth curving on one side. “Believe me…I’ve given this way too much thought.”
He crawls between my spread thighs, leaning over me to grab a pillow. “Raise up,” he commands before wedging it beneath me.
He grasps himself, staying on his knees as he lines up with my entrance. If he hadn’t just made me come, I think the fit would be too tight. But he slides in slowly, inch by inch, bracing himself over me with his eyes squeezed shut.
It’s exquisite.
It’s too much.
I want more.
“You don’t have to go slow for me,” I whisper breathlessly. “I’m okay. I’m not going to come again.”
His laugh sounds pained. “Keeley, you’re definitely coming again, but I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this so I don’t lose it way too fast. I just want it to last.”
I hold his gaze as he pushes in again, more quickly. And again. I clench around him as my muscles tighten.
“Fuck,” he gasps. His eyes fall closed. “I’m going to come so fucking hard, Keeley.”
Oh God .
There is nothing more thrilling to me than watching Graham fight for control.
His thrusts take on a rhythm now, faster, as if involuntary.
And he was right; I am going to come again.
Like a car without brakes, there’s only one outcome left for us both.
I become distantly aware of my own voice whispering to him, urging him on.
Breathy, desperate. Yes, God, just like that.
Oh, God, don’t stop, Graham I’m close and —
I fall apart with a sharp, sudden cry, and he gasps again, grunting as he lets go at last.
He’s still inside me when my eyes open, his eyes studying my face as if I’m a favorite photograph he’s saying goodbye to. As if he can’t stand to look away.
My heart squeezes tight. Were it up to Graham, we might happily stay like this for the foreseeable future.
And oh my God, I can picture that, all too easily: the two of us continuing on the way we have, making dinner, watching TV, and taking care of a baby while having endless, increasingly athletic sex.
It’s more delicious, more compelling, than any dream I’ve ever had.
But that would just make it all harder in the end; if we break up or if I succumb to the O’Keefe curse, it’ll just make it all harder.
“You need to stop thinking,” he says, his hand pressing to my cheek, commanding me to look at him. “Which is something I never thought I’d have to ask of you.”
I laugh, biting down on the words I want to say: “Do you promise not to hate me now that this has happened? Can we make things go back to normal?”
He pulls out at last and falls to the other side of me, his palm on my stomach. The baby kicks, right beneath his hand, a tiny fluttering like a butterfly edging along the sides of a hedge.
“Was that her?” he asks. He’s felt this before, but never just…spontaneously. And not when I’m this far along. He pulls himself up onto his elbow, staring at my stomach.
“Little Kalamity does not like being woken from her slumber, I guess.”
He laughs. “You’re not naming her that.”
I wish I could stay here and suggest increasingly outlandish names, names—I’ve been keeping a list on my phone for just such a moment.
I wish I could doze off with his hand on my stomach and wake to find him still asleep, face sweet in repose.
I’d just stare at him, the way I did the night I climbed into his bed with Lola, and marvel at the perfection of his nose, how boyish a face as angular as his can look at rest.
I’d like to wake in the morning to find us tucked together like two spoons so I could rub up against him until he couldn’t stand not to slide back inside me. Afterward, he’d want me to eat something gross, and I’d whine until he went to the bakery and got me a muffin.
But that’s the life of a different kind of girl—the kind who stays around—and it would hurt one or both of us so fucking much when I couldn’t do it.
I fake a yawn and stretch before I slide away from him and start gathering my clothes. He watches me and doesn’t argue. Which is good. I don’t want him to turn into the tedious guy who argues.
“I’m gonna go,” I tell him.
His eyes drift over my face, a half-second of indecision. I guess I wouldn’t mind if he argued a little bit.
“Sleep well,” he replies.
I go to my own room and climb into bed, wishing I could have stayed. And suddenly a memory hits me out of nowhere: sometime, during our first night together, he’d pulled me against him and asked if I was thinking about how to sneak away.
“Actually,” I’d said, “I’m thinking you should marry me, and we should have a billion kids.”
It was me. This whole fucking thing was my idea. Possibly even the kid.