Chapter 17 #2
Grace leans back into her seat and rubs her hands down her thighs, doing what she can to keep her mind occupied. Crew’s hand finds her knee, and Grace latches on to it with her own.
She sighs, grateful for the anchor of his touch—grateful that he somehow knew to reach out and ground her before she floated away on a cloud of sexual frustration.
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They waste no time once they’re inside. Grace doesn’t wait for Crew to romantically peel the layers of her clothing away, and she doesn’t pay any mind to the state of her hair when she yanks it out of its ponytail and lets it fall down her shoulders.
She simply, quickly bares herself, physically and otherwise, almost as soon as she walks through the door.
Somewhere behind her, she hears the jingle of keys being dropped on a table, hears the shifting of boots being removed and slid over the hardwood floor.
When she turns around, not a single piece of clothing remains on her body, and she finds Crew in his socks, frozen midway through unbuttoning his shirt.
His eyes are the only part of him able to move, and slowly, they scan her up and down, then once more, and when he swallows after taking his fill, the lump in his throat is visible.
He holds her eyes as he rids himself of his shirt, then unbuckles his belt and toes off his socks.
His jeans hang loosely at his hips, the elastic of his black briefs peeking out, and as Grace takes him in, she’s surprised at how drunk she feels, despite having not a single sip of alcohol.
It’s Crew—he’s her own special brand of 90-proof.
The massive, strong body built like he was supposed to be leading ancient armies into epic wars instead of running a cattle ranch.
The fair skin contrasted by the dark beauty marks and freckles all over his shoulders and chest. The soft, depthless eyes that can say more truth with one look than most can utter in a lifetime.
That sinful, beautiful mouth. That talented tongue.
He is everything that is good and right and perfect in the world, and Grace cannot fathom spending one more second not touching him.
She crosses the distance between them, caring little for the jeans that still remain on his person, and launches herself into his arms. He bends ever so slightly, catching her beneath her thighs, and hoists her up until her legs are bracketed around his middle, holding him tightly as she leans down and kisses him with everything she has. Everything she is and ever will be.
With Grace in his arms and her bare center rubbing against his lower belly, Crew moans, and his tongue slips into her mouth with languid purpose.
He somehow has the wherewithal to walk them out of the foyer, through the scattered piles of Grace’s abandoned clothes and toward his bedroom, where the shower—and, more importantly, the bed—awaits.
The moments that follow are blurry, shifted out of focus by the blinding desire and arousal that hums beneath Grace’s skin.
A flurry of skin, water, soap, and wandering hands.
Crew stands behind her in the shower, lathering her breasts and taking extra time on her nipples, plucking at them even when they are far past the point of clean.
He’s been hard against her backside since they walked into the bathroom, but with him now free of his jeans, the heat of his length radiates into her, and all Grace can think about is how easy it would be to bend over and invite him inside.
To place her hands against the tile of the shower and let him bury himself within her, to feel the fullness she so desperately needs.
Her sense of urgency becomes clearer to him when she starts to whine with impatience as he rinses the conditioner from her hair, and then his own.
He runs his fingers through her long brown locks thoroughly, testing her, challenging her will to wait, to hold on for just a little bit longer.
Only when he’s reached past her to shut the water off does he finally give her more, pressing her backward until she’s flush against the glass door and cupping her entire cunt with his hand.
The tips of his index and middle fingers dip shallowly into her, and they both groan.
Grace with relief and impatience and excitement, Crew with awe at how wet she is, and knowing it isn’t the shower’s doing.
As methodical and careful as he’d been during the washing up, Crew seems to abandon all pretense now, as though this tiny glimpse of how turned on she is, of the hot, soft wetness that awaits him has depleted all of his patience.
He lifts her up by her waist, encouraging her legs to encircle him once again, and then he walks them, still dripping from the shower, to his bed.
He doesn’t lay her down, doesn’t tuck her into his mattress and climb on top of her like she thought he would. Instead, he turns around until the backs of his thighs hit the bed, and then he slowly lowers himself, letting her rest atop his thighs.
Grace hums, arching her back until her chest is pressed into his.
Instincts, she’s learning, are her best friend—her most reliable resource.
Undoubtedly, she has a severe lack of experience for this type of congress, and with anyone else—someone she trusted less, cared about less—she’d probably be bumbling and awkward, apologetic for her naivete.
But with Crew, that critical, doubting part of her brain switches to standby, stepping into the darkened background and allowing the more primal, impulsive urges to take center stage.
She moves without thinking about it, letting her body take what it wants.
And right now, all it wants is to see him undone.
To watch this pillar of a man become unmade.
Crew’s hands push up her back, settling at her rib cage, and Grace shivers from the rough texture of his hands, the path of warmth drawn by his fingertips.
When her head tips backward at the sensation of it, a whimpering sound vibrates in his throat.
She feels his lips at her neck, his teeth scraping her skin.
“God, I want you,” he says on a shuddering exhale.
She looks back down at him. “You can have me,” she declares, and punctuates the sentence with a roll of her hips, a burst of intense friction between the aching crease in her legs and the thick hardness between his. “You do have me.”
Crew growls into her collarbone, and then he’s moving, shifting backward until he’s closer to the middle of the bed, her still secure in his lap.
He lies down then, but when Grace goes to follow him, to let the magnetic pull of his lips and his eyes drag her down, Crew shakes his head.
Instead, he grips beneath her thighs and drags her up, up, up, until she’s covering him entirely.
She’s sitting on his face without reservation, and though she’s never done anything like this before, she isn’t worried or nervous—especially not when Crew’s hands move to her hips while his mouth encompasses her dripping cunt.
They both groan loudly at the first touch of his tongue, and then he begins to feast. He eats her pussy with the same level of careful determination he reserves for everything else in his life.
Never anything in halves, only ever giving his full, undivided self.
He situates her to his liking more than once, using his hands on her hips to guide her, rocking her back and forth over his mouth and changing angles and techniques anytime she’s venturing too close to the edge.
His tongue flattens out against her clit, then delves inside, then spends a maddening amount of time tracing her lips, just barely grazing the border of that sensitive, swollen little nub.
He repeats that, mixes it up, listens for what makes her scream, and keeps going until she’s practically sobbing with the need to come.
When he finally decides to let her, it’s with the assistance of two of his fingers pressing deep inside, making a scissorlike motion and caressing a part of her that she’s never been able to reach on her own.
“Come on my tongue, baby,” he slurs when he comes up for air. “Wanna feel you gush.”
She’s breathless and trembling with her mouth hanging wide open on a silent scream when she does, and it’s almost painful, how good it feels. Her head falls back as she regains enough breath to let out a long, broken moan, the shape of his name mixed somewhere in the middle.
Grace is only partly aware, only slightly coherent as Crew gently lifts her off him and settles her onto her back.
He hovers over her, leaning onto his elbow, and stares at her with deep, brazen affection as she breathes deeply, steadily making her way back down to earth.
When he dips his head down to kiss her, it wakes her up a little more, and she can taste herself on his lips.
Maybe it should be embarrassing, but it isn’t; it’s devastatingly intimate and she is suddenly hit with an onslaught of emotion, of appreciation and care and something staggeringly close to love for this man and the way he moves her—not just her body, but her mind, her heart, her very soul.
Their kiss quickly grows deeper and more urgent, their tongues delving into each other’s mouths, saying everything they need to say without words.
I need you.
I want you.
I’m with you.
Grace, fully aware that physical intimacy with Crew makes her insatiable and demanding, breaks from the kiss to tell him, “I’m on birth control.”
Crew blinks at her, darts a quick glance downward, and then back up. Hesitantly, he says, or tries to say, anyway, “So, I don’t—” He coughs, clearly overtaken by the implication, unable to form the words to even ask the question. “You’re sure you—”