Chapter 20 #2
Crew’s grip on her hips is unyielding, but it’s the only part of him that seems to be maintaining control.
The rest of him is wild. His eyes blaze when they connect with hers, fiery even in the dark, and his mouth is a needy, restless thing.
He presses it to every inch of her he can reach, coaxing breathy sighs out of her when he pays special attention to each of her breasts.
He licks a thick heavy stripe over one of her nipples, then takes it between his lips and sucks.
Grace moans, her head falling back at the sensation.
She buries her hands in his hair and tugs, just enough for him to feel it.
His hips buck in response, and he releases her nipple to let out a grunt, panting hotly against her skin.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” he rasps, and only takes a brief moment to recover before returning to his task, this time with her other breast.
In such a short period of time, he’s figured out exactly how to make her keen, how to make her body move on instinct alone.
He draws out a primal, unselfconscious side to her, strange and unfamiliar but far from unpleasant.
In his arms, in his grip, she can let herself simply feel, giving way to sensation alone.
“Grace,” Crew breathes against her neck. “I need to be inside you.”
Grace nods, a lolling movement that she repeats, over and over.
Yes, yes, yes.
He releases her hips to find purchase on her ass, which he squeezes, pulling her body into his.
His next words are halfway to a groan. “I want to come in you again.” His breath catches when her bare center rubs directly against the hard ridge of his cock, still trapped in his jeans.
“Let me fuck you, baby. Let me feel you.”
Grace moans, and her hands are already moving—overwhelmed with the same need to have him closer, as close as he can possibly get.
She gets his shirt off first, then unbuckles his belt, wasting not a single second before reaching into his black briefs to cup as much of him as she can manage with one hand.
A wheeze rattles through Crew’s chest. “Grace, yes. Take it out.” He lifts up, giving her the space to push his jeans and underwear down until they sit at his thighs.
The sight of his cock, bared to her completely now, hard and leaking, makes her clench in anticipation.
A rush of pleasure shoots through her abdomen at the mere thought of sinking down onto him.
But before she does, she closes the space between them, wrapping her arms around his neck.
The fever running through both of them is all-consuming and impossible to ignore, but she wants to remember herself, remember him, remember them, even if just for a second.
“Crew,” she whispers, her lips brushing against his.
You’re here. With me. We’re together, she says with a desperate kiss.
He gets it. Of course he does. He’s always understood what she wants, needs, even when she doesn’t say it out loud. Especially then. His tongue rolls against hers, and only when neither of them can breathe do they break apart, gasping. “Yeah, baby,” he says, remarkably soft. “I’m here.”
Grace presses her forehead into his and pulls herself upward at just the right angle—she rubs herself over the length of him, soaking him as she goes.
Crew groans, his breath fanning against her face, and then his head falls back onto the seat cushion.
With a few adjusting blinks, she’s able to see him clearly in the darkness—eyes screwed shut, lips parted, neck muscles tensed.
She keeps her eyes on him as she reaches down to position herself over him, and tries to memorize his face as she sinks down, inch by overwhelming inch.
Pleasure is etched into every muscle—the tug of his eyebrows, the flex of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils.
He looks like a man unmade, like he’s barely clinging to the surface of sanity.
He looks beautiful in ways Grace could never put into words.
When she’s fully seated, aided immensely by the pool of want dripping from her center, they both release a heavy, full-body sigh.
It isn’t like before, this time. They don’t have the luxury of Crew’s king-size bed or hours to spend exploring each other.
They have only this truck, a handful of minutes, and a potent, unrelenting need.
It makes them both bold, the urgency of it.
Crew is louder than she’s heard him be, especially when he takes her hips and starts properly bouncing her on his cock.
And Grace—she happily lets him drive, arching her back and pressing her breasts into his face, surrendering entirely to the raging waves of pleasure.
On a particularly hard thrust, a raspy, loud “Oh” is punched from her lungs.
Crew grunts, squeezing her harder. “That feel good?”
She lets out an unintelligible affirmative, too overcome to say actual words. Her head hangs backward, her body suspended in his hold, completely at his mercy as he fucks her. He splits her open, takes her apart, and builds her anew. Over and over and over again.
The pad of his thumb pressing to her clit brings her back to this plane of reality—it pulls her up, up, up, until she’s moaning into his mouth.
“I’m close,” Crew says, breathless. “Fuck—Grace, I’m—” His eyes screw shut, and she can see the desperate way he’s clinging to control, the way his body wants—needs—to let go.
Grace leans forward and kisses his face, all over, every inch.
She lands on his mouth, and they stay like that for a beat, his thumb at her clit, his tongue in her mouth.
She makes it to the same cliff at which he’s standing, both of them now teetering on the edge of oblivion.
Grace lets her head fall, resting against his shoulder, and Crew’s hand is at the back of her head, rubbing his blunt nails into her scalp.
“Grace—come on, baby,” he says, and there’s a touch of madness in his plea, an insistence even the sweetest voice can’t hide. “Come for me. Let me feel you clench.”
Like a puppet on a string, she does. She lets go, lets herself fall headfirst into an orgasm to end all orgasms. Her legs are vibrating with the immensity of it, and she clings to Crew as hard as she can as it rocks through her, stealing from her all sense, reason, logic.
She squeezes around him like a vise, moaning in his ear.
Crew lets go almost instantly—he’d been waiting for her, and his patience is obliterated with each throb of her cunt around him.
“Oh shit—Jesus, fuck,” he bites out, and then words are no longer an option; he can only groan his pleasure against her temple, breathing heavily as it relentlessly surges through his body.
They hold each other in place for a long time, just breathing.
Only when the quiet is interrupted by the squeak of a door opening do they finally return to themselves, both of their heads swiveling abruptly to the bunkhouse, where they find Caleb standing in the doorway with his hand on his hip.
“In case anyone out here would like to know,” he says, “Mikey got too scared when that chick crawled out of the TV, so we’re gonna watch Happy Gilmore instead. ”
The door bangs shut behind him, and Grace and Crew slowly turn, holding each other’s eyes for a split second before bursting out laughing.
Back inside, both with syrupy limbs and contented smiles, Grace and Crew eat popcorn and M&M’s and watch Happy Gilmore, which is a significant improvement from The Ring.
She likes it especially because it makes Crew laugh—a rare and lovely sound.
The crinkles at his eyes are more visible when he’s giggling, and Grace finds herself wanting to trace them with her fingertip, to feel every nook and cranny of him.
The movie is nearing its end when Grace’s phone starts to vibrate in her pocket.
She reaches for it, absently hitting the silencing button, and thinks nothing of it.
She cuddles farther into her man and pays little attention to the movie, even as the action starts to pick up and the stakes grow higher by the second.
She’s too content in Crew’s arms, too distracted by his comforting hold on her, by the way he seems to know exactly where to run his nails across her scalp and neck to make her entire body shiver.
Her phone buzzes again, and Grace sighs, fishing it out of her pocket. She doesn’t recognize the number, and hits the button that sends it to voicemail once more.
When it happens a third time, they are pelted with another few kernels of popcorn, but this time, it’s Caleb, and he glares at her sternly, tilting his head as if to say, Really?
Grace grimaces, mouths her apology, and then lifts herself reluctantly off Crew. In his ear, she whispers, “Someone’s clearly dying to talk to me. I’ll be right back.” Crew, in the middle of shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth, nods.
The night air is thick and unpleasantly warm—a stark contrast to the air-conditioned bunkhouse, and a reminder of how good it feels to be done with sleeping in tents during the summer in Texas.
She’s outside for less than a minute before she feels herself starting to sweat.
Her phone is buzzing in her palm, another call coming in on the coattails of the previous, and Grace flips it open roughly, frustrated by whatever spammer this has to be to call her ten times in a row.
“Whoever this is,” she spits, ready to lecture the person on the other end about calling unlisted numbers, “I’m not buying what you’re selling, so you may as well give up the relentless calling. You’re interrupting my evening.”
When she hears a chuckle through the crackling speaker of the decades-old phone, Grace’s blood goes cold. The heavy breathing, wet and thick, the sinister undertones of the voice—she knows it instantly. Her stomach twists, her eyes widen. “What—”