Chapter 27
Carly
Seven Weeks
By the time we get home, I’ve gone from confused to just… happy, just warm and a little tipsy and stupidly, helplessly happy.
Maybe it’s the beer from the box. Maybe it’s the fact that CU won. Maybe it’s the way Grayson kissed me on a giant screen in front of half of Colorado and then kept his arm around me like he had every right to. Maybe I’ve just finally lost my mind.
The house is quiet without Penelope in it. Too quiet, almost.
Grayson tosses his keys on the counter in the kitchen before loosening his jacket and looking over at me.
“You want a glass of wine?” he asks.
The answer is obviously yes.
He pours us both a glass of white while I run upstairs and change into tight spandex shorts and an oversized shirt, and I meet him in the living room, folding myself into one side of the couch while he takes the middle, close enough that our knees nearly touch.
For a minute, we just sit there with the low lamp on and the whole house hushed around us, the kind of quiet that makes every glance feel louder. I half expect him to turn on the television and watch something, but he doesn't.
I turn my glass slowly in my hands. “So.”
His mouth twitches. “So.”
“Are you always that public with your affection?”
He leans back, one arm stretched along the top of the couch, wine in his other hand. “That specific question feels targeted.”
“It is.”
A soft laugh leaves him, but it doesn’t last long. The amusement shifts into something more introspective. “No,” he says after a second. “Not always.”
I tuck one leg under myself, angling a little more toward him. “Then what was that?”
His eyes move over my face, hesitating. “That,” he says slowly, “was me not feeling like doing something halfway.”
That is such a Grayson answer that I huff out a laugh. “Of course it was.”
He smiles into his glass, but it fades, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “The public part of my life used to feel easier.”
I wait.
He rubs his thumb once over the stem of his wineglass. “When I was younger, it just came with the territory. CU, then the Broncos, then the company getting bigger. People recognizing me. Cameras around. Commentary gigs. It was a lot, but it was manageable.”
“Because you were single?” I ask.
His mouth pulls to one side. “Because I was dumb.”
That gets another small laugh out of me.
“Halsey liked the spotlight,” he says. “At first, I thought that made sense. She was in sports media. I figured she understood it. Knew how to handle it.”
I don’t say anything. Just let him talk.
He looks down at his glass. “Really, she liked what came with it. The attention. The money. The access. Being attached to a name people cared about.”
His tone stays level, but there’s something underneath it, like this is pain he’s turned over enough times that it no longer surprises him.
“She was greedy,” he says. “Selfish. Everything was about what benefited her, what made her look good, what she could get out of a situation. Even toward the end, when things were already bad between us, she still cared more about appearances than anything real, like Penelope.”
I think about the few things I know. The partial custody she barely uses, the way Penelope talks about her with the caution kids use when they already know not to expect much. “That must’ve been hard,” I say quietly.
He laughs once without humor. “That’s one word for it.”
The room goes still for a second. Then he looks at me, really looks at me, and something in his face softens.
“Penelope wasn’t planned,” he says.
I blink in surprise.
He shrugs one shoulder, like he’s not sure why he’s saying this out loud except that he wants to, and takes a sip of his wine.
“She wasn’t. The marriage was already showing cracks by then.
Fractures is probably the better word. But the second she existed…
” He exhales and glances toward the dark hallway.
“Everything... narrowed. In a good way, I mean. She made my life worth a damn. Still does.”
My chest tightens. I know he loves his daughter. Everyone knows that. It’s obvious in a hundred little ways. But hearing him say it like that, with no performance in it at all, no ego, no polish, makes my throat close.
“The spotlight feels different now,” he goes on. “More annoying than flattering, more complicated. Most of the time I’d rather not deal with it.”
“Except tonight?”
His gaze slides back to me.
“Except tonight.”
The words hang there, so does the look that comes with them. The room feels smaller when he looks at me like that, his eyelids lowered halfway, his head tipped back just a little like he's relaxed.
He sets his glass down on the side table, then leans back into the couch again, closer this time without actually moving far. One of his hands moves to my calf, light and unhurried, and he lifts my legs over his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My pulse picks up. I don't even stop him.
Nothing about it is pushy. Nothing is urgent. He just settles me there, one hand resting on my knee, his thumb brushing slowly over my bare skin once, then again, lazy and almost absentminded.
But my whole body wakes up anyway.
I should probably say something, but I don’t.
I just stare at him, wondering what in the hell he's doing and if this is going where I think it is, and he looks right back at me.
“Gray,” I murmur, trying to jog something else out of him, anything to break the silence.
But his hand moves, and so does he, leaning a little closer, his free hand coming up to hold the back of my neck. “Fuck it.”
He closes the distance, pulling me in toward him, and presses his mouth to mine.
This one is nothing like the stadium kiss.
There's no crowd this time, no performance, no dramatic dip meant to make a stadium cheer.
It's just his mouth on mine, slow and soft and warm enough that it makes something in me ache instantly.
He takes his time with it, his thumb brushing under my jaw, his fingers tightening just a little around my thigh.
But there’s heat in it too, tucked underneath the softness.
He doesn't end it quickly, just keeps kissing me, and I under no circumstances want to stop and end it for him.
I want him to hold me like this, want him to kiss me like this, want whatever version of Grayson I'm getting right now to keep going.
When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead rests against mine, his hand trailing up my thigh a little further, squeezing once before tracing circles with his fingers. My breath is embarrassingly loud, a little too quick, my lips parted and eagerly waiting for more if he'll give it.
His voice is low and rough around the edges when he finally speaks. “Do you want to go up to my room?”
A palpitation hits me square in the chest. By now with him, I should have a better answer than the one I give him, but I don’t. “Yes.”
His mouth curves just slightly before he stands, taking my hand and leading me up the stairs. We don’t rush — there is no desperate, frantic energy from the resort or like there’d been in my room. This feels different, slower, intentional.
His bedroom is mostly dark except for the ambient glow of a lamp on his bedside table.
The room is massive, larger than mine, with a tall four-poster bed in the center and dark walls throughout.
He shuts the door behind him, mostly out of habit, I’d guess, and turns to face me, both of his hands coming up to cradle my jaw as he kisses me again.
My hands find the hem of his sweater, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to let me pull it over his head before he lifts mine as well, my arms going up to let him.
He guides me backward until my knees hit the bed, and I sit, then shift back onto my elbows as he follows me down, his mouth dragging across my collarbone, my chest, the curve of my breast. His hands are everywhere, warm and unhurried, mapping me like he has all the time in the world.
His lips close around my nipple, and I let out a breathy little moan.
He takes his time before his hands slide down to my shorts, tapping my hip to tell me to lift, then drags them down my thighs along with my underwear.
He finally sits back on his heels and looks down at me sprawled beneath him, flushed and wanting, and the way his expression softens makes my chest tight.
“Come here,” he says softly, shifting until he’s on his back, his hands grabbing me by the hips and pulling me with him.
“What—?”
“You,” he says, his hands guiding me over him until I’m straddling his lap, “on top.”
Oh.
I sit on my knees, suddenly hyper aware of how bare I am while he’s still half-dressed. My fingers find his belt, and he watches me work it open, helps me drag his jeans and boxers down just enough to set him free.
When I finally sink onto him, we both exhale slowly, shakily.
His hands slide to my waist, steadying me, and I brace my palms flat on his chest, shivering as I adjust to the stretch. It’s different with me like this, and when I start to move, his grip tightens just enough to slow me down.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “We’ve got time.”
I bite my lip and obey, letting him control my body and set the rhythm, slow little rolls of my hips that drag pleasure through me thick like honey. His eyes stay on my face, watching every little reaction, his eyes half lidded and mouth parted.
“Good.” His thumb brushes my hip bone. “God, just like that, sweetheart.”
My pelvis grinds against his, and I whine, my spine arching. His hands slide up my stomach, over the bottom of my ribs, resting just beneath my breasts, not grabbing but holding.
Like he wants to feel me breathe.
It’s too much. The slowness, the eye contact, the way he’s looking at me like he wants to savor me.
“Gray,” I whisper, his name softer than I mean for it to be.
His jaw ticks, and he sits up more, one hand pressing into my lower back to guide me and the other cupping the nape of my neck, pulling me down until our foreheads touch. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
My release, when it comes, builds slowly and breaks even slower, waves of pleasure only heightened with every touch of his hands. He follows me a moment later, a low groan muffled against my throat as his fingers dig into my skin, keeping me pressed to him.
We stay there, tangled together, our breaths slowing in the come down.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I laugh softly, the sound muffled against his skin, and he presses a kiss to my collarbone. “I’m more than okay,” I whisper. “Way more.”