CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
LINA
G rant doesn’t move right away. Just watches me. One beat. Then two.
The kind of stillness that makes me feel like maybe the world is folding in on itself or expanding to fit the two of us inside it.
“My offer,” he repeats, but slower this time. Velvet and smoke. “You sure?”
God, I wish I wasn’t. It would be easier not to be. Easier to backtrack and pretend I came over here for pizza and nothing else. But there’s no pretending. Not when he’s looking at me like this. Not when I feel like I’ve peeled my skin off just by walking through his door.
“Yes.”
He rounds the island slowly and deliberately, like he’s trying not to scare off a wild animal. Me, apparently. My pulse is everywhere—behind my knees, in my wrists, in my throat; the list could go on.
He stops in front of me and says, “Okay.”
Just that. But it’s not simple at all. Not in the way he says it. Not in the way it lands in my chest like a dropped piano.
Then his voice softens as if he’s handing me something fragile. “But I need you to know this isn’t a transaction, alright?”
“I didn’t think it was?—”
“I know,” he cuts in gently, soothing something inside me I didn’t even realize was trembling. “But I need to say it out loud. Just in case there’s some part of you still holding that belief close because you think it keeps you safe.”
My mouth opens and closes. Nothing comes out.
“This,” he continues, his fingers brushing my knee—not possessive, just grounding. “This is not me doing you a favor. This is not me collecting on some unspoken debt. I’m doing this because you deserve more than you’ve ever been given. I want to give that to you—as much of it as I can, at least.”
I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m okay with that. I know what he means by it. He can give me an orgasm, but nothing beyond. Not the relationship. Not the strings.
At this point, I have to be okay with that. Even though he’s told me outright that he has feelings for me, there’s a reason he’s not acting on them.
He breathes out a laugh, low and amused. “I want to touch you,” he says. “That’s it. That’s the whole story.”
And just like that, my body is no longer mine. It belongs to the weight of his words, the way he’s looking at me like I’m not fragile but something holy. Something that deserves reverence.
“I trust you,” I say, and mean it so much I almost hate myself for it.
He smiles, and it ruins me. Not wide. Not smug. Contained just enough to feel like a bullet grazing skin, like he knows he’s winning but he’s being gentle about it.
His hand slides up to the side of my face, thumb tracing under my eye. He’s cataloging the exact way I fall apart.
“Good,” he whispers, leaning in closer, mouth brushing the shell of my ear, voice so low it’s barely audible. “I’m gonna take my time,” he murmurs. “I’m going to learn what makes you fall apart.”
I make a sound that’s not at all human. Somewhere between a breath and a prayer and the start of a confession I wasn’t planning to say out loud.
“I’m ready,” I whisper, my voice so small it almost disappears.
His grin is pure sin and silk. “Come here,” he says, like I haven’t already handed him every inch of me. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”
“Then stop,” I counter quickly. “There’s no use in pretending anymore.”
And when he kisses me, it’s nothing like I expected and everything I needed. It’s soft, and slow, and perfect . Like maybe this isn’t a beginning or an end, but some moment suspended in the in-between. The before and after. The storm and the stillness.
I hope I never come down from it.
“Can we go to your room?” I ask, panting as I pull away.
His hands are tightly grasping my hips, which makes it easy for him to lift me out of the barstool, placing my feet on the ground before moving his hands to my shoulders. “We can do whatever you want,” he says, pivoting my body and guiding me toward his bedroom.
A chill runs up my spine, and despite all the nerves coursing through me, a tiny ounce of hope begins to bloom in my chest.
The room is dim, the kind of quiet that makes everything else louder. My breathing, the blood rushing in my ears, and the inhale he takes as I stop inside the doorway.
“This okay?” he asks behind me. Always checking. Always careful. He knows what I went through with Gage.
“Yeah.” But it comes out too soft, too uneven. So I try again, steadier this time. “Yeah. I’m good.”
Grant walks past me and flicks on the small lamp on his nightstand, casting the room in a low, warm glow. The light hits the edges of his cheekbones, the line of his throat, and the veins on the backs of his hands.
The sight of him nearly undoes me.
He turns to face me and starts to say something, but I cut him off by walking forward and wrapping my fingers in the hem of my sweatshirt. I lift it slowly. Too slowly, maybe. I need him to see that I’m not rushing. That I’m choosing this.
I toss it to the side, then meet his eyes.
There’s a pause. A long one. And then he exhales through his nose like he’s been holding his breath since the minute I walked in.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “You can still change your mind,” he then whispers. “You always can.”
I shake my head. “Don’t make me beg, Grant.”
His mouth twitches like he’s caught between a grin and a groan. “Fuck. Okay.”
Grant kisses me again, but this time it’s all heat. His hands move up, grazing the sides of my ribcage, like he’s memorizing the terrain of someone he knows he won’t be allowed to keep.
And maybe that’s what makes it feel so good. Maybe it’s the impermanence of it that makes it breathtaking, hair-raising, and perfect all at the same time.
Maybe this is the appeal behind casual sex. Maybe I’ll finally understand it.
I tangle my fingers in his shirt and pull at it blindly. “Take it off,” I mumble against his mouth.
He obliges, and when his shirt hits the floor, I finally see him properly.
And I want to cry.
Not because he’s beautiful, even though he is. But because he’s here. Because I’m here. Because this version of me—the girl brave enough to ask for what she wants—feels familiar but is still a stranger in my skin, and somehow he still sees me.
“You’re staring,” he says quietly, brushing his nose against mine.
“I know.”
His hand comes up, fingers skimming under my shirt, roaming around my abdomen before I lift my arms, giving him silent permission to lift it over my head. He does.
Then his fingers skim under the straps of my bra. “Can I?”
I say, “Please,” and he reaches behind me with easy familiarity but doesn’t rush it. He watches my face as the strap slips down my shoulder, as if he’s waiting to see if I’ll break. I don’t.
He leans down, lips at my jaw. My neck. The slope of my shoulder. And I swear I could unravel just from that. From the way he worships without words. From the way he slows down when I start to shake.
“You okay?” he murmurs again.
“Yes.” I don’t recognize my own voice, but I mean it.
His fingers trail down my side and over my stomach. He kisses the space between my breasts. My legs are jelly, and my lungs are underwater. My heart has never felt so loud.
“I want to make this good for you,” he says, and it sounds like a vow. “Tell me if something’s too much or not enough. Anything . Just talk to me. There is nothing you can’t say to me.”
My voice is too tangled in my throat to answer. I know he sees it.
Grant guides me backward, and I let him, falling easily into the bed. Into him. Into this.
I don’t know what tomorrow will look like, or how I’ll feel when the sun comes up. But right now? Right now, I’m not someone’s ex-girlfriend, or cautionary tale, or second choice.
I’m right where I need to be.
We’re both shirtless now, with him bracing his body over mine. Grant’s lips meet mine again while his hands travel up and down my bare waist in tantalizing strokes.
I lift my hips, moving my hands down in an attempt to get my pants off. Grant grabs my wrists before I can continue.
“Hold on,” he says easily. “Not too fast.”
He’s making it so utterly clear that he plans to take his time—which is noble of him—but my entire body is buzzing to the point where I’m not concerned about slowing down the pace.
“It’s fine.” I try to pull my hands out of his grasp. “I’m probably not going to be able to come anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”
“Pretty girl,” Grant sighs, shaking his head. “I know you’re smarter than that.”
“It’s true, Grant. I know you’re capable. I just don’t know if I am.”
“I promise you, your idea of sex and orgasms has been completely overshadowed by a guy who didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.
Ever heard the saying ' slow and steady wins the race ?'" I nod, almost cringing at his use of it in this situation. “Well, most men haven’t. They’re only worried about getting off as quickly as possible, never stopping to consider that girls don’t work that way. Slow down and enjoy the buildup.”
My heart’s thudding. He’s good. I knew he would be, obviously.
But it’s only now that I’m realizing all the sex I’ve had before this was over in a blink.
It felt like something I was constantly trying to catch up to, never giving me enough time to adjust to the pace and allowing my body to feel anything more than the initial rush.
Slow and steady— I’ve never realized how much I was missing out on the buildup until now. It has to be the reason my body is feeling more than it ever has. And yet, we’ve barely started.
“I’m not trying to win a race,” he adds, only the very tips of his fingertips touching my skin now. “I’m trying to rewrite the ending.”
I swallow hard. “What if I don’t know what feels good?”
He bites his lip to stop from smiling, almost like he’s trying not to let his arrogance show. “I promise, you’ll know.”
“And if I still can’t? —”