Chapter 16 Grim House #2
She moves like she isn’t thinking. Like the music is something her body already knows. Wild, sharp, full of edges softened by sweat and rhythm. Her arms loop around my neck, her hips rolling with the bass, brushing against mine with maddening precision.
She tilts her head back, laughing, eyes closed as the lights flash gold across her face—and god, she’s beautiful. Not polished. Not controlled. Just alive.
I move with her, hands sliding to her waist, grounding her while she pulls me deeper into the song. Her hair brushes my jaw, her breath ghosting over my skin, and suddenly there’s no one else. Just the two of us, orbiting the same gravity.
As I hold her, watching her move, it hits me—this isn’t just attraction. This isn’t even about the history we share. What I feel for Morgan now is deeper, grown from the understanding of who we’ve both become, not just who we once were.
The realization terrifies me.
Our eyes briefly meet right before she reaches up and kisses me.
No warning. No hesitation.
It crashes over me like the downbeat—hot and open and desperate, the kind of kiss that tastes like sweat and beer and years of every moment we haven’t had the guts to take.
I kiss her back like I’m starving, like I’ve waited my whole life to have her like this.
Her hands twist in my shirt, yanking me closer until there’s no space left. I grip her waist, her spine, her bare skin under the hem of her tank top. She makes a sound against my mouth, raw and low, and it undoes something in me.
It isn’t careful. It isn’t clean. It’s all teeth and heat and two people finally admitting what they want.
The song bleeds into the next without pause, but Morgan doesn’t stop moving—not when the rhythm shifts, not when the crowd presses in tighter. Her mouth is still on mine, slick and urgent, and I can’t bring myself to let go as we move together with the crowd of bodies.
We break apart only when the air thins—when breathing starts to feel secondary to touching her.
It’s hot, and we both need space, not from each other but from the press of bodies around us.
She tugs my hand, breathless, leading me toward the fringe of the room.
Past the crowd, down a side hallway dimly lit by a dying bulb overhead.
The music still pulses through the walls, but here, it feels like we’ve slipped underwater.
Only the echo of bass. Only our breathing to fill the half silence.
A couple are tangled against the far wall—half shadows, half flesh. Her dress pushed up, his hand buried between her legs, her head tipped back in silent ecstasy, mouth parted, body pinned.
Morgan’s breath catches. Her hand flexes in mine.
I look at her.
She’s still watching them.
The soft rise of her chest, the way her teeth catch her bottom lip, the heat pulsing off her skin—I can practically taste her arousal.
She swallows hard.
When she finally turns her gaze to me, it’s like the air shifts. Thicker. Hotter. Her pupils blown wide, lips parted, body strung tight with a need so palpable I can feel it in my own blood.
We don’t speak.
We don’t need to.
I step in slowly, pushing her against the wall.
My hands skim up her arms, my thumbs brushing over the bare skin beneath her waistband.
She shivers under my touch, chest rising, and when I graze her nipple through the fabric of her top, she gasps—a soft, caught sound that curls heat low in my belly.
I’m hard, my cock straining against the zipper of my jeans begging to be released and pushed against her. She raises her leg to curl around me, soft and warm.
Everything about the way she looks at me says yes. She doesn’t move away. Her body leans into mine, mouth slightly open, eyes half-lidded and hungry.
I dip my head, brushing my lips over hers before sliding lower, finding her neck with an open-mouthed kiss. She tilts her head for me, lets me taste the heat of her skin, and her pulse flutters against my mouth.
I trail lower, letting my lips find her nipple through the thin fabric of her shirt, biting gently, sucking until her fingers fist in my shirt and her hips press into mine.
Her breath hitches—sharp, pleading.
I drag my mouth to her ear.
“Do you need me to get you off right here?” I whisper.
She nods, biting her lip. “Don’t stop,” she breathes.
And I won’t. Not when she’s this hot and open. Not when I can feel her thighs shake.
I step closer, my chest pressing into hers, my body curling around her like a shield, blocking the view—not that anyone would notice in a place like this. But I’m protecting what’s ours, even here. This moment, this connection—it feels too precious to share.
She clutches at my shoulders like she needs something to hold onto while the rest of her unravels right there, in a hallway full of shadows, Sharpie-adorned walls, sticky floors, and other people’s secrets.
And now, one of ours.
I push my hand down the front of her jeans, past her panties, and fuck, she’s soaking. My cock twitches and I press against my own hand as I slip two fingers through her wetness. She hums like a live wire, digs her hips into mine and rides the cadence of my fingers pumping in and out.
Her mouth finds mine, biting down on my lip ring, her tongue swirling, driving me mad. I’m beyond the point of no return, driven by the need to make her come, to see the slack of her jaw, the sharpness of her cheekbones, and the moan I know is coming with force.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” I whisper in her ear, meaning it more than I’ve ever meant anything. “Let me see you come apart.”
She pushes hard into me, chasing the high.
“That’s it, ride my fingers like a good girl,” I rasp, and she grinds her hips into me, rubbing against my cock, the friction unbearable.
She comes on my hand with a stifled gasp, body trembling, forehead resting against my neck.
Her hips jerk once, twice—then still, and she sags into me, breathless.
I hold her, stunned by the rawness of it, the way she trusts me with her unraveling. This isn’t only physical release—it’s Morgan letting down her guard, showing me a vulnerability she keeps hidden behind boardroom doors and business negotiations.
And fuck, I’m so hard I can barely think.
One sharp shift of her hips, another soft moan, and I lose it.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, grunting low against her glistening skin as I come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager.
Morgan pulls back, eyes dazed, lips pink and swollen. “Come home with me,” she whispers, gathering my shirt in her fists.
My pulse hasn’t even begun to calm. “Give me two minutes,” I murmur and motion for the bathroom.
She smiles—wrecked and radiant—and leans back against the wall as I turn toward the hallway, adjusting myself as discreetly as I can.
The low throb of music fades, replaced by the buzz of flickering lights and the heavy thump of my pulse in my ears. The line is at least five guys deep, and I shift my weight as it moves forward.
There’s a tap on my shoulder.
“Hey.”
I turn, not thinking. Maybe someone looking to cut the line for the bathroom. A drunk.
Instead—
“You’re Dylan Kernish-Grant, right? From Stonewall?” the guy asks, his voice cautious but steady.
I recognize him as the drummer from the band we just watched, but I’m already impatient with the interaction knowing Morgan is waiting for me.
“Look, I’m just trying to take a piss,” I say, stepping aside.
“My name is Liam Rhodes,” he says.
My biological brother.