CHAPTER 11 #3
He growls—actually growls—and five strides later we’re crashing through my bedroom door.
He drops me onto the mattress and follows me down, knees spreading my thighs wide.
My skirt is rucked up around my waist, and okay…
that’s convenient. Grizz drags my black lace panties down my legs and tosses them somewhere behind him.
His body flattens to the mattress, large hands gripping my thighs to hold me in place.
Then his mouth is between my legs—no teasing or hesitation—just his tongue sliding through wet heat, circling my clit with devastating precision until my hips are bucking off the bed and I’m chanting his name like a prayer.
Grizz is relentless, holding my squirming body down, completely controlling the show.
He works at me with almost a vengeance and I’m delirious with the need for…
this. I’m driven higher and higher and when I come, it’s hard and fast. He chuckles with his mouth still against me as my fingers twist in his hair and my thighs clamp around his ears.
He doesn’t stop until I’m shaking, until the aftershocks feel like they might actually kill me and I’m begging him to stop.
After a final, long lick that has my hips punching upward, Grizz crawls back up my body. His chin is slick and his eyes are dark, almost black. He kisses me hard, biting at my lower lip, and I taste myself on his tongue.
It’s filthy and perfect.
“You have too many clothes on,” I say breathlessly.
“Change that, then,” he challenges.
My hands are shaking as I shove his jeans and boxer-briefs down his hips, leaving it up to him to kick them free.
Hesitation evaporates. So does any thought of right or wrong.
I take his length in hand, give him a hard squeeze that has him cursing, hips flexing.
I love the power of it, particularly with a man who is always exerting his control over me.
“Condom?” he growls.
“Nightstand.”
Grizz reaches for the nightstand and with a grace and efficiency that is a beauty to behold, he has one out of the wrapper and rolled on with his large hands.
He braces above me, one forearm beside my head, the other hand guiding himself to my wet, throbbing entrance.
We both freeze for a single heartbeat, our eyes locked, and then he pushes in, stretching me open inch by inch until he’s buried to the hilt and we’re both groaning at how impossibly good it feels.
“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps, forehead pressed to mine.
I wrap my legs high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. “Harder, McAvoy. Harder!”
He follows instructions. Long, deep strokes at first, then faster, harder, the headboard knocking against the wall in a rhythm that matches the slap of skin on skin. Every thrust nudges that spot inside me that blurs my vision. I rake my nails down his back and he hisses, hips snapping harder.
I come again with his name muffled against his shoulder, clenching around him so tight his rhythm stutters. Two more thrusts and he follows, burying himself deep and groaning my name as tender as it is animalistic.
We stay tangled for a minute or two, sweat cooling, hearts hammering against each other. “Well… that happened,” I murmur with a lazy smile his way.
“Yeah… that happened.” He presses a lazy kiss to my temple, then carefully pulls out and ties off the condom, dropping it in the trash by the bed.
The silence stretches, comfortable and terrifying all at once.
Eventually, he rolls to his back, one arm flung over his eyes. “I gotta go,” he says, voice rough. “Early meetings before our pre-game skate tomorrow.”
I nod against the pillow even though he can’t see it. “Right.”
That one word of affirmation and he bolts from the bed. Bending over, he finds his boxer-briefs, steps into them. I watch the flex of his back muscles and try not to feel anything about it.
“So,” I say, pulling the sheet up to my chest. “That was fun.”
“I figured a little release would do us both some good.”
“Think you might be right.” I slowly twirl a lock of my hair around my index finger as I consider the implications.
“I’m rarely wrong,” he says, grinning, his eyes raking over me with appreciation.
“This was just a mutual release,” I say, half question, half statement.
He exhales, drags a hand through his hair. “Yeah, nothing more. More like a much-needed moment of weakness. Temporary insanity. Pick your label.” He glances over his shoulder, expression unreadable. “I’m not a relationship guy, Turner. You know that.”
I force a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Good thing I’m not a relationship girl.”
His mouth quirks. “We should probably… not do this again. Keep it professional.”
“Agreed,” I say quickly. Too quickly, and I ignore the pang of sadness that punches through me.
Grizz pulls on his jeans, zips up, finds his T-shirt. I stay in bed, clutching the sheet. When he’s fully dressed, he pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame.
For a second he just looks at me—hair ruffled, lips swollen.
Then he gives a short nod. “’Night, Turner.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the city outside, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to keep anything professional when my body is still buzzing with the memory of him inside me.