25. Grace
Grace
Maddox looks down at me, eyes searching, as if he’s afraid he might be imagining what I’m trying so hard to show him. What my words made clear.
I want him to fuck me. Need him to. And in case he needs more time to process, I hold his gaze.
He isn’t wrong.
This is a mess.
But we want each other, and I don’t want to say no. For once, I’m not tallying consequences or rehearsing regret. I won’t let myself go there. I’m choosing this.
Him.
Before I can talk myself out of his bed, I rise onto my toes and kiss him. Hard. Hungry. A kiss that robs all reason and makes confession unnecessary. His body freezes for half a beat, then answers as his mouth claims mine.
My hands slide to his waist, fingers curling into denim, tugging him closer—an invitation, a promise, a line I have no intention of uncrossing.
As if pulled by the same current, his hand slides up my spine, and the heat of him burns straight through me, telling me he’s all in.
Then as if he remembers we’re still more clothed than not, he steps back enough to breathe and make the pause, the distance, ache.
With our eyes locked, no words needed, we strip out of our jeans. Then we collide once more. Mouths, tongues, and limbs.
Still kissing, he guides me backward until my calves meet the mattress, and then he gently pushes me onto the bed. He’s in black boxer briefs, nothing else, and his impressive erection stretches the fabric tight. His thighs are like granite and so is his cock. Heat spikes low and fast in my core.
“Come here.” I crook my finger and lick my lips.
He closes the distance, leaning over me and grinding into me. His cotton-covered cock drags against my drenched panties. My breath stutters and I reach up, needing to touch him. His chest is all hard planes and working muscle under my palms, skin hot and alive.
“Jesus, Grace.” His voice drops rough as gravel as he cups my breast through my bra, thumb finding my nipple and pinching until the ache sharpens. “You’re so fucking sexy.”
I can’t find words, don’t need them. My chest heaves as every nerve tunes into him.
His hand slides around my back, and my bra is gone in a single, practiced motion.
A barrage of sensations storms me—the cool air, his heated gaze, the way his mouth takes mine as he lowers himself over me.
The kiss is ravenous, hot and reckless, pressing hard against what little control I have left.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against my lips.
“You,” I whisper.
He hums like he’s pleased. My panties are pushed aside, and a thick finger sinks into me. My soft groan spills into his mouth, and my back bows off the bed when his thumb circles my clit, slow and deliberate. Devastating.
“Christ, you’re so fucking wet. So tight.” His thumb works my clit with purpose while his finger keeps fucking me, deep, measured, and glorious.
The heat at the base of my spine tightens, coils, my body begging for more than he’s giving.
My head tips back, breath fracturing. “Maddox… I’m going to—”
“I know.” His thumb circles again. “Not yet.”
His demand decimates me, and I whimper as my muscles tremble, clenching around his finger. Then he drags his digit out just enough to make me ache even more for him before sliding back in, slow and sure, hooking at the perfect spot.
He watches me fall apart, every inch of attention on what he’s doing to me. “That’s it. Let it build. Let me feel you.”
I’m shaking now, breath gone, body strung so tense it hurts.
“Come for me, Grace.” His command snaps the last thread.
My lips latch onto the flesh of his shoulder as I break around his finger, around his voice, the release rolling through me in long, punishing waves. He keeps me there, keeps me open until I’m spent and shaking and nothing exists but his hand and my ragged breaths.
I’m still trembling when his finger slides out of me, but he doesn’t leave me. He stays close, palms smoothing over my thighs, grounding me while my breath catches up with my body.
“Easy. I’ve got you.” He shifts back just enough to free himself from his boxers, and the sound of fabric sliding down his legs makes my pulse skitter in anticipation.
He reaches for the nightstand, movements unhurried, like he knows exactly how much this pause is doing to me. I track every second of his movements, unable to look away. He rolls the condom on, jaw tight, gaze flicking back to mine as if checking that I’m still here with him.
“Still want me?”
“Yes. Don’t stop now.”
Something dark and pleased settles in his expression as he settles back between my thighs, hand lifting my leg, lining us up with a patience that feels intentional. Like he’s deciding how deep to let this go.
“Tell me if you need me to slow down.” His forehead rests against mine, hand clasping the back of my neck.
“I won’t.”
The blunt head of his cock nudges between my swollen lips, and he uses my wetness to ready himself. Sensations skitter up my spine as I squeeze my eyes shut and cling to his shoulders, holding my breath. My mouth opens against his, suspended, shaking, needing.
His hand slides up my neck, thumb settling under my chin. Not forcing, guiding. “Look at me.” The request is quiet. Bare.
I open my eyes, and when he pushes inside me I exhale on a hiss, lungs emptying with the fullness of him. My arms lock around him, nails digging between his shoulder blades. His answering sound—low, sharp—goes straight through me.
“So good. You feel so fucking good.” He pulls back and thrusts in again, smooth and deep, claiming every inch.
“Fuck, Mad. Yes.” My eyes lock on his as he moves, the sight of him inside me moving me to the brink faster than I expect.
Maddox Hartley, “The Mad One,” is inside me.
Filling me.
Stretching me.
Taking me apart.
“Hands.” Gently lifting my wrists, he pins them above my head. “Stay.”
My heartbeat pounds between my legs. My muscles jitter, everything straining toward him.
There’s power in the way he pounds into me, and it lights something I’ve never wanted before.
Submission hums, blistering and eager, and I don’t fight it.
Yet it’s his eyes that undo me. Possessive.
Dark. A fire in them that both scares and electrifies.
My thighs tremble. My voice fractures. “Maddox—”
“Come for me.” The echo of not too long ago, his voice steady as he drives into me, pushing me closer to the edge.
My eyes fall shut, head tipping back as pleasure crashes through me. I claw at his shoulder, barely holding on as he keeps that relentless rhythm, his mouth feasting on mine. One hand props himself above me, anchoring my wrists, as the other cradles my neck, holding me up to him.
“I’m close,” I gasp.
“That’s it. Let go.”
I don’t get the warning out in time, and my body seizes, pleasure ripping through me, stealing the strength from my legs as my core clenches hard around him.
“Fuck,” he growls then breaks with a raw sound, strokes slowing as he empties into me.
When it’s over, his mouth softens against mine, hips stilling. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper, dazed.
We stay like that, chest to chest, breathing each other in, my legs wrapped around him, his hands still holding my wrists, neither of us ready to let go.
I wake to a warmth that isn’t mine, and for a few seconds—soft, hazy, suspended—I relish the heavy arm across my waist. The heat of a solid, expansive chest at my back. The slow, steady rise and fall of Maddox’s breath brushing the nape of my neck is something I could get used to.
Reality drops, sharp and fast, right into my sternum.
I shouldn’t be here.
My eyes snap open, and the room is dim, familiar in a way it shouldn’t be; his things, his space, his scent are everywhere. Clean sweat and cedarwood, sun-warmed leather and soap, the kind of solid, unmistakable masculinity that settles low in the chest and stays there.
My heart thumps too hard, too loud, drowning out everything except the truth hitting me in waves. I slept with him. I slept with the man I’m here to write about. The subject of my assignment. The story I’m supposed to stay objective about.
Dammit. What have I done? Talk about conflict of interest.
Toby would kill me if he knew, and worst of all, if I had to do it again, I wouldn’t do anything differently.
Something within me splinters, equal parts panic at not wanting to change a thing and something far more dangerous—want. Residual, aching, threaded through every place he touched me.
I shift carefully, easing out from under his arm, and the mattress dips enough for him to murmur something in his sleep.
I glance at him, and a heady rush causes the room to swim.
One look shouldn’t affect me like this. Not when I crossed every line I’m supposed to uphold.
My desire should be quelled, temptation vanquished.
If only.
This can only happen once. That’s it.
I sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the sheet to my chest as if modesty can fix what already happened. I’m a reporter. I’m here to do a job. Not lose myself to the first man who looks at me like he sees something worth holding. A small, traitorous part of me hopes it wasn’t sympathy.
That he wanted me.
Really wanted me.
Not out of grief or misplaced tenderness or lust masquerading as something bigger. But what if that’s exactly what it was? Heat. Need. A moment. A lapse.
Maybe it’s better if it was. My fingers thread through my hair and pull.
Fuck, I can’t do this. Why do I care if this was just a casual fuck? That’s all it can be.
I swallow around the dryness in my throat at the thought of what comes next. Can we even come back from this? Pretend nothing happened? Pretend last night wasn’t… whatever it was?
I pull on my clothes piece by piece, each article grounding me, dragging me back into the version of myself I recognize. The one who keeps people at a distance. Who avoids risk. Who doesn’t mistake sex for some kind of deep connection.
Behind me, he shifts again, sheets whispering around his waist. My heart jerks, and my gaze snags on his magnificent chest, the very one that was pressed against me last night. My fingers itch to touch him… and that’s my cue to get out of here.
I sling my coat over my arm, boots in one hand, and move silently toward the door. My hand trembles on the knob, and I’m not sure what makes me feel sicker.
Running into Blane when I open this door would destroy my career, any respect Toby has for me, and any chance of justice for Cary. The kiss-ass would run straight to Toby.
I can’t let this be anything, and yet the queasiness roiling within me at the thought of this being nothing hollows me out, even though deep down I know it has to be.