31. Elizabeth
The first thing I know as I blink into consciousness is that I feel extraordinarily well-rested.
The second is that I am extraordinarily turned on.
I guess that’s to be expected when you wake up next to Wesley Fitzwilliam Grant.
At some point in the night, I shifted in his arms to face him.
Soft, painterly light drifts through the windows, playing over his cheekbone, dancing across the dark hair dusting his chest, accentuating the shadow where the duvet has dipped low on his hip, highlighting how much of a masterpiece this man is.
I don’t move—I barely even breathe—but Wes’s arm tightens around my waist, drawing me closer. He makes a low sound and if I weren’t already completely turned on, I have no doubt that alone would have gotten me there.
His fingers trail down my back until he hits skin, and then he’s reaching under the soft material of the shirt, splaying his palm across the center of my back before applying a soft pressure that brings my chest flush with his.
I wait for the panic to hit. For my brain to sound the alarm that I’m trapped and need to find an escape now now now. But it never comes. Though every cell in my body is on high alert, it’s not out of panic.
I exhale Wes’s name. His mouth tips up into a soft smile before he slowly opens his eyes and all I see is gold. “Good morning, Jacobs.” His voice is rough in a way that makes me shiver. His smile grows and his eyes dance with the knowledge that he did that.
“Hi,” I whisper, feeling shy in the intimacy of this moment.
“You’re so soft,” he says, drawing circles on my back with his thumb.
“You’re so warm.” He husks out a laugh that makes goosebumps race across my skin.
“Do you need some of my warmth?” he asks, his tone teasing and playful. I blush and try to bury my head in Wes’s chest, but he shifts, thwarting my attempt. “There’s no need to hide. I like knowing I have this effect on you.”
“That’s the problem,” I mutter and he laughs, the sound full and sonorous now. He shifts back to where he was a moment ago, bringing all that body heat with him as he holds me tight. It’s absurd how good it feels—how good he feels.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks at the same time I arch my back a little, the motion bringing my hips forward and into contact with his undeniably hard length.
I can’t stop my surprised gasp, and Wes groans.
My hands have been tucked between our chests, and I trail one down his torso to the band of the boxers he slept in, then lower to cup him.
He flexes his hips forward and into my hand, and I grasp him through the fabric.
“Fuck,” he gasps out, pushing his hips forward a couple more times, letting his length slide in my loose grip. “Fuck.”
“Yeah?” I ask, tightening my hand a little as I look at him, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice ragged. “But you don’t have—”
“Wes,” I say, interrupting him. “I woke up wetter than I’ve ever been in my entire life.”
His eyes go wide and the hand that’s been on my back drifts down until it’s between my thighs.
“Can I?” Wes asks and when I nod, he presses his entire palm against the completely drenched fabric before slipping two fingers underneath.
I moan as he says, “Well, holy shit.” And then I’m the one flexing my hips against a firm touch.
“You want to ride my fingers, Jacobs?” he asks, and I nod, greedy.
I rock my hips against his hand a few more times and then his middle finger is at my entrance.
He uses gentle pressure as he slides it inside, drawing several wide circles before he adds his index finger.
Though there’s more of a stretch now, I’m so turned on that it’s an easy fit.
“Is that good?” he asks, and I answer by squeezing my inner muscles around him. I flex my hips forward and back, and he moves with me, the two of us finding a slow, sultry rhythm that has me moaning with nearly every movement.
“Will you tell me what you need?” Wes says, his lips brushing against my forehead as he speaks. “I’ll give you anything.”
“Damn right, you will,” I say, and he laughs low.
“This is so good, Wes.” I haven’t done this in a long time—and it’s never been like this.
“You’re so good.” When he shifts his thumb to graze my clit, my hips buck hard and the needy little noise that comes out of me is like nothing I’ve ever made before.
I’m momentarily horrified, but Wes says, “You’re so fucking sexy,” and there’s a bite in his tone that makes my blood thrum.
“I want you,” I say, pressing my palm against him.
“God, yes,” he says, curling his fingers for emphasis. “How do you want me?”
“Raw.”
Wes chokes. “Are you serious?”
I blink, realizing what I just said. It’s something I’ve never done before. I’ve never even wanted it before. But here I am, in bed with Wes Grant, just blurting it out without a second thought. I suppose that means it’s what I really want—so I nod. “But only if it’s okay with you.”
Wes disentangles himself, then grins rogueishly. He keeps his eyes on mine as he puts his index finger in his mouth and sucks. It is incredibly lewd and deeply erotic and one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Ambrosial,” he says very seriously, and a laugh bursts out of me. He smiles wide, then places his middle finger against my lips. “Taste.”
Though it’s hot, the part of me that craves control wants to fight against this command. He must see it in my eyes because his lips form a little ‘oh.’ “I’m sorry, I–”
And that’s all I need. I lean forward and take his finger in my mouth, circling my tongue around it before sucking. “Goddamn,” he whispers, looking at me as if I’m something from a dream. “How the hell am I this lucky?”
“Should I remind you that your teammate crashed into you yesterday?” I ask and his jaw drops. But then he shakes his head and laughs. “You know what? If he hadn’t, we likely wouldn’t be here, so fuck it. Maybe I’m grateful for the little asshole.”
“That’s very mature of you.”
“Nah,” he says, grinning. “I just really, really want to be inside you again.”
Right. That. The conversation we need to have.
“Are you on birth control?” he asks.
“I have an IUD. And I’m clean. I can show you my most recent test.”
“I’ll show you mine, too.”
We both pull up the information and exchange phones.
“I’ve only been with you since I took this,” I admit.
“Same,” he says. ”I’ve only been with you.”
I check the date on the test. It’s from right before the season started. My surprise must be all over my face because Wes laughs. “I told you I’m reformed these days.”
“You did,” I say. “But I thought…well. I guess I figured…”
He shakes his head. “I haven’t thought about anyone else since you walked into Martine Headquarters wearing that fucking pencil skirt.”
The air shifts, and then we’re both moving. Phones drop, forgotten, and our mouths meet in a hard, desperate kiss that’s immediately all tongues and teeth. When Wes’s hands grab the hem of the shirt he loaned me, he pauses just long enough to ask, “Can I take this off?”
I nod, and in one smooth motion, it’s over my head, thrown somewhere beyond the end of the bed. Wes’s eyes travel down my body, and he groans as he runs a hand over his face. “Can I touch you?”
“Yes,” I say, breathless at the thought of his hands on me.
He softly grips the sides of my ribcage before cupping my breasts.
I’ve always been self-conscious about them, wishing they were fuller.
But when Wes runs his thumbs over my nipples and reverently whispers, “You’re perfect,” before leaning in to kiss me softly, I don’t find myself scoffing or rolling my eyes or thinking it’s a corny line that he can’t possibly mean. Instead, I believe him.
Our hands and mouths explore the new expanses of skin as we rid each of the rest of our clothes. Soon, we’re lying on our sides again, but the mood is different now—steady and sure rather than urgent and heated.
“Do you still want this?” Wes asks.
I nod. “Do you?”
“Of course I do,” he says, his smile a little self-conscious and surprisingly sweet.
I lift my top leg and drape it over his hip. It isn’t quite the same as being in total control—but I think it’s a good compromise. “Like this.”
Wes nods eagerly, and gives me another one of those shy smiles. “Whatever you want, Jacobs.”
I shift my hips and the thick head of his cock slides against me. “Please,” he says, his voice ragged. “Can I?”
I nod, and then he’s reaching between us, gripping his length and guiding it to my entrance.
He closes his eyes, and drops his head to my shoulder, inhaling slowly before pressing a kiss to my collarbone.
I shift until he’s notched inside of me, and Wes makes a desperate sound that’s somehow both a moan and a growl. “You already feel too good.”
“Come on, Grant,” I say. “Are we doing this or not?”
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters into my skin. But then he flexes his hips and there’s a sharp pressure, followed by a slide that goes on and on until we’re flush.
I never considered that having sex without a condom would be so completely different—not just physically, but emotionally. So I’m caught off guard when tears well in my eyes, when my heart pounds harder, when my skin erupts in goosebumps.
“Elizabeth,” Wes says softly, and when I meet his gaze, I’m surprised to find that his eyes are wet, too. He leans in and kisses me, gently, tenderly, with emotion that I seem to understand but can’t quite name.
I rock my hips forward, and gasp into Wes’s mouth. “I know,” he murmurs. ”I feel it, too.”
So I let myself get lost in this, in him, in us.
I tell him I’m close and he wraps an arm around me, holding tight as he whispers praise into my ear until he groans out a low, “Can you come with me, love?”