Chapter 23
TOTALLY CHILL
MOLLY
Iwake up hot as hell.
At first, I'm confused, heavy, comfortable, my back crushed to a wall of solid muscle. It smells good. I draw a greedy breath, and when the scent of Grey filling up my lungs, I remember.
Concussion.
Grey stayed.
In my bed.
Oh my god, I am tangled up with Grey. And he's almost naked.
I'm almost naked.
His heavy arm is banded across my ribs, our legs entwined, his body solid behind mine. His breath on my neck. The weight of him. The heat. The smell woodsmoke and soap and something earthy and masculine. I put out a wish into the universe never to have to wake up any other way.
He tightens his grip, protesting in his sleep with a low rumble that tightens my nipples. All I have on is a thin cotton tank and booty short panties. And I can feel everything--the hard planes of his chest, his solid stomach, and--
Oh. Oh. That is his cock, hard and thick and nestled in the cleft of my ass.
It's just biology, right? Morning wood. It doesn't mean anything.
The knowledge doesn't stop the flash of heat or the clench low in my belly.
Nor does it do a single thing to stop the hot rush between my thighs.
I feel like I should move, like he'd be embarrassed if he was awake to know his boner--the boner I have been dry humping and daydreaming about-- is cradled between my ass cheeks.
But he's not awake, which means that for a minute, I get to enjoy the feeling.
My hips wiggle unintentionally, nestling him deeper, and he curls around me, burying his face in my neck, thrusting his hips gently, stroking himself with my ass, and I nearly die on the spot.
He's still asleep. I freeze there until his arms have relaxed enough that I carefully turn around, but the second I do, he's clutching me to him, mumbling in his sleep.
I peer into his sleeping face, his features softened in a way they never are awake. No furrows in his brows, no tension in his jaw, his lips parted. I can hear his breathing, slow, deep, steady. He looks younger. Peaceful.
My heart does something complicated and painful at the sight.
I trace the details with my eyes--the slope of his nose, the sliver threaded in his beard, the long, thick lashes.
How unfair that he'd have such gorgeous lashes.
The morning light catches on the gray at his temples, and I want to slip my fingers into it, want to trace every line and angle of his face.
His eyes blink open, those pale gray eyes. There's a flash of confusion, then recognition. Then heat.
"Hi," I whisper, smiling.
"Hi," he rumbles, his voice rough with sleep, gravelly in a way that I feel deep in my belly. It vibrates through my ribs, into my bones. "How's your head?"
"Forgot I even had one."
He huffs a laugh, breath warm, his fingers sliding up my back under my tank top. "You okay?"
"I'm okay."
His palm is rough, warm, rasping against my bare spine, sending goosebumps down my arms.
"Good," he says. And, feeling bold, I take a chance.
"So last night you said if I felt better this morning we could fool around."
"I did, didn't I?" He thumbs my cheek. "You sure you're feeling okay? Head doesn't hurt?"
"Grey, I'm fine."
"And you're sure you want to--"
"Put me in, coach."
He smirks, but still studies my face for a long moment, like he's looking for a sign I'm not ready. Finally, his lips curve into that smirk and he pulls me closer, which I didn't think was possible. "Well, peaches, I did promise. And I never back down from a promise. Batter up, babygirl."
And then he kisses me.
His mouth is soft and gentle, his hand cradling the back of my head carefully, always so careful. He tastes like sleep and heat and want. His tongue seeks entrance, and I grant it eagerly.
His other hand slides down to cup my ass, pulling my flesh against him. I gasp into his mouth when his cock presses into my hip.
And throbs.
He groans, the sound coming from deep, deep in his chest, then pulls back just enough to rasp, "Molly…"
It's half warning, half plea, and hot as hell.
I kiss him again, harder this time, swallowing whatever protest he was going to make.
I feel his restraint slip, our bodies winding together--how do we keep getting closer?
--hands roaming, hungry. My fingers skate across his chest, brushing his peaked nipple.
The hammer of his heart races beneath my touch.
His big hand kneads my ass, guiding my hips against him, the friction maddening, his cock is not close enough, but closer than it's ever been.
I rock against it, chasing the pressure, mewling.
I'm soaked already, my panties damp, and I can't breathe.
I don't want to breathe. But I break the kiss, gasping. He presses his forehead to mine.
Our breaths are ragged, harsh. And when I lean back enough to see his face, his eyes are dark, his pupils blown so wide, there's just a thin ring of gray.
"You feel so good," he groans, capturing my mouth again.
His hands haven't stopped moving, still busy squeezing and pulling my ass.
The kiss is deep and messy, all tongue and teeth and untethered need.
My fingers slide down his chest, his ribs, his stomach, exploring, feeling him.
The hard ridges of his abs flex and jump under my touch, then the trail of hair leading down.
My palm flattens, fingers splayed. He sucks in a sharp breath--my pinky brushes the band of his boxer briefs, then lower. Not intentional, just curious.
My palm presses against the hard length of him through the fabric.
Oh god--, that's--
Grey freezes, his entire body going rigid, every muscle locking. Then his hips jerk involuntarily, thrusting up into my palm.
The groan that tears out of him is raw, almost pained, punched from deep in his chest. His hand flies to my wrist. But he doesn't stop me. Just grips hard enough that I feel it.
Something flares in his eyes, heat, hunger, surrender.
For a heartbeat, we stare at each other, the air crackling between us.
And then my palm shifts on his cock, and his eyes slam shut, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the hollow above the muscle.
His neck is so taut, the tendons stand at attention, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard.
This time when his cock throbs, it's in the circle of my fingers, the cup of my palm, searing heat radiating through the cotton. I can feel how hard he is, how thick.
Holy shit.
I freeze too, hand still cupped around him, feeling each pulse. His hand is still on my wrist. He's just breathing, hard and ragged, chest heaving. And then he groans, and power surges through me, bright and intoxicating. I made him sound like that.
My fingers flexes around him experimentally, and he hisses.
"Is that okay?" My words come out breathy, uncertain, barely a whisper.
The most tortured laugh escapes him, and when his eyes open, they lock on mine with intensity that steals my breath. "Yes. Yes, that's okay." His irises are practically black. His hand around my wrist tightens, holding me there. "But Molly--"
The warning in his tone whispers of rules, boundaries, bases to follow.
I cut him off before he can talk either of us out of it. "I want to." Gently, I squeeze his cock again, and he moans, hips flexing. "Can I? Will you show me?"
Please say yes please say yes please--
War wages behind his eyes, restraint versus want, control versus need. His jaw works as he grinds his teeth.
I see the exact moment his restraint loses the fight. Something in him breaks, and my stomach swoops.
"Come here," he rasps, the sound working down my spine. He shifts onto his back, taking me with him in one smooth motion. I'm half on top of him, one leg thrown over his thigh, the hard muscle against the softest parts of me. He lets go of my wrist to cover my hand cupped over him.
"I'll show you," he promises, eyes locked on mine, voice firm. "But tell me if you want to stop. Okay?"
I nod.
"Words, peaches."
"I won't want to stop," I breathe, meaning it.
His smile is devastating. "Here," he murmurs, guiding my hand to the waistband of his boxer briefs. The elastic is textured beneath my fingertips, and I hesitate.
This is it. It's happening. I'm about to touch Grey's cock. His actual cock.
My fingers tremble as I slip them under the elastic. The fabric is soft, worn thin from washing, and there's almost nothing between my hand and--
When my fingers brush heated skin, we both suck in a sharp breath.
"Oh, god," I whisper. He's so hot, like he's burning up from the inside. Silky skin over impossible hardness. I flatten my palm against him.
I can feel his pulse.
He groans, low and rough, and the sound hits me between my thighs.
"Here…let me--" He shifts, hooks his thumbs in the waistband.
Lifts his hips and shoves them down his thighs.
His cock springs free, patting against his stomach, thick and flushed, darker at the tip, curving slightly toward his stomach.
A glistening bead at the tip catches the morning light, and I take it all in, the roadmap of veins running the length--are they pulsing?
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
My pussy is clenched and aching as I stare, my mouth dry and face flaming hot.
"Molly?" His voice is strained, tight, like he's barely holding on.
I nod at his cock. Words have abandoned me.
"Molly." Firmer now. "Look at me."
My eyes snap to his face.
"I mean it--. You don't have to--"
"I want to," I interrupt. "I really, really want to."
He looks relieved, a little amused, but mostly like he's dying.
I reach for him, but the angle is awkward with us still tangled together.
"Here," he says, guiding me to stay on my side but pulling me closer. He pulls my leg higher on his thigh, penning me up, instantly leaving me hyper aware of how wet I am, how exposed I am, the cool air licking the inside of my thighs.