Chapter 23 #2
Now I can reach him easily. And even better, I can see everything--his face, his body, his cock, see every little reaction.
Then he takes my hand, his grip gentle but firm. Guides it to him, wraps my fingers around his shaft.
I draw a surprised little breath. How is something this hard this soft?
Grey purses his lips, sucks in a breath through his nose, his cock throbbing in my grip. I almost let go in shock.
"What do I do?" I manage.
He adjusts my grip, not too tight, not too loose, just firm enough. Don't squeeze too hard don't squeeze too hard DON'T SQUEEZE TOO HARD.
"Like this." He guides my hand up slowly, agonizingly slow.
His breath hitches, catches. Then down just as slowly--his hips flex, pressing into my grip.
I'm fascinated--the skin moves over the hardness beneath.
I watch his face, transfixed, hanging on every tiny reaction.
The flare of his nostrils, the part of his lips.
"Breathe," he says breathlessly, and I don't know if he's talking to me or himself.
He guides me through a few more strokes, up and down, steady rhythm. And then his hand falls away, lets me take over. Trusting me.
"That's it," he rasps. "Just like that."
Instantly, I’m unsure, but he's responding. His breath quickening. Noisier. Labored. His hips start to move, small thrusts into my fist, following my rhythm, chasing my hand. And I realize I'm doing this to him, making him feel good. Making Grey feel good.
Making him lose his mind.
"Tighter," he grits out, and I adjust, squeezing a little more. He groans. "Fuck, yes. Yes,"
Tighter is good, got it.
Braver now, I experiment. A little faster, and I watch him react.
His jaw clenches, eyes squeezing shut, the muscles and tendons in his neck and shoulders standing out.
"Slower, baby," he says gently, his hand still on my bent knee squeezing. "Not a race, remember."
"Like the peach." I slow down focusing on the glide, the rhythm, the slip of skin.
"Like the peach," he echoes.
His stomach muscles twitch with every stroke. His abs clench and release, flexing. The way his chest heaves, the flush creeping up his neck. The sheen of sweat on his skin.
"That's my girl," he groans, and I nearly combust.
His girl.
"Can I--" I hesitate, biting my lip. "Can I touch the tip?"
His eyes open, dark and intense. "Brush your thumb across the top. Gentle."
Tentatively, I swipe my thumb over the tip, feel the slickness, spread it around. Warmer than I expected. More slippery.
He shudders, his entire body jerking, hips bucking. "Oh god," he groans, head pressing back into the pillow. "Molly--"
I want to hear my name again like that, desperate and anguished. So I circling his crown with my thumb while I stroke the tip. His hand on my hip is bruising, the other twisted in the sheets, white knuckle.
"Jesus-- fuck-- Molly--" he pants. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"You just told me to," I answer, breathless.
He laughs, strained and rough.
"Blame my teacher," I whisper, every iota of my focus on him.
On my hand, on his reactions. On the feel of him in my palm, the heat, the pulse.
I don't notice his hand slide down from my knee at first, trailing up the inside of my thigh, not until his fingers slip between my legs, finding me wet and ready, sliding into the soaking split to stroke me through my panties.
"Oh--" I gasp, my rhythm faltering, hand stuttering on him.
This is cheating. This is definitely cheating.
He strokes my clit slowly, deliberately, exactly right, now that he knows what I like.
I grunt, my hand flexing around him.
He hisses through his teeth. "Don't stop."
"I can't--I can't think when you--"
He shifts his fingertip back and forth, back and forth. "Good. Don't think."
I try to focus, but my brain is sparking and flickering as I attempt and keep my hand moving.
Two things at once, I can do two things at once.
Multitasking. But he's touching me, fingers working my clit in those steady, maddening strokes.
That rhythm he taught me on the kitchen table, the one that ruined me.
My bent knee trembles on his thigh, but his free hand comes up to hold it steady, keeping me spread open.
My hips move on their own, grinding his hand, seeking more, but with me on my side and him on his back, the angle limits how deep he can reach.
And thank goodness--I'd be completely useless if he could really get at me.
"Grey--" it's half moan, half plea, breathy and desperate.
"Keep going," he commands, voice firm.
Multitask I can multitask I can--fuck fuck nope can't think.
It's too much, the feel of him in my hand, hot and hard and slick. His fingers on my clit, building that familiar pressure low in my belly. The sound of his breathing, ragged and harsh, mixing with mine. The smell of sex and sweat and him in my lungs, sharp and heady and intoxicating.
Frustrated with his restricted access to my pussy, he tries to slip into the leg of my panties, but the angle is off, and he's unable to touch me like he wants, touch me like he wants. I can feel his irritation in the way his fingers fumble.
And so, god help me--I take them off.
I unwrap my leg from his thigh, hook my panties in my thumbs, lifting my hips. When he sees what I'm doing, he shoves them down my thighs, rolling onto his side to face me, his hands already on me as I kick them off. No idea where they go. Couldn't care less.
He's facing me, his hand buried between my thighs.
I reach for him, realizing my left handedness is useful, both of our dominant hands free to do what they wish.
He lets my pussy go to grip the back of my knee and hitch my thigh onto his, spreading me wide open, completely bare.
I tense at the realization, my thighs instinctively shifting to close.
He notices immediately, his hand stilling. "You okay?"
I nod, unable to meet his eyes. "I just…you can see everything now."
He thumbs my chin, lifting it so I'll look at him. His eyes are soft, though dark with want. "Good." He shifts his thigh, opening me up. "I want to see everything."
And then he leans in to kiss me, deep and reassuring. The salt and musk of my body is on his fingers--a shiver works down my spine at the knowledge.
"You're so fucking beautiful, Molly," he murmurs against my lips.
"Every inch of you." His hand grips my breast, but he lets it go despite getting the impression he doesn't want to.
He's got another target, and it's aching for his touch.
When his fingertips brush my clit, my self-consciousness evaporates.
Now there is nothing between his fingers and my pussy. His bare cock in my hand is so close, I imagine the heat of his tip pressed to the wet dip, the pressure and weight of him sliding into my body--
He slips a finger into me as if he knew exactly what I was thinking, and I cry out, gripping his cock hard in surprise.
Oh god too good too much oh god--
"Oh my fuck--" he groans the word through clenched teeth. "Just like that. Hold me like that.
I can barely breathe, never mind think. Only feel him in my hand, his finger inside me. His thumb circling my clit, the stretch and fullness of his finger, the perfect pressure.
"Look at me," he commands when my eyes drift shut.
I force them open, meet his gaze.
"I want to see those pretty eyes," he says, curling his finger, and I nearly scream, biting my lip hard. "Don't hide from me. Not from me…"
He trails off, his concentration diverted to the rhythm we've found, messy and desperate.
His cock is slick with pre-cum, the wet sound obscene.
I love it. His finger is buried inside me, curling and stroking, his thumb working my clit, and I rock against his hand.
I'm not stroking anymore, just holding him as he fucks my fist, and it's so fucking hot.
I want to watch, but I can't. It's too much, sweat slicking our skin, the smell of sex in the air, musky and sharp.
That pressure in me rises, winding tighter, my body begging for release. "Grey, I'm going to--"
"Not yet," he grits out. "Wait for me."
"I can't--" It's too fast, too intense.
"You can." But his finger finding that devastating spot inside of me, and my body bucks, my throat raw, nearly sobbing, torn between stopping and chasing the orgasm. "Breathe, baby. I've got you."
His cock swells in my grip, getting impossibly harder--how?--his hips thrusting up into my fist, no longer measured, but jerky and desperate. The muscles in his thighs bunch and flex under my leg, rock hard like the rest of him.
His breathing is harsh and ragged, and he swears under his breath. He throbs in my hand with each heartbeat.
"Oh, fuck--I'm gonna--" he warns, voice breaking.
I watch his face, not wanting to miss a second.
I want to see him lose control, watch him come apart and know it was because of me.
The way his brow furrows, jaw clenched so hard I worry it'll break.
His thick neck arches, exposing his muscular throat, the knot in the center bobbing, the tendons stretched to the edge.
I squeeze tighter, stroke faster. When his eyes fly open, they lock on mine with an intensity that clenches my pussy around his finger. There's something wild and vulnerable there. I feel it in every nerve.
"Molly--" My name is a groan, a prayer. His finger curls inside me hard, thumb pressing firmly on my clit. "Now," he commands. "Come with me."
The orgasm slams into me like a freight train, as it if was just waiting there for him to call it to him. The shock of it is so sudden, his name tears from my throat, hand clenching around him reflexively as I cry Grey Grey Grey--
He breaks, shatters, his whole body going rigid, locking tight, turning to stone. His hips jerk into my fist once, twice, three times--
And then he's coming in hot spurts, thick and wet, coating my hand, his stomach and chest. There's so much of it, ropey and violent, jetting from his cock with every pulse inside my fist. I'm transfixed, unable to look away. Until he groans my name.
His face is contorted with pleasure that looks like pain, his mouth hanging open, gasping my name, his broad chest expanding and contracting with every sawing breath.
It's the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life.
The power of it crashes into me like a second orgasm.
His fingers move again, his hand momentarily still, and somehow I'm coming again.
Still? I don't know, the intensity of it blinding.
Because I made him come. Because I'm high on his pleasure.
I let him go, my hand flying to his chest, my hand finding a slick of come--I groan, my pussy clenching around his finger still, forever, eternally, until I'm shaking.
Only then does he gentle his touch, eases me down carefully.
And then I flop back onto the bed, panting.
"Holy shit," I finally manage, just like last night.
He laughs, flopping down next to me. "Yeah. Holy shit."
Grey pulls me into his side, kisses me until I try and wind myself around him again.
"I'm a mess, peaches." I look down, stare at the come dripping and pooling in the ridges of his abs, those little valleys inside his hips that angle down to his cock.
"God, that's hot," I whisper.
"You did that, baby."
I groan, slinging my leg over his thigh and pressing my clit to the hard muscle. "Goddammit, Grey."
He chuckles, half sitting to look around. His hair is all ruffled and mussed and sexy. When he finds what he wants, he lays back, and I look in his hand to find my ruined pink panties.
And then I watch him clean come off himself with them. He swipes them across his abs, his chest, smearing the come a little before it's gone.
My thigh is locked around his, my hips rocking. "Jesus," I breathe. He's smirking, going about his task while I shamelessly hump his leg. He takes my sticky hand and cleans it off carefully, wiping between each finger. The intimacy twists my chest, makes my throat close up.
"Grey--"
"Shh," he soothes. "I've got you."
When he's finished, he tosses the panties onto the floor and pulls me into his arms.
His heart gallops against my ear pressed up against his chest, and I listen to it gradually slow as his hand trails up and down my spine. His other hand plays with my hair, fingers combing through the curls.
"I think you fucked me into another timeline."
"Just you wait," he rumbles.
"Do I have to?"
Another amused sound is his only answer, and we lay there together happily. I should move. Put some space between us. Remember the rules, put in place so I don't get hurt. Don't expect too much. But I think it might be too late for that. The realization should scare me, send me running.
I burrow deeper into his chest, breathing him in. I don't want to leave his arms. I don't want him to go. I want to be with him all the time--I hate when we're apart. I want to hear his laugh. I want to see his smile. I want him. Not just his body, not just this, him.
I want all the things I'm not supposed to want. I want the things he said he we can’t have.
"Don't think," he murmurs into my hair like he can read my mind.
"Too late," I admit quietly, honestly.
His arms tighten around me protectively. "I know, peaches. I know."
He says it like he feels like I do. And that's when it hits me, not gradually, not gently, but like a brick wall.
I'm falling for him.
Not just wanting him.
Not just loving this.
Falling. The kind of falling that doesn't have a safety net.
Does he feel the same? Is he in as deep as I've just realized I am?
I don't ask.
I don't want to know.
We lay there in the morning light, wrapped around each other, the truth of our circumstance hanging between us. I don't know if there's any going back. No unseeing, no undoing.
So much trouble.
Wrapped in his arms, I can't bring myself to care.
Because the truth is? I'd do it all again, break every rule. For this.
For him.