Chapter Forty-One
Kiyah
“You’re mad,” he said once he returned to the living room after Mr. Preston decided he didn’t want his men used as hired hitmen to deal with the man who was hellbent on ruining our lives.
I started to shake my head and dismiss how I felt, but anyone with half a brain cell could tell I was furious.
“I thought Mr. Preston was a great candidate,” I responded evenly.
“And I ruined that,” Grant said, sighing as he sat beside me.
I shrugged. “Don’t beat yourself up too much about it. It probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked curiously.
“Because I could feel the tension pour out of you when I spoke to him, you jealous bastard,” I said teasingly.
He chuckled and said, “Guilty.”
“Hopefully, Black Hawk and Sentinel Security will be strong candidates.”
Grant shook his head.
“Black Hawk backed out of the interview because of an emergency engagement.”
“Well, I guess we have to put all of our eggs in Sentinel’s basket.”
“No, if we don’t like what they’re offering, then we’ll keep searching.”
I shifted on the couch until I was facing him.
“Do you think we have the luxury to endlessly vet security companies?”
“Not at all, but we also have the right to be selective and pick a group that will be the best fit.
“I think you wish that were true.”
Silence fell between us. His jaw twinged in displeasure.
“How’s your headache?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Present but not excruciating.”
“We have some time before Mr. Stone arrives. It might help if you lie down.”
“I think I’ll take you up on your offer,” I replied, standing from the couch.
I smoothed a hand across his cheek. He caught it and pressed a kiss against the back of my hand, giving the fingertips a gentle squeeze.
Our eyes met, and the fire radiating in his was inextinguishable.
Desire and logic feuded like mortal enemies.
My head ached, sure, but the yearning did a good job of blurring the pain.
I walked away, my eyes never leaving his.
My fingers skimmed the back of the couch where he still sat pretending to be the epitome of a loving, caring husband who would never ravage his slightly ailing wife.
But I knew better. It wouldn’t take much—the slick tilt of my lips and a gentle rock of my hips would unravel him.
Like clockwork, he left the couch, loosened his tie, and advanced on me. I climbed the stairs, throwing flirty glances at him over my shoulder.
“Nothing too crazy,” he warned, voice low and rough.
“Don’t fuck up my silk press.”
Grant chuckled, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt.
“No promises.”
A minute later, he had my back pressed against our bedroom door, and his fingers were digging into my waist. His breath was hot against my cheek, gone ragged with flimsy restraint.
Every inch of space between us vanished as he leaned in.
His fingers tightened at my waist, almost painfully, like he was afraid I’d fade away like a ghost.
Then his lips found mine, desperate and demanding like he’d been waiting his entire life to taste me. Our mouths parted, and a low sound escaped his throat that threatened to make my knees buckle.
I clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more. His hand slid up my back, fingers dancing up my spine. He pushed, forcing my lower body to meet his. I moaned when I felt how hard he was through his slacks.
“You feel that, baby?” he asked, slipping two fingers into the waistband of my trousers.
He tugged, walking backwards to the bed with a crooked smile.
The back of his knees hit the bed, and he sat, forcing me to straddle his lap.
His hands glided up my thighs, and I wished I were wearing a dress.
All he’d have to do was slip my panties to the side, and we’d both get what we wanted.
No, I had to be complicated and wear pants.
That crooked smile softened as he looked up at me.
“You always do this to me,” he murmured, squeezing my thighs. I brushed his blonde hair from his forehead and didn’t realize my fingers were trembling slightly.
“Do what?”
He leaned in and grazed his lips against my jaw, my cheek, and finally the corner of my mouth.
“Make me forget everything but you.”
I laughed, and he soon joined in when he realized how cringey that sounded.
“This is what happens when I’m sober,” he teased, pulling me flush against him.
“I almost like you better when you were a raging alcoholic. You weren’t so sappy then,” I joked.
“Just an asshole,” he said, deftly unbuttoning my pants and lowering the zipper.
I kissed his forehead.
“You weren’t an asshole. You were just—mmmmm,” I responded, all thoughts ceasing when he shoved his thick fingers into my panties and fondled my clit.
“That’s enough talking, Kiyah. All I want to hear from you is my name. You understand?”
I nodded furiously, gnawing on my bottom lip as I shifted in his lap, leaning back to allow him more access.
The foreplay didn’t last long. We were too eager to connect and peeled off the bare minimum needed to fuck. He was still in his dress shirt and undershirt, boxers and pants around his ankles, and I’d lost my pants, thong tugged to the side like I wanted.
He gripped my ass with both hands and urged me toward his imposing dick that promised to both wreak havoc and bring unimaginable pleasure.
I leaned forward, pressing my chest to his, reached behind myself, and grabbed his shaft.
I guided it towards my pussy, nudging the opening with his already leaking tip.
A sharp hiss escaped me as I impaled myself.
I was barely seated when he reached between us and captured my piercing.
“Move,” he demanded.
It was pure, agonizing torture as he twisted and tugged, sending shocks of euphoria through me as I rode him. He grunted loudly when I slammed down on him, chasing my high.
“Damn, baby. Don’t hurt me.”
I gave us a moment’s reprieve, rolling my hips and grinding in his lap with my hands on his parted knees. His lips were on mine again, demanding submission that he didn’t have to force out of me. I’d readily give it, time and time again.
We switched positions.
He’d slipped his feet out of his pants and rolled us over, forcing me onto my back. I wrapped my legs around him, ankles settling on his lower back. He tenderly stroked me, face buried into my neck as my fingers teased the hairs at the nape of his neck.
We finished with loud, chaotic shouts that made us grateful our nearest neighbors were on another street. Grant rolled off of me and wordlessly laced his fingers through mine.
“How’s your headache?” he asked, rubbing my abdomen with his free hand.
“Gone.”
Grant nodded.
“Good. Then I’m satisfied.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
I wasn’t looking at him, but I knew his brows shot to the top of his forehead.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, failing to keep the offense out of his tone.
“I only came once. I thought I married an eater. I guess not,” I said, sighing heavily.
“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to pull that reverse psychology shit,” he said, moving down my body. “But guess what? It isn’t working,” he declared, settling between my parted thighs.
“Oh yeah?” I said, propping myself on my elbows, lips parted in a grin.
“I’m doing this because I want to. Not because—”
I bucked my hips, pushing my pussy to his lips, bumping against them. Luckily for me, he got the message.