24. Yes, This, More, Please #3
“Turn over,” he whispers. “Let me hold you like this.”
I do, and he spoons up behind me, all heat and mass and steady, grounding presence.
His cock is thick and hard again, sliding against the slick between my thighs.
He presses in, gentle, slow. He moves inside me with unhurried rhythm, hips rocking sweet and deep, like there’s nowhere in the world he’d rather be.
“Feels right,” he whispers in my ear, voice breaking a little. “You and me. This.”
My chest goes molten. I tilt back into him, needing more. “Me, too.”
He groans, then fucks me deeper, hand sliding up to palm my breasts. I arch back into him. Every inch of his body is wrapped around me, caging me in.
“God, you feel so good,” he rasps. “You fit me, Neve. I want you like this all the time. I want you to be mine.” His fingers tweak my nipple, and I hiss.
“Please.” I roll my hips to chase every thrust. “Please, don’t stop.”
He groans, a low, heady sound that vibrates right through my spine. “You want to be mine?” His hips snap, once, then again, rougher now, and I can feel the whole length of him pulsing inside me.
“Yes. I want it so bad, Grant.”
His fingers slide into my hair, tilting my head back so he can mouth at my throat. His cock swells, and I feel the pulse of heat as he comes, deep and perfect, grinding hard into my ass as he holds me in place.
There’s nothing quiet about the way he comes, nothing held back, but he tries to muffle the sound in the curve of my neck. I let him have it—I let him anchor himself in my body, mark me as his.
We hang there for a minute, unspeaking, every inch of my skin prickling with the afterglow, Grant spent and heavy and warm at my back.
Eventually, he slips out, slow, careful.
I whimper at the loss, but then he’s rolling me onto my back and crowding over me, wide palms gentle as he parts my thighs.
There’s so much of him inside me, it’s making a mess everywhere, but he just smooths a hand along my hip, then dips his fingers to collect all of it, thumb circling my clit just to see me squirm.
“Look how perfect you are,” he says, voice gone.
His hand slides lower, two thick fingers gathering the slick mess between my legs, his cum and mine, mingled and dripping. Instead of letting it spill, he pushes it back inside, slow and deep. The sensation is seismic, an earthquake limited to this room.
I let out a noise that should be embarrassing, but I can’t seem to care. I want him to see all of it, every greedy, filthy inch of me.
He hums, pleased, watching his fingers disappear into me, then draws them out, just to press them in again and watch my thighs shake. His thumb never leaves my clit, working soft, tight circles that send me spiraling. I think I might actually die if he keeps this up.
The orgasm bulldozes me, and Grant slows by degrees as I ride out the aftershocks until he stops, easing off, his touch going feather-light. He brushes my skin, thumb tracing slow, tender arcs across my hip like an apology for all the ways he’s broken me tonight.
“Stay here,” he murmurs. “Stay here tonight.”
I blink, boneless, watching him pad naked to the bathroom and return with a warm, damp washcloth.
It’s so weirdly sweet I could cry—it’s domestic, almost, the way he tucks one palm behind my thigh and very carefully cleans me up.
Not a trace of hurry. He’s so gentle. The cloth is soft, the heat of it soothing, and he never lets go of me.
He murmurs little reassurances, some for me, some for himself, I think.
He finishes with a clean swipe, then takes the cloth back to the bathroom.
I pop up to follow him, legs still shaky, and when I find him, his hands land on my hips. Grant gives a reproving little rumble in his chest. “What are you doing out of bed?”
I breathe a laugh, patting his chest. “It’s really cute that you want to lead the aftercare charge, but I have to pee.” I tilt my chin up, brushing a kiss to his jaw, and he melts. “I’ll be right back, baby.”
After I’ve done my business, I return to the bedroom and crawl back in with Grant.
He pulls the comforter up, cocooning us both in a nest of sheets and leftover heat.
His arms go around me, warm and heavy, and I want to stay in the curve of his body forever, in the slow, soft thrum of his heartbeat under my cheek.
My brain is a slow pour of static. There’s no inner dialogue, no endless analysis, just the thick, golden quiet of being here with him.
Grant buries his face in my hair, beard rough at my temple, and his hands trace lazy, soothing patterns down my spine. I think he’s already half-asleep. I let myself go boneless and floating, tangling my legs with his and sighing against the line of his throat.
Fia warned me about this part, I realize, somewhere at the edge of sleep—she said that Grant King would fall in love with me. I wanted to believe it, and I knew it was a possibility all along.
Now, I’m sure it’s happening, and I’m pretty certain I’m falling in love with him, too.