25. Morning-After Energy
Chapter Twenty-Five
Morning-After Energy
Neve
God, he’s pretty.
His dark lashes fan softly as he exhales, casting fluttery shadows across his cheeks in the pale-blue morning light.
His auburn hair is mussed, and I can’t help thinking back to tangling my hands in it when I kissed him.
It’s a little longer than when I first met him at the bar, but it suits him.
I want to kiss him now, but I don’t want to wake him.
He looks so peaceful, like none of the things that bother him when he’s awake can touch him.
The silver at his temples catches the light as he shifts in his sleep, turning his head to the side.
He has the same silvery gray in his beard, just a little, but enough to notice.
It’s impossibly sexy. He is impossibly sexy.
I know the age gap is… not small. All of the things Fia said are true.
There is no single hurdle to this relationship, but a number of them that stack up against us.
But I feel connected to him in a way I don’t think I’ve ever been connected to another person. I’m drawn to him like he’s magnetic and I’m ferrous metal, pulled in almost against my will—except it’s not against my will. I want this, and I want him, no question.
I like to think I’ve been clear enough about that.
I hope he knows that I’m already all in.
That doesn’t scare me, but I know it scares him.
He’s got more to lose than me. He has not only his job but his daughter to consider, and given his history with his ex, I understand why he’s guarded with his heart.
I’ve never met the woman, but I hate her for what she did to him.
I don’t even know all of it yet, and I don’t know when or even if he’ll be ready to tell me, but I hope he will. I hope that he knows he can trust me with those parts of himself—the parts he thinks he has to hide, the parts he thinks are ugly. I want them all.
I lean in and press a kiss to the cut of his cheekbone, letting my lips linger there. When I pull back, he smiles in his sleep, groaning softly, but doesn’t wake, so I decide to get up in search of coffee.
I swipe one of Grant’s Henleys off the back of a dark green, velvet chair in the corner of the bedroom, then tiptoe out to the hall, closing the door quietly behind me so I don’t disturb him.
I find the things I need easily—Grant’s kitchen is organized as well as I’d expect for someone who spends as much time there as he clearly does. He obviously likes to cook, as if I could find him any hotter.
The kitchen is bright, early-morning blue pouring through the windows.
I’m half-swallowed by Grant’s shirt, sleeves dangling past my wrists, hem hitting somewhere risky on my thighs.
The air smells faintly of him, a woodsy, mineral cologne and something soft underneath, like warm skin and sleep.
There’s a fresh loaf of sourdough on the counter, crumb golden and split open.
I hunt down the coffee supplies—a burr grinder, a scale, a little glass carafe.
Of course, he has the pour-over setup, the kind of precision most people reserve for laboratory work.
I could just use the pod machine, but I want to do it right, the way he would.
Beans go in, coffee dust blooming into the air.
The whole kitchen fills up with the sharp, dark smell.
I glance back toward the bedroom as I pour water over the grounds, slow, spiraling, the way I’ve seen on TikTok.
Grant is still asleep. I want to keep it that way a little longer.
I want him to wake up to something good.
I don’t want him to think I expect him to look after me.
I like it when he does, but I want him to know I’ll look after him, too.
It makes me wonder how long it’s been since someone has, and that makes my chest ache.
I scan the kitchen. There’s a carton of eggs in the fridge, a lemon rolling in the fruit bowl, and half a stick of butter in the dish.
I can poach an egg in my sleep. Hollandaise is trickier, but I’ve nailed it at least three times.
Four, if you count the time I winged it at Fia’s brunch one time, and nobody got food poisoning.
I roll up my sleeves.
First, eggs. I bring a pan of water to a simmer, dribble in a capful of vinegar. I crack an egg into a mug, swirl the water, slip the egg in, and the white cinches up like a little ghost.
I’m separating yolks for the hollandaise when I hear a soft groan from behind me. “Fuck, Neve.”
My name in his mouth sounds like sin. I turn, slow, suddenly aware that the shirt I’m wearing is his, that it hangs off my shoulders like a flag of surrender, that the only thing between me and the cool air is the soft cotton barely covering my ass.
Grant leans in the kitchen doorway, bare-chested, track pants slung low on his hips, hair a tangle from sleep. It’s the best, sexiest morning-after energy I’ve ever seen.
His eyes drag down my body, slow and greedy.
“Good morning, baby,” I try, casual, but my voice betrays me, all breathy and bright.
He doesn’t move at first, just watches, the green of his irises nearly black in the low light, jaw flexing. “Angel, you can’t just stand there looking like that.”
I glance down because I want to see what he sees.
The hem is indecent, and the sleeves swallow my hands, but I kind of love it.
I love the way his gaze finds my bare thighs, the way it’s blatantly obvious I’m not wearing a single thing underneath.
The air hits between my legs, a cool shiver that makes me ache.
He comes closer, slow as a stalking cat. The heat of him crowds me back to the counter, and he reaches over to kill the gas on the stove.
“You know what it does to me, seeing you in my shirt?” His voice is lower now, thick with sleep and something that hits right between my thighs.
I wrap my hands around the edge of the counter behind me, bracing for impact. “No,” I say, soft, knowing exactly how bratty it sounds. “Tell me.”
His hands land on my hips, big and rough and so hot it burns. He slides them up, under the shirt, bare palms finding skin and making me gasp.
Grant leans in, mouth at my jaw. “Drives me fucking crazy. Even more when I know you’re not wearing a damn thing underneath.” His hands cup my ass, squeezing, thumbs tracing the lines of soft flesh. “It drives me crazy that you wanted to make me breakfast. I’m starving.”
My breath stutters, and I tilt my chin up, inviting more. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “But not for eggs.”
He drops to his knees, spreading my thighs apart as he gazes up at me. The cold air hits me, followed by the heat of his breath.
“I need to taste you again, angel. Tell me I can.”
My brain shorts out for a second. Words are gone, replaced by white noise, hot and fizzing. I grip the counter for dear life, forcing my voice to work. “Yeah,” I manage. “Yes. Please.”
The smile that cracks across his face is pure predator. Grant licks me once, broad and slow, then glances up, eyes gone black. “You taste so fucking good. I’ll never get tired of it.”
I whimper. My hands go to his hair automatically, tangling through the sleep-mussed strands, and I can feel the vibration of his groan all the way through my skin.
“God, baby, you’re so fucking good at that,” I gasp, hips rocking into his face like I’m starved for it.
Which, okay, I am, and I have zero shame about it.
I want him to know how much I want it, how much I want him.
My whole body is tuned to every scrape of his beard, every flick of his tongue.
He eats me like he’s never had a better meal.
And then, without warning, he snaps his hands to my ass and shoves me up onto the kitchen counter like I weigh nothing. The world tilts wild. My bare thighs hit cold resin, my back arches, and Grant crowds in after me, mouth barely even leaving my pussy.
I yelp, but all it does is fuel him. He sets my legs over his shoulders, palms bracing my hips wide. The way he’s looking at me makes me feel like a fucking goddess. I’m carved out of need, and he’s the only one who can worship me right.
“Look at you, angel,” he mutters, right against my skin. “Spread out, dripping for me. Is this how you want to be used? Sitting on my counter, soaking my beard while I make you scream?”
The sound I make is undignified. My head tips back until it hits the cabinet with a clunk.
“You want me to use my fingers, baby girl? I know you like that.”
“Yes—I—”
His fingers are inside me before the words even finish. Two, thick and rough-tipped, thrusting deep, curling just right. My head slams back this time, making the cabinet door rattle. Grant is relentless, lapping at me like he’s starving.
“You’re so fucking wet for me.” His beard is scratchy, the heat of his breath like wildfire between my legs as he obsesses over my clit.
“I could eat this pussy every single morning, you know that? I want you dripping down my chin every fucking breakfast. I want you soaking my beard before I even have coffee, baby girl.”
My hips jerk, chasing every thrust of his fingers.
He just laughs. “That’s it. You want to make a mess of me, don’t you? Like last night?”
I want it so bad I could sob, but all that comes out is a moan.
“Use your words,” Grant demands.
“I need it,” I whine. “Please, please, please—”
Grant grins up at me, eyes dark. “Such a good, obedient girl. No holding back, okay? I want all of you.”
My entire body goes molten, and he fucks me harder, three fingers now. His tongue is merciless. I can’t breathe. I’m making noises I don’t recognize as human, just wild air and high keening sounds. The pressure builds so fast it’s like a fuse burning down, and then I detonate.
I come so hard I see white. The orgasm rips through me, and I feel the hot rush of liquid pulsing out of me, soaking his hand, his beard, and the counter under my ass.
“Oh my God, Grant, I—fuck—”
I’ve never squirted in my life, but unless I’ve actually pissed myself, that’s exactly what happens. To my own mortification—because I’ve always considered myself sex-positive—humiliation is a lightning bolt slicing through the pleasure.
I can’t feel my legs.
If Grant is fazed, he doesn’t show it. He groans into my pussy, lapping at me.
His beard is soaked, his jaw flexing as he works me through the aftershocks, and I realize I’m still babbling, an endless stream of, “Oh my god, Grant. I’m so sorry, I’ve never—that’s so embarrassing, I can’t believe I just did that—fuck.
I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—” until he snaps.
He bites me, right at the sensitive inside of my thigh, then sucks, and I shriek, hips jerking, because that is definitely leaving a mark.
Grant lifts his face, beard slick and glistening, green eyes obliterated to black, and for a second, the only thing that exists in the world is the sight of him there, kneeling between my thighs, flushed and panting and utterly debauched, covered in me.
“Don’t you dare fucking apologize for that.”
I blink, stupid with it. He’s so gorgeous, so unhinged.
His chest heaves, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but all it does is smear my slick around, making his beard glimmer.
“Christ, Neve. How are you so fucking perfect? You nearly made me blow in my pants again. I’m forty-two, and it’s like you’ve turned me into a horny teenager again. ”
My eyes drop because I can’t not look. The waistband of his sweats is straining for dear life, the fat, flushed head of his cock trapped by the elastic, peeking out from under the soft curve of his belly. The whole picture is so filthy I can barely look at it without blushing.
Still, I look and I look and I look, and I want to crawl down his body and take him in my mouth, taste his want, see if I can make him lose it for me again.
“Well,” I say with a breathy laugh. “You know what they say. You’re only as old as the woman you feel.”
Grant barks a laugh, and his thumb traces over the mark he just left on my thigh, gentle.
“You have no idea how fucking hot that was,” he whispers.
I can only whimper. It’s all I’ve got left in me.
He gets to his feet and hauls me off the counter, big hands all the way under my thighs, then he buries his face in my neck, breathing me in. I melt. My arms drape around his shoulders, dead weight.
The air smells like coffee and sex and him.
I nuzzle behind his ear. “You’re perfect. You know that?”
He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Not as perfect as you. Let me take care of you, baby girl.”