Chapter Twenty-Two Grace
Twenty-Two
Grace
Two hours.
Grace had been lying in this stupidly romantic bed for two goddamn hours and sleep was nowhere in sight.
Instead, she got: the sound of the rain still battering the windows, the memory of her own humiliation playing on repeat, Reese’s steady breathing from across the room and that antique clock on the mantel that ticked so loudly she was considering throwing it out the window.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Like it was counting down every mortifying second since she’d climbed off his lap. Or been gently shoved off it.
Grace stared at the ceiling beams, cataloging all the ways she was an idiot.
She’d kissed Reese Spencer. Had been grinding on him in a way that made her want to bury her face in this silk pillow and never come out.
And then he’d stopped.
Just…stopped.
Pulled away like she’d suddenly grown a second head or started speaking in tongues or done something equally horrifying.
Well. Obviously he’d stopped. What had she expected?
She was a small-town waitress. A single mom.
She served coffee to people who left five-cent tips and thought they were being generous.
He was a billionaire who’d dated actresses and models and—oh yeah—Megan fucking Cooper, the director.
Long dark hair and talent heaped so high it could be seen from space.
The woman made art films that won at Cannes.
The woman also had cheekbones that could cut glass and a skincare routine that cost more than Grace’s monthly rent.
Of course Reese Spencer had stopped kissing Grace.
Grace bunched her pillow, punching it harder than strictly necessary.
She tried not to look at his form in the darkness.
Failed at that too, apparently, because her traitorous eyes kept drifting to the chaise longue where he’d settled like some martyr.
He’d taken off his sweats, she’d heard the rustle of fabric and was presumably lying there in his underwear like this was totally normal and fine and not driving her absolutely insane.
Stupid, stupid Grace.
And look at him, sleeping peacefully. Easy for him, wasn’t it? Just turn off the billionaire brain, close the wolf-green eyes and drift off like he hadn’t just kissed her senseless and then acted like it was a mistake.
She heard a whimper then.
Soft. Pained. A sound that punched straight through her anger and embarrassment and hit something deeper.
She sat up, squinting through the darkness.
Reese was moving. His head turning side to side. Hands clenching. His breathing getting faster, more desperate.
A nightmare.
Grace’s heart clenched despite herself.
She should stay in bed. Should let him deal with his own demons. Should absolutely not get involved because getting involved with Reese Spencer had already proven to be a spectacularly bad idea.
But then he cried out—sharp and broken—and the words cut through the darkness:
“No, Dad!”
Reese jolted awake, gasping, his whole body rigid.
Grace was out of bed before she’d made a conscious decision, crossing the room on bare feet, kneeling by the chaise longue. Her hand found his arm and she squeezed. “Hey. You’re okay.”
Reese’s head whipped toward her, eyes wild, disorientated. His chest heaved and, in the moonlight, she could see the sheen of sweat on his face, the coiled tension in every muscle like he was ready to fight or run.
He blinked, coming back to reality.
“Grace?” His voice was rough.
“Yeah. You had a nightmare. I think it was about your dad?”
He ran a hand over his face, jaw tight. For a moment she thought he’d tell her to leave. Put the walls back up. Become untouchable again.
Then, flat: “My dad. You know the reason he died? He took his own life.”
Grace’s stomach dropped. “Reese—”
“I found him.” Still that matter-of-fact tone, like he was reciting facts that had nothing to do with him. “It was the garage. Quick, they said. Doesn’t stop him showing up in my dreams most nights.”
Jesus Christ.
“And then my ex-wife, Megan, tried to kill herself too.” He took a breath. “That’s on me, both times. Missed the signs. Too wrapped up in my own crap to notice what was happening around me.”
“You were ten when your dad—”
“Still should’ve seen it.”
“You were just a kid.”
“What’s my excuse for Megan, then?” He finally looked at her and the cold certainty in his eyes made her chest hurt. “I wreck things, Grace. It’s what I do.”
For a second, Grace wanted to argue. To tell him he was wrong, that he couldn’t possibly blame himself for things that weren’t his fault.
But she knew that look. The bone-deep conviction that you were fundamentally damaged.
She’d seen it in her own mirror often enough, usually at around 2 AM when the bills were overdue and Zach needed new clothes and the bank had sent another rejection letter.
So instead of arguing, realization dawned. “That’s why you stopped earlier. You don’t want to wreck me.”
He didn’t answer. But the look in his eyes said everything she needed to know.
“Stop that.” Grace’s hand tightened on his arm. “I’m not fragile. I’m not going to shatter because of whatever bullshit story you’re telling yourself. I’ve survived way worse than you. You’re not special, Reese Spencer.”
He gave her a bemused look. “Harsh.”
“You want coddling, go back to your actresses.” Grace shifted, sitting back on her heels. “I’m just saying, you’re not the disaster you think you are. You’re just a guy who’s had some shit happen. Welcome to the club. We meet Fridays.”
Now he did smile, enough to reveal those dimples. “Fridays, eh?”
“Bring your own wine. We’re not fancy.”
They stared at each other and Grace was acutely aware that she was kneeling next to a man she barely knew having a feelings conversation.
Her life was absurd.
Then Reese’s hand came up, cupped the back of her head and pulled her in.
This time, the kiss was different. Not the desperate intensity from before.
Not the alcohol-fueled want that had ended in broken glass and regret.
This was slow and deliberate, like he was making a decision instead of losing control.
His mouth moved against hers with intent and Grace felt it in her bones.
This wasn’t apology or comfort or anything soft.
There was still that edge of dominance, that alpha certainty that made her want to either punch him or climb him again.
She was leaning toward climb.
The hand in her hair tightened as Reese kissed her deeper, harder.
Then he was moving, standing in one fluid motion and Grace found herself being lifted off the floor like she weighed nothing.
“Reese, what—”
“Bed,” he said against her mouth. Not a question. A statement of fact.
Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically and Grace was acutely aware of several things at once: the hardness of him pressed against her through his boxer briefs, the strength in his arms as he carried her across the room, the way his mouth never left hers.
Also, being carried to bed by a half-naked billionaire was doing things to her that probably said terrible things about her feminist credentials.
She’d examine that later. Much much later.
Reese laid her on the bed with surprising gentleness considering the intensity burning in his eyes. The moonlight drifting through the windows gave Grace about half a second to appreciate how attractive he looked—all muscle and focused intent—before he was crawling over her.
The weight of him settled between her legs and Grace’s brain went pleasantly blank.
“If you want me to stop,” Reese said, his voice husky, “say it now.”
Grace looked up at him. At the man who’d just confessed his deepest fears.
Who’d kissed her like she mattered. Who was currently giving her an out even though she could feel exactly how much he didn’t want her to take it.
She understood why he said that now. He wanted to be sure she was ready to break.
He didn’t realize she’d already broken though, so many times.
“Do not stop.”
He nodded then kissed her again and this time there was no hesitation.
No pulling back. Just heat and want. His mouth moved down her jaw, her neck, finding the pulse point that made her gasp.
His hand slid up her thigh, pushing the hem of the nightgown higher and Grace arched into the touch.
Then he was suddenly pulling it over her head in one motion.
She went to cover herself but he pulled her hands away.
The look on his face was worth every moment of self-consciousness as he looked down at her.
Like he’d been given something he didn’t deserve.
Like she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Grace.”
His mouth was on her breast before she could respond as his hand palmed her other breast, thumb circling her nipple, the dual sensation making her moan.
“Like that?” His voice was smug.
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.” He bit down gently on her nipple and Grace’s hips bucked involuntarily. “And I think you like it when I’m cocky.”
He wasn’t wrong. God help her, he wasn’t wrong.
His mouth moved lower. Down her ribs. Across her stomach. And Grace suddenly realized where he was heading.
Then he stopped, teasing her, and she had a sudden memory of WildTrailGuide:
I want you waiting, aching, knowing I’m the only one who decides when it ends.
“Been thinking about this since I saw you on those stairs,” Reese said, pushing the memory away. “About how you’d taste. How you’d sound when you come.”
“Reese! I—”
Grace’s voice cut off as his mouth found her through her underwear. Just the suggestion of contact, fabric between them, but it was enough to make her gasp.
“Reese—”
“Tell me what you want.” His fingers hooked into the waistband. “Need to hear you say it.”
Grace should probably be embarrassed. Should probably maintain some dignity. But she was so far past dignity at this point it wasn’t even visible in the rearview mirror.
“I want your tongue on me,” she said. “No barriers. Now.”