Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,148

lay her back flat and lift the heels of her feet to the marble surface, leaving her knees up and her legs wide open.

“Hold on, baby.” I push into her, and we groan when the cold from the ice cream melts into her wet heat. I pound into her so hard she has to latch onto the counter to keep from sliding away. I break rhythm to check her face for pain or discomfort.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” she moans, her neck exposed, back arching, pushing her breasts up under the thick cotton of her sweat- shirt. I shove the material over her torso, scrunching it at her shoulders and below her neck so I can watch her breasts bounce with every thrust. I bend to take one in my mouth.

“Take it,” she pants. "Baby, take it.”

The exquisite slide of flesh against flesh is like nothing I’ve ever felt, and I realize I’m in her with no rubber.

“Bris, I’m in raw.” I grit the words out because I want to stay right where I am, flesh on flesh. “I need to pull out.”

“No, you don’t.” She pants, her nails digging into my ass. “I’m clean, and I’m covered. You?”

“Yeah,” I answer unhesitatingly. “I’m clean. So we can . . .”

She nods frantically, shifting her hips forward on the counter to change the angle, to deepen penetration. She wants deeper?

I pull her legs straight up on my chest until her feet rest at my shoulders, leaving me nothing but ass and pussy. I slam into her at a bruising pace, hoping I’m not hurting her, but unable to imagine stopping. It’s a primal mating—a feral rutting, and I’m the wild beast reduced to a clump of nerves and instincts.

“Grip.” Her hands climb her chest to touch her breasts, twisting her own nipples. Watching that, there’s no way I’m not coming, but her next words do the impossible. They stop me.

“I love you.” Tears slip from the corners of her closed eyes. “Oh, God, I love you so much.”

My breaths are choppy, my heart seizing in my chest. “What’d you say?”

Her eyes pop open, briefly touching on my face before fixing to the ceiling.

“Um . . .”

I pull her up so her legs fall alongside my hips, our bodies still joined at the center, but her chest pressed into mine.

“Did you mean it?” I demand, cupping her butt.

“Grip, I—”

“Don’t play games with me.” Desperation sharpens my voice. I need to know she means it. She lifts her lashes, and fear saturates her beautiful eyes. Linking her fingers behind my head, her thumbs caressing my neck, she nods.

Not good enough.

“Say it again.” I resume pumping in short and shallow thrusts that will stoke the fire, but won’t satisfy.

“I’m scared to death.” Her words come on choppy breaths. Without breaking rhythm, I bend to her ear.

“You have nothing to be afraid of.” I press her hand to my chest, over my heart. “This is yours. No one else’s.”

I dip my head, slowing to nothing, but keeping her eyes.

“I’m yours. No one else’s.” I scatter kisses over her cheeks. “Even when we fight, I feel you. Your anger, your frustration. I feel your pleasure like it’s mine. Your emotions like they’re mine.”

I peer into the flushed beauty of her face. Her sweatshirt is still pushed up so her breasts press into my naked chest. I give her a moment to recognize the syncopation of our heartbeats.

“Don’t you feel how connected we are?” I ask. “If I break your heart, I break mine.”

A sweet smile spreads over her lips and she nods.

“I love you.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Eight years in the making, but I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I whisper into her hair. “You’re everything to me, Bristol. You gotta know that.”

Her tears come even as our bodies resume a ferocious pace. We splinter into a thousand pieces in her kitchen, becoming more together than we were apart. More than we were alone. With whispered promises and words of love, we exchange hearts.

Chapter 25

BRISTOL

BRIGHT SUN BEAMS through Grip’s windows, letting me know we’ve slept later than I usually do even for a Sunday. We spent the night at the loft, and as I shake off a veil of dreams, lines from Neruda’s “Night on the Island” filter through my consciousness. The poem follows a long night between lovers. Though I’ve read those lines more times than I can count, they were always beautiful hypotheticals. I never expected to sleep through the night with Grip