Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,228

and drag him up and back out into the living room so we can pretend to be upstanding, well-adjusted human beings, but I can’t because, love- starved animal that I am, my fingers are digging into his scalp and pressing his head deeper into the starving center of my body. If he bites my clit . . .

“Ahhh. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Griiiiiiip.” In the midst of what borders on an out-of-body experience, I slam my palm into the wall for support. “Oh, please don’t stop. Yes! Dammit, yes.”

His mouth, right at the nexus of my pleasure, dips my inhibitions into boiling water, and they dissolve. Discretion takes a flying leap off Orgasm Falls, and I’m coming loudly and with unladylike enthusiasm when there’s a startled gasp from the other side of the heavy wooden door and then an awkward cough.

Grip freezes and reaches up to cover my mouth with his hand. His eyes are laughing and his lips are shiny. “Why are you so loud?”

I jerk away from his hand and narrow my eyes still teary from my cataclysmic orgasm.

“You bit my clit,” I hiss. “What did you expect?”

“Um, Bristol?” Charm taps the door, her voice sounding awkward. “We’re, uhhhh . . . out here when you’re ready to come—I mean, um, come out . . . here.”

“We’ll be right out,” I reply with false brightness before lowering my voice to a whisper. “You think they heard me?”

“Seriously?” He stands, a smug grin on his face. “They heard you in the Bronx, Bris.”

This isn’t happening. If I pretend long enough that they did not just hear me screaming my brains out mid-orgasm, maybe it will become reality, replacing this disaster where I’m still shuddering from coming hard as fuck on a stranger’s porcelain sink.

“We should get out there.” Grip grabs the knob.

“Wait.” I clutch his arm and hiss. I can’t stop hissing because they’ve heard enough and anything above a hiss would only tell them more. “You’ve got . . . you need to . . .”

I pantomime rinsing my face off, furious when he tilts his head in confusion.

“You are not going out there wearing . . . me . . . all over your face,” I whisper fiercely. “I’ll go first. You . . .”

I motion between the faucet and his amused expression. I reach for my panties, but he holds them over his head, out of my reach, and then shoves them into a pocket of the jeans resting low on his hips.

“I hate you,” I growl.

“Yeah, it sounded like it.”

He has the audacity to smirk, and it’s so damn sexy I’m tempted to hop back up on that sink. Instead, I draw a deep breath, reaching for the breeding my parents paid so much for, and open the door. I want to sink through the buffed-to-high-shine hardwood floors when I see a third person has joined Charm and Bridget. Apparently, Mrs. O’Malley arrived while Grip and I were indisposed. Bridget looks uncomfortable and slightly shocked. Charm looks amused and slightly jealous. She introduces me to Esther O’Malley.

The powder room door opens behind us and Grip steps out, turning his smile up to full wattage. Charm practically swoons.

“You must be Mrs. O’Malley,” he says, reaching for Esther’s hand. “I’m Marlon. You have a beautiful home.”

“It really is,” I agree. If he can recover smoothly and be all normal, so can I. “We were just admiring the powder room.”

Abort mission.

Why did I remind them about the powder room? But I can’t stop. My mouth runs ahead of my good sense.

“And noticing the, um . . .” What was I noticing other than Grip’s head between my legs? “The wallpaper.”

“Wallpaper?” Mrs. O’Malley’s thick, dark brows pull center. “There’s no wallpaper in there.”

“Exactly,” I rush to say. “I told Grip, I said, Grip . . . um, Marlon, I’m so glad they didn’t use wallpaper in here.”

“She did. That’s what she said.” Grip nods with great gravity. “What color would you call that paint, though, honey?”

The polite smile freezes on my face, and my eyes jerk to find his. He’s laughing at me. His mouth is a flat line, but those eyes are a-live with laughing at me.

“Oh . . . gosh, well, it’s such a . . . such a . . . rich color,” I stammer. I’m not a stammer-er, but it’s not every day I have an all-out orgasm within earshot of a little old Jewish lady with an Irish last name. “I’d call