Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,252

button, music wafts from the hidden speakers. The music is sensuous and whispers sex before the singer delivers the first lyric.

“Prince?” I ask, surprised. I recognize the iconic voice, but not the song. “What is this?”

“‘Adore.’” Grip lifts my arms around his neck and hooks my wrists there. “One of my favorites.”

“I’ve never heard it,” I murmur, barely aware of saying anything. I’m entranced by the intensity of his stare. He cups my jaw, drawing me closer until all our bare skin presses together and all our covered places strain against our clothes, seeking out naked skin and heat. We sway to the music, our hands moving over each other in a dance of rediscovery. He palms my hip, sliding down to hold my ass through my skirt. My fingers wander over the ridges and dips of his torso, rendered in stone. I run my thumb across the fullness of his bottom lip, tracing the lines that are so precise it’s like an artist drew them.

God, this man’s mouth.

I reach up to kiss him, slowly exploring the warm silk interior of his mouth, our tongues like the tide, pushing in and flowing out. We trade moans, our mouths sharing the soft, needy sounds. Our hands pick up pace, mine urgent at his waist, undoing his belt, his fumbling at my back, unsnapping my bra. It’s a quick, thorough disrobing that leaves us naked in the moonlight, half-drunk on the stars with Prince on repeat.

“Now?” I pant at the right angle of his jaw, dragging my lips over his neck and licking at the saltiness of his clavicle. “Time for love now?”

He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, but his body betrays how much self-control he’s exerting when his dick twitches against me.

“We have to drink,” he says sternly, stepping back and leaving me chilled, bereft.

“We’ve been drinking,” I whine, every cell of my body pouting because he’s denying me.

“But we haven’t toasted.” With a devilish glint in his eyes, he walks naked over to the table, the high, round arch of his ass flexing with every step. He pours two glasses of champagne from the bucket that has been chilling all night. My eyes drop between his legs and I force myself to stay standing when he hands me the flute instead of dropping to my knees and taking him in my mouth. Carnality courses through my veins, feral desire possessing every part of me. I want him occupying every empty space. I want to lick his sweat and bite chunks from him, swallow him whole. I grit my teeth and accept the fragile glass filled to the top with exhilaration and bubbles.

“This is a lot of champagne,” I say, letting the bubbles tickle my nose. “I’ll be too drunk for . . .”

I clear my throat, leaving wild thoughts unspoken and bucking in my mind.

“I think you’ll manage.” He lifts his glass and quirks a smile at me, even as his eyes lose some of the humor. “A toast to our first night in our first home together.”

He gently tucks strands of hair behind my ear, rubbing the texture between his fingers before looking back to me.

“You didn’t have to do this, Bristol,” he says softly. “Move here, disrupt your life, your career for me like this, but I’m glad you did.”

“No, I did have to,” I disagree, surprised to find myself blinking back tears. “What I feel for you is not optional, Grip. It’s a mandate, a demand I have no problem meeting. I have to be wherever you are.”

He studies me a moment longer, and the intimacy and openness are almost too much, but I force myself not to look away. I’ve never been more vulnerable to anyone, and I’ve never trusted anyone else the way I trust Grip—with my life, with my heart.

“A toast then, to wherever we are.” He clinks our glasses together, raising his to his lips, but at the last minute and with a wicked grin, pouring just a little onto my chest. I gasp as the cold liquid trickles over my flesh, streaming between my breasts. Before I have time to recover, Grip pours more over my nipples, which immediately bud and lift as if they’re drinking in the potent liquid. Not done, he pours the rest of his champagne over my belly, wrenching a whimper from me when it drifts between my legs, sluicing into my naked folds, seeking out my core, the parts of me that silently