Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,356

guess by depression, drugs, I don’t know, but everything has been a shadow of what I felt before. This, now, us together, it feels rich. It finally feels right again.”

She seizes me by the jaw, pulling me close and forcing her way into my mouth, sucking on my tongue, her cheeks hollowing with the forceful suction.

“Fuuuuuuck.” I squeeze my eyes shut because I know I won’t be as gentle as I mean to be. “I don’t want to hurt you this first time.”

“I feel like someone who cuts just to feel.” Her eyes find mine. “That’s how numb I’ve been. I don’t mind if it stings a little.”

“You’ve been numb? You want to cut to feel?” I slide her hand down to my cock, nearly poking a hole in my jeans. “Here’s your knife.”

She squeezes my dick, her hand sliding up and down over the jeans, her eyes entangled with mine.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispers, echoing the words that have been so pivotal in our relationship, one of us always trying to out-please the other.

“I want you right here, spread on these steps.” My words are rough with desperation and lust.

Wordlessly, she drops to sit on the step, elbows behind her on the step above, the motion pushing her breasts forward. One nipple is already out, the dress still half off, half on. She’s obeyed every command, but I have one more.

“Panties off.”

Chapter 47

Bristol

GRIP’S smoky words heat the air, and without breaking eye contact, I reach under my dress and slide the wisp of silk off, tossing it behind me farther up the staircase. I tease the dress up my thighs and spread my legs for him.

I’m gloriously wet. Since Zoe died, I’ve been practically asexual. There were days I felt nothing. Even when I looked at Grip, I would feel love, but passion was elusive, like my heart, my body could only accommodate so much emotion at once, and grief consumed every- thing. Six weeks later, my heart is still broken. There are some places that may never quite heal, but the passion, the want, the scorching need I’ve always felt for this man alone is finally blazing a trail through my body again, and it starts between my legs.

“I want you wider,” he says, his voice pitched low and dark and tortured. His eyes never leave my pussy as he methodically undoes his belt, unbuttons his pants, slides down his zipper, jerks his shirt over his head.

I yawn my thighs open, propping my heels on the step. I’m spread like a buffet for him. He licks his lips, a tell of his hunger.

I run a brazen finger down my slit. He drops his long body in front of me, stretching down the staircase below, elbows propped on the step. His head is between my legs. I reach down, spreading it, serving myself to him. He groans into my pussy, slurping and biting and licking and running his nose through my folds. Arms lengthened down my body as I keep the lips pulled back for him, my head drops to the step behind me. Pleasure long forgotten exults through me, winding between my toes like steam, circling the tense muscles of my calves, the quivery line of my thighs. My spine bows and my hips buck into his mouth. I lift one foot off the step, curling my leg around him, digging my heel into his back and thrusting over his face. Nothing exists for me except the starvation of his mouth against me and his thumb—dammit, his thumb in my ass, working its way into the spindled hole and finding neglected nerve endings.

“Oh, God,” I scream. “Yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes. Don’t stop, Grip. Baby, don’t stop.”

Ever since that day I heard Grip’s heartbeat, I’ve been living by proxy, leaning on his heart to beat for mine. Grief handed me a heart of iron, and I rusted it with my tears, a muscle not made of flesh, not pumping blood. Ever since that day I’ve been a lament in limbo, no longer in the dark but not fully in the light, but here, now, Grip’s touch drags me into the light.

I pop, like an incandescent bubble. The pain, the grief, the desolation, the darkness of the last six weeks unfurls from me in a low keening moan. It hums in my throat and explodes until I’m a deranged thing, bucking and flailing and weeping, tearing at my hair, pinching my breasts, scratching Grip’s back, feeling his