Grip Trilogy Box Set - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,379

a restlessness no amount of candles and bath bombs can dispel. After just a few minutes, I dry off and belt a terry cloth robe over my nakedness, smiling when both babies move.

“Hello, girls.” I don’t care what Grip says, I know what I feel. There is double girl power in here. “I’d love for Daddy to feel both of you move. Can we make a deal that you’ll let him feel you both at some point?”

“Daddy would love that, too,” Grip says from the doorway.

Leaning one shoulder into the doorjamb and wearing a Muhammad Ali t-shirt, he’s a wonder, my husband. The chiseled planes of his face grow more handsome the older he gets. He has that damn man-ness that somehow converts years into magnetism. As the girl smoothing creams on my neck, serums around my eyes, and fighting gravity with every exercise imaginable, I should resent that undiminished masculine beauty. Except he’s mine, so there’s really no loser here.

I walk over and reach up to caress his jaw, shadowed with stubble. “You have a little gray in your beard, Mr. James.”

He grins, capturing my hand against his face. “Does it make me look distinguished?”

I reach between us, grabbing his cock through his shorts.

“This dick makes you look distinguished.” I squeeze and tug, chuckling at his sharply drawn breath.

“Fuck, Bris,” he rasps, dropping his forehead to rest against mine.

“Exactly,” I whisper, tipping up to nip at his earlobe. “You need to fuck Bris. I think you promised me a ‘massage’. I’m collecting.”

“Didn’t you just have a bath?” He eyes my robe and damp hair. “The oil—”

“I want it. I want the oil and the massage.” I give him another squeeze. “And the happy ending.”

He grunts, closing his eyes and leaning into me, his hardness pressing into my belly. Amorous heat rises inside me like steam and I want him so badly, I’m not sure we’ll make it through the massage. Grip’s massages are not professional grade. They’re mostly slick, deep tissue foreplay, but I love them. The restlessness I’ve felt most of the day could use it.

“Lie down,” he says, leading me to the California king.

My hand goes to the belt of the robe, but he stops me.

“I want to unwrap you myself,” he says.

I lie on my back, and he hovers over me, connecting our eyes. I see desire there, yes, but concern, too.

“Baby, I’m okay,” I tell him, grabbing his hand and kissing his knuckles.

“You sure?” His dark brows pinch into a frown. “The drawing—”

“It took me off guard, and it takes me a while to re-center.” I pull his hand into the neck of my robe, passing his palm over my nipple until it buds beneath his fingers. “But now I want the massage you promised.”

He hesitates, scanning my face and searching my eyes before nodding. He pushes the neckline away, exposing my breasts and shoulders to the cool breeze drifting in through the French doors opening to a private balcony. Our eyes tangle, and beneath the desire filling his stare, a question lingers.

“Grip.” I place his hand on my stomach. “Massage.”

He bends to kiss my stomach, the underside of my breast. “I’ll get the oil.”

Being Grip, he called my massage therapist and asked for tips, things he shouldn’t do or should, to give me a very basic, but safe, prenatal massage at home. I much prefer his over the professional one because I get fucked when it’s over.

I stare up at the ceiling, and that restlessness, the unsettled parts of me, clamor for attention, try to disrupt my desire, but before I can allow myself to be truly distracted, the lights in the bedroom dim and my husband’s hands are on me.

Grip peels the robe open, letting the panels fall to the side beneath me on the bed.

“You want music?” he asks.

“No,” I answer, closing my eyes so my senses are completely overtaken my him, his scent and the warmth of his hands, the sound of him breathing. “Just you.”

Big, oil-slick hands seek out all the knotted places in my shoulders and neck, the rough pads of his fingers so thorough, but tender as he turns me and works at the small of my back. He tends my slightly-puffy feet and ankles, pressing his lips to the arch of my foot and behind my knee as he goes. These little kisses are promises he makes to my body, and every one of them sinks through my skin and caresses my bones. We’ve only been here