“Fuck me, Grant,” I panted breathlessly. “Put your dick in me and fuck me. God! Please!” I begged into the sultry air of the room. Apparently, those were the words he’d been waiting to hear. As soon as I finished pleading, he reached between our bodies and directed the head of his shaft to my opening. He ensured we had firm eye contact before sliding into me completely.
“Fuck, baby. So good. It’s so good in this cunt. I’m ruined for any other.” Slowly withdrawing, he kissed me again. Expert strokes followed, and both our control began to slip. I gasped when he moaned. I sighed when he growled. Erotic sounds from our throats and lewd, wet sounds between our bodies echoed around the room. My head spun with the exquisiteness of it all.
“Rio. Baby. Come with me. God, I can’t hold it off,” Grant panted while pounding into me.
“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Yes! So close,” I answered through my own ragged breaths.
Together we reached our peak, and he went utterly still, absorbing the way our bodies held each other in the tightest, pulsing, and throbbing embrace.
The wonder in my voice was pure when I looked at him and said, “I feel you. I can feel you coming inside me.”
“I know, baby, feels so good.” His eyes drifted closed, and he groaned as I clenched my insides around him. “Yes, God. Squeeze me like that. Fuck, that’s amazing. I think I’m getting hard again.” He kissed my nose and grinned down at me. “You are so incredible. Do you know that?” A slight shift of his hips, and he pulled out of my pussy and rolled to the side, pulling me against him when he settled on the mattress.
And then silence. Golden silence. There were times—notably, when my anxiety was ramped up—that silence was louder than a brass band. But lying in Grant’s embrace, while he delivered an occasional kiss to my shoulder, neck, even my hair, peace blanketed the room. A girl could get used to feeling safe in his arms.
Don’t go there, fool.
Sex was sex. Just physical need, and nothing more. I was in no place, emotionally or psychologically, to consider what just happened between us as anything more. Nothing but trouble would result from that dangerous line of thinking. Grant was a terminal bachelor. I knew I was already breaking the mold of his usual conquests when he dipped his dick in me more than the one time. The interest he took in me was so outside his normal behavior. Those were the facts I needed to remind myself of—and often.
“Should we shower?” he asked quietly.
“Probably,” I replied, but neither of us made a move to get up. His muscular arm was slung across my waist and I rested mine on top. “Let’s just chill here for a bit. Feels too comfortable to get up.”
“Agreed.”
This time when the silence settled, I could feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts. My curious mind weighed the merits of asking him what he was thinking so intensely about. But I knew how cliché it would sound from a freshly fucked female to ask this brooding male, “What are you thinking about?” Nine times out of ten in this situation, hearts and egos were stomped on. The answer might not be one I wanted to hear.
Fuck it. When had I ever played on the safe side of the tracks? So, throwing caution to the wind, I asked him, “What’s so heavy on your mind, Twombley? I can feel the weight of your thoughts hanging above us like an anvil.” I stroked up and down his arm, trying to let him know I wasn’t looking for a confrontation.
Long minutes passed, and he didn’t respond, even though I could tell from his restless shifting he hadn’t drifted off to sleep. Just when I was giving up on having my question answered, he pulled his arm off my body and rolled over to face me, resting his cheek on his folded hands.
I mirrored his pose, although skipped the prayer-hands pillow. Maybe I shouldn’t have though. Divine strength could’ve helped while I waited for him to organize his thoughts.
“You’ve been hanging around me too much,” I finally teased to ease the burden of the moment.
He eyed me carefully and asked, “What do you mean?”
“You’re overthinking something on a professional level. Analytical skills like that take years to develop. You’re not typically the one who beats everything to death around here. That’s totally my gig,