I dug my nails into his neck.
“Harder,” he demanded, voice like rock. I dug until I felt skin break, and his cock throbbed within me.
“Fuck yes,” he groaned.
I lifted my hand, seeing four uneven lines down his neck. I touched them, and he hissed, quirking his head to the side, but his eyes burned, and his cock throbbed harder inside me. Shivers ran all along my body, setting into my gut.
“Fuck, I can feel you coming.” His hoarse voice was like whiskey against my lips. His grip tightened on my hips. “You were fucking made for me, Story. Your cunt is fucking magic, fucking mine. Fuck—fucking tell me your safe word.”
“No,” I said, tears wobbling my words. “Don’t leave me alone. Don’t make me be the only one.”
The only person addicted, consumed, and lost to their wretched desires.
Tears streamed down my face as Pachelbel’s Canon reached its crescendo, knowing Lottie had started her wedding march. I heard murmurs of the crowd, wondering where Gray was.
He gripped my face. “I won’t. You aren’t.” He swallowed my lips, masking a soul-shattering groan as he came inside me.
For a moment I let myself forget this was an ending, our soundtrack my true love’s wedding to another woman. Grayson pulled back, forehead pressed to mine, th
en grasped my hand, kissing my ring finger over and over again, before biting. So hard I let out a gasp.
“I love you, Story Hale,” Gray said, voice so hoarse it sounded like sandpaper. “I’ll never stop loving you, Story Hale.”
My Atlas, crushed.
That was when he finally told me he loved me, when he was about to marry another woman.
More tears welled in my eyes, but he thumbed them away before pressing his thumbs to my jaw—hard—and kissing me again. Sucking all my breath, my soul, bruising his lips.
I wanted to extend this moment forever.
But the song was almost over and Grayson…Grayson was back here, with me. The murmurs of the crowd were almost louder than the wedding march. How awful Lottie must feel.
“I think you need to go,” I croaked, breaking our kiss.
“Story…”
“Goodbye, Mr. Crowne.”
I used our safe word, throat dry and scratchy.
Grayson kept his forehead against mine for a moment, and I redirected my gaze to the floor.
He swallowed, then disentangled himself. I wished I could curl up in a ball and die, but I settled for closing my legs. Grayson buttoned his pants, fixed his shirt, retied his bow tie. He looked perfect, like he hadn’t just shattered my world.
He watched me a moment, then took out the green pocket square, dabbing the tears I couldn’t stop from my eyes. He let me take over after a moment.
I lifted it to give it back, but he raised a hand. “Keep it.”
A pause.
“If you tell anyone—” he started, but I cut him off.
“Even if I did,” I whispered.
A wrinkle formed between his brows, but it quickly disappeared, and he walked around the flower partition.
Back to his wedding.