Grip Trilogy Box Set

Teeny, tiny thong. Ass out.

I coax her panties down her legs, inch by torturous inch. When she’s a naked, lithe stretch

of lines and curves, I reach around to cup her breasts, tugging on those nipples until they peek between my fingers. Bristol’s breathing grows more ragged and she presses her back into my chest, circling her ass into my crotch.

I really wanted that blow job, but I’m not sure there will be time for that tonight. One hand stays right where it is, toying with her nipple as the other hand dips between her legs.

“Can you open for me?” I dust kisses across the elegant slope of her shoulders. She widens her stance no more than an inch, but I’ll take a mile. I press the flat of my hand between her legs and the thick, wet lips of her pussy press into my palm. I vary the cadence of strokes over her clit until she’s pumping into my hand, her hips chasing every thrust and her cries dying in her throat before they hit the air.

“Oh, God, Grip.” Her voice verges on a sob. Even when she vises around my fingers, I don’t let up the passionate pace between her thighs.

“That’s it, baby.” I drop to my knees, dragging my tongue down the smooth center of her back and over her ass. I clip the sweet flesh of each cheek between my teeth, relishing her startled gasp. Slowly, I press my hand to her back, bending her at the waist until she bows on the bed, on her knees. I scoot her forward, tilting her chest down and her ass in the air. With a rear view of her spread wide for me, I swipe my tongue down the inside of her thighs, drinking from the silky skin, wet with her juices.

“I’m getting drunk on you,” I mutter.

“Grip.” My name shatters on her lips, but it’s not enough. I want her unintelligible. I suckle her clit and slip two fingers in, smiling against her pussy when she pants into the duvet. I stand and strip then run my cock up and down her divide, soaking in her wetness as she presses back into me, offering me more.

“You have to fuck me now.” Her plea is breathless and urgent. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes glassy. “Please, right now.”

Her eyes beg me. Her pussy weeps for me. The complete surrender in every line of her body undoes me, the last strands of control snapping and popping as they give. The wild, loose parts of me grab her hips and flip her onto her back. I push her legs wide until her knees almost touch her shoulders and run my finger over the hot, wet pleat of flesh between her thighs. Her eyes flutter closed.

“Open your eyes, Bristol,” I say huskily. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

When she looks at me, her hair like a dark river twisting behind her on my bed, my damn knees feel weak. That’s what Bristol does to me with one look. That’s how weak she renders me without even trying. Her eyes are the color of moonlight and her love glows like stars. My whole universe is right here, and I don’t want to leave her and go to New York when the time comes.

Restless arousal shudders through her while she waits, while I stare. I shake off worry and uncertainty, dropping to my knees on the bed and lifting her by the hips. The sound of her breath hitching when I push in, when I invade that sacred space, tightens my balls. She’s a tight, slippery tunnel, and after one stroke, I lose my mind. Body overtakes brain, a coup of instinct usurping reason. I push her knee farther back so I can go deeper. I twist our fingers together, pressed into the pillow by her head. I’m vaguely aware of Bristol moaning, of her tightening around me, of her coming again, the evidence of her pleasure spilling all over me, and then it’s building in me, drawing my balls tight, flexing the muscles of my abs.

My love erupts. It blows.

I’m a geyser, a constant flow until the unrelenting rhythm of my body slows into something gentler, something tender. We press together, and beneath me she is crushed silk. My hot flesh and hers are slickened with the rigor of our passion, the sweat that bathes our skin. I don’t know if it’s mine or if it’s hers, but this moment, this perfect glass-blown moment where our bodies unite and our souls intersect, this moment belongs to us.

Chapter 3

Bristol

I’VE SURVIVED A STORM.

That’s how I feel every time Grip makes love to me, like a hurricane swept through and instead of taking shelter, I stood in the eye of it, the powerful wind whipping over me. I begged it to lift me. I let it love me. And this, the moments after, when the city lights shine through Grip’s wide windows and play over our naked, sweat-slicked bodies, when Grip’s fingers trace my back, playing over the vertebrae like keys on a piano, this is the quiet after the storm.

“I pulled your hair.” Grip’s voice comes quiet, still slightly hoarse. I screamed his name. He shouted mine. Our throats are raw from passion. My scalp still prickles from his forceful tugs of my hair. It’s not quite pain, and in the moment, it felt good enough to make it worth it.

Grip works his fingers through the hair spilling onto his pillow until he reaches my scalp to soothe and massage.

“Did it hurt?” He leaves an offering of kisses between my shoulder

blades.

“No.” I lean back into his affection. “You know I love a rough fuck.”

He chuckles at my neck, his warm breath caressing the sensitive skin.

“Just making sure.”

He goes quiet again. We both do, for several long moments, where the only sound in the room is our breathing, and I swear I can hear his heartbeat . . . or maybe it’s mine. Maybe they’re the same, one not beating until the other does.

“I love sleeping with you.” I don’t say it to fill the quiet—we don’t need that. I just want him to know.

“Me, too. Every night. Every morning.” I hear him swallow, feel his fingers go still in my hair. “Bris, there’s something we need to talk about.”