I turn to go before I feel less magnanimous, glad I’ve found at least enough peace with the situation not to ruin what was already going to be a difficult day.
“We’re good?” he asks, soaping the heavier muscles of his shoulders and his ink-splattered arms. Water skids over his chest and between the stacks of muscled abs. A trail of suds migrates south, catching in the hair nesting around his cock.
I lick suddenly dry lips and subtly squeeze my thighs together to suppress the involuntary pussy clench the sight of him incites. While I was negotiating, I could block out the absolute perfection of him, but now I can’t look away from the wide head that still feels like it’s splitting me open every time even after months together. I don’t know if my body will ever fully adjust—I hope not, because the almost-too- much-ness reflects my emotions, like this love is almost too much, straining the seams of my heart until I think I may burst from what I feel.
“Yeah . . .” I clear the huskiness—and hussy-ness—from my voice and try again. “Yeah, we’re good.”
A strong hand vises my wrist and tugs me forward until I’m just beyond the shower threshold, close enough for steam to slip under my dress, but not close enough to get wet—except I am wet. I may not be in the shower, but my panties are soaked. Then it only gets worse when, with his other hand, he strokes himself languorously, lazy flicks of his wrist that lengthen him into a thickly veined, rigid column.
“Bristol.”
My name on his lips pulls my attention from the steady pull between his thighs to the dark stare trained on me, his eyes narrowed with water droplets clinging to the thick lashes tangled at the corners.
“Tell me what you want.”
Those are my words, the ones I used to probe about New York. I knew what he wanted then, and he knows what I want now. I grit my teeth against all my wanton urges, but the words spill out.
“You.” My breath comes short and quick. “I want you.”
In a quick motion, he jerks me into the shower, fully clothed. My dress plasters my skin, and water seeps into my shoes. It will infuriate me later that he has ruined a perfectly good pair of Jimmy Choos.
Chapter 8
Bristol
“YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE.”
I flip down the visor mirror to study the bright red mark on my neck. I should have left that bathroom, but no, I just couldn’t resist. Grip’s shower ended like so many do—with me up against the wall.
Grip lets out a salacious chuckle from the driver’s seat. He’s one of the few people allowed to drive my car, and as he navigates back roads on our way to his mother’s house, I’m glad I trust him to do it. As nervous as I am, I’d probably run off the road.
“So, you think in the middle of shower sex, I had the presence of mind to give you a hickey?” Grip flicks me a disbelieving glance. “Just to embarrass you at my mom’s house?”
“Yes, I absolutely do, because you’re always looking for ways to embarrass me.”
“Babe, I don’t even know if the sky is blue when I’m inside you.”
“You’re so full of shit.” My laugh takes flight on the wind with the top down. “Your sweet talk doesn’t work on me.”
His knowing look picks my bravado apart, because his sweet talk totally works on me and he knows it.
“As if I’m not nervous enough.” I play with the cuff of my linen shorts, focusing on that small movement instead of the next few hours meeting Grip’s friends and family. I’ve met some here and there over the last few months, of course, but with Grip on tour all summer, not many.
“Don’t be nervous.” Grip’s frown comes quickly now that he sees I’m legitimately not looking forward to this. “Amir will be there, and Shon. You know them and they love you, and my mom is asking about swirl grandbabies every time we talk, so I’m pretty sure you’ve won her over. Once we procreate, you’ll have her eating from the palm of your hand.”
“Swirl . . . wait, what? Oh, my God.” I’m not sure if my stomach flips over inside because of his mother’s outrageousness or at the thought of having Grip’s kids. I never saw myself as maternal—like, at all—but imagining myself pregnant with Grip’s child is a different matter altogether. I’m assaulted with images and feelings better examined alone than when I’m heading into what feels like social battle.
“Everybody at this party,” Grip says, “they’re guys I grew up with, neighborhood ladies who whooped my ass when I was a snot-nosed kid, people from Ma’s church.”
“Church?” My hand flies to my neck to cover the bite marring my skin. “Oh, God.”
“It’ll be fine.” He grabs my hand from my lap and kisses my fingers, not taking his eyes from the road.
“I want them to like me,” I say. That’s hard to admit because I can count on one hand the people I want to like me, and it’s been that way all my life. I was born with a limited amount of fucks, but all of a sudden I need the approval of Ms. James and this whole group of nameless, faceless people who may hold the same views as Jade.
Ugh, Jade.
“Will Jade be there?” I ask, braced for the affirmative.