Grip Trilogy Box Set

Bris wore one of my shirts to bed, which she does on purpose because she knows how damn sexy I think it is. The buttons open to her navel, and one panel of the shirt covers her left side, but the other falls away to bare her right shoulder and breast where Martin’s lucky little mouth wraps around a nipple.

“Hi,” I finally reply, my voice a little hoarse and my dick stiff in my briefs.

“I tried to stay awake,” she whispers. “But I was too tired. How’d the recording session go?”

“Not great.” I push out a frustrated breath. “Everything feels forced.”

I walk deeper into the room until I reach them, bending to take Martin from her, careful not to wake him. Her nipple, distended, shiny and wet, pops from his mouth. I lean down to her ear, sucking the lobe between my lips.

“Grip.” Bristol’s breath stutters and her eyes drift closed.

Holding Martin to my chest, I trail kisses over her jaw and down to her collarbone.

“Go wait for me,” I say, my voice low and lust-rough. “I got him.”

She stands and quickly leaves the room while I lay my son in his crib.

He squirms and twists as soon as his little body hits the mattress.

“Missed you today, handsome boy,” I say softly, pushing thick curls off his round face.

His eyes, dark like mine where Nina’s are gray like Bristol’s, snap open. I catch a curse, hoping he goes right back to sleep so I can go fuck his mother. Our gazes lock in the lamplight for a few seconds before his long lashes flutter, his head lolls to the side, and he falls back asleep.

Who would believe such a little person would require so much work? So much vigilance? Bristol is back in the office for half days, but the rest of the time she’s here with Nina and Martin. I’m here when I can be, and a nanny, whom Bristol vetted like the FBI, helps for a few hours a week. Sarah, Bristol’s assistant, is at our house all the time working. Bris is constantly in Zoom meetings and on teleconference calls. She works harder than ever.

I help, of course, but I’m preparing for the next album and a tour. I’ve been more absent than I like to be. On the surface, everything is working, but there’s a restlessness I’ve been trying to ignore so I can go through the motions of managing this complicated life of ours. I miss my time with Bris. I need more of her. If I sound like a whiny, needy wuss, I don’t really care. If there is one thing I’m in tune with, it’s my most base needs. And there is nothing more essential, more fundamental to my happiness, than my wife.

When I make it to our bedroom, I’m still considering her heavy workload, the time she devotes to our kids, and most of all—most selfishly of all—how little time I’ve had with her since Martin was born.

Those thoughts fly away on a horny breeze when I see Bristol naked in Lotus pose in the middle of our bed. Her breasts are bigger. Ass is fuller. She’s always been slim, and still is, but there’s a ripeness to her body after Martin that is sexy as fuck. She keeps trying to Pilate it away and yoga it off, but I love it.

“Did Martin wake up?” she asks.

Our bedside lamp casts light over the supple lines of her body, showing me the wide, sensual curve of her mouth. The thick, rosy lips exposed between her legs. The delicately muscled plane of her stomach. The small scar from the C-section she had with our first child.

“He’s asleep, yeah.” I stand at the side of the bed and brush my thumb under her eyes, evidence of just how hard she’s been working and how little rest she’s getting. “Which is what you need to do.”

I should let her sleep. Guilt reaches every part of me . . . except my dick, which obstinately remains erect, undaunted and unsoftened by guilt.

“What I need to do,” she says, eyes locked with mine while her hand latches on to the pole poking through my briefs, “is take care of my husband.”

I haul air through my nostrils and expel it harshly through my mouth at her touch. I train my eyes above tit level because, if I look any lower, I’ll be all over her, all up in her, ramming from behind, from the side, from any angle I can get it.

Don’t look down. Don’t look down.

I mentally repeat the mantra like I’m walking a tightrope.

“I’m all right, babe.” I lie through gritted teeth. “Really. Get some sleep.”

Disappointment flashes across her pretty features, quickly followed by determination. She leans back on one elbow and spreads her legs, slipping a hand between them.

“You go on to sleep, Grip,” she says, dropping her head back and moaning. “I’m just gonna come at least once before I turn in.”

Motherfucker.

Literally.

Without acknowledging her dirty trick, I grab behind her knees and drag her to the edge of the bed. Her husky laugh floats around us in the dimly lit room.