Grip Trilogy Box Set

And he snaps. His control breaks just like my voice does, and he’s clenching my thigh, pumping inside of me with a vigor that rocks the bed and makes my breasts bounce. I claw at the sheets with my free hand, balling the cotton into my fist and holding on while he charges into my body over and over. I reach between my legs to rub my clit, meeting his fire, rising with him, building until the passion burns my thoughts alive.

I think nothing.

I am sensation.

A bundle of nerve endings and longing.

A storm of molecules clashing, exploding. My cries and his become indistinguishable. Our limbs twined and twisted and melded by the heat of our lust into one beam of love. Even after a powerful climax shudders through me, he doesn’t stop. He clings to me, his heart thundering into my back and his hands all over me everywhere until he stiffens and releases a roar that surely cracks the sky.

***

I wake groggily, at first disoriented and searching the strange room for something familiar. The only thing familiar is the man asleep at my side. I sit up, careful not to wake Grip. In light lent by the bedside lamp and a solitary moonbeam shining through the open balcony door, I observe him. His hair and skin contrast with the starkness of the pillowcase. His strong features relaxed in slumber, a crescent of long lashes casts shadows under his eyes. By inches I scoot out of bed, grab his t-shirt from the floor and slip it over my head. I pad over to the balcony and close the door. On my way back, I spot Grip’s open notebook on the floor on his side of the bed. He’s felt so stymied lately and was hoping this trip to Hawaii would inspire some creative breakthrough, but that hadn’t happened.

Maybe now it has.

I tiptoe, holding my breath so I don’t disturb him, and slowly lower myself to the floor, back against the bed, and pick up the pad. This morning it was full of blank pages, but at a glance, I see much of the notebook is now graffitied with Grip’s characteristic scrawl. His handwriting isn’t that bad under normal circumstances, but when ideas and words and lyrics explode in his mind, it’s not normal and it all spills in an ungainly, illegible heap to the nearest available surface. I’ve seen Grip write number one hits on his palms and arms, inking his skin with words that would eventually climb to the top of the charts.

He doesn’t mind me reading his work. Never has, but I don’t want to invade his privacy. Still, I flip through a few pages and words he’s bolded and underlined leap out at me.

Justice.

Freedom.

Equality.

Hate.

Resistance.

Reform.

My warrior poet.

He fights with his pen. Always has. It’s one of the things I love most about him, his conviction and the principles that drive him. He’ll share the full songs with me when he’s ready. I’m closing the pad, when a strip of paper torn from the book and slotted between pages catches my eye.

When I’m parched, I drink from your love

You scatter seeds over my heart, water my soul, quench dry

places until my mind is lush and overgrown with thoughts of you.

“See anything interesting?”

I drop the pad, startled by Grip’s sleep-roughened voice.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to snoop. It was just—”

“Bris, you know I don’t care.” He slides from the bed and onto the floor to sit beside me. He must have gotten up and written while I was asleep and then come back to bed. At some point he donned gray sleep pants. The muscles of his stomach bunch and release as he stretches his long legs out in front of him.

“Ask and you shall receive,” he murmurs, grinning. “You looking at me like you ready for round two.”

My cheeks burn. After all these years, Grip occasionally finds a way to make me blush. I ball my fist up and pound his chest lightly. He drags me onto his lap.

“Oh, God, Grip.” I wiggle, trying to slide back off. “I’m huge.”

“Be still, babe.” He wraps his arms around me, and flattens his palms over my belly, caressing me through his t-shirt. I snuggle into him, absorbing the warmth of his bare chest and the sweetness of his touch.

“I needed this,” he says, softly, his words stirring my hair. “Needed today with you and the kids. Needed my friends and family.”