A rapid, violent cord snaps in my body, lashing every nerve, loosening a white-hot pleasure so intense I can’t even scream.
I’m just a thing of raw, bestial pleasure underneath his body, his hips slamming into me, hoarse sounds ripping from his throat as he grinds me into the mattress.
We’re beyond holy shit, people.
This is hallowed ground, unholy sex, and I think it always will be with what this man does to me.
There’s barely a breather as his thrusts quicken, raging through my release, a perfect shadow of muscle hovering over me.
He’s thick with promises and thicker with raw friction and guttural groans.
“Willow, fuck, I can’t—”
“Come with me!” I scream, locking my legs around his, flinging myself upward and enveloping his beautiful cock.
Apparently, this is what it’s like taking an avalanche to bed and wanting to be crushed.
Because a second later, his body goes as rigid as steel.
He plunges to my depths, swelling at the edge of my womb with embers from hell in those whiskey-dark eyes, so bright they’re almost russet now.
It’s enough to send me flying right over the edge again, a split second ahead of him exploding in the condom.
I swear it’s so hot, so intense, so much I can feel him erupting inside me.
The rest of what I feel leaves no doubt whatsoever.
His massive body seizes, a ragged curse lodged in his throat, every last bit of him hellbent on claiming me for what I know will be the first of many, many rounds.
We come together for an age, our hips fighting each other for every last squeeze of pleasure, our voices shot for the next few hours.
Dear God.
I’m barely coherent enough to gasp for air when he finally rolls off me, shoving his lips on mine for one more possessive, jealous, and all-too-addicting kiss.
Stick a fork in me.
I was done twenty minutes ago.
I also know this is something I have to experience again.
Soon.
One wild round with Grady McKnight is so not enough for this lifetime.
14
If He Hollers (Grady)
I pinch myself, making sure I haven’t turned inside the fuck out.
Every time I look at Willow Wisp, I remember how she shuddered, moaning my name as she came like the Fourth of July.
I try to keep my proud grin hidden, but I can’t.
I’m still a dude. Sue me.
Go ahead and bet how much I loved every nanosecond of her walls pinching my cock. Loved the feel of her hot, wet pussy clenching, aching, coming undone.
I left her in pieces, and I want to be the only man who puts her back together.
Worst part is, as soon as I was spent, I wanted her all over again like a man craves an oasis in the dry-ass desert. I never even softened.
The only reason I hadn’t taken her again was because of the girls.
That instinct was right.
They were breaking into cookies in the kitchen when I came downstairs after my shower, after Willow, taking my sweet time to avoid rousing suspicion.
Don’t get me wrong.
I’ve never been annoyed to see my lovely daughters, but at that moment, fuck.
I truly wished they were a little older and out for a nice, long country drive instead.
All because I wanted to claim, toss, and shake Willow Macklin seven ways from Sunday.
All I wanted were a thousand more of those hot, wet, sexy-as-all-hell kisses.
I’m still aching for her lips and it’s been over three hours.
Every minute since leaving that bed has been a special torture.
After grilling up the burgers for dinner and eating, we took the girls out to the barn to check on Bruce. He’s as content as ever, looking bored like he never busted out in the storm.
Willow showered too, and now she’s wearing a pair of jean shorts and a white t-shirt with purple eyes. One of my spares with The Purple Bobcat’s logo.
Damn if it doesn’t hang off of her like a Siren. A man always gets hard enough to break concrete whenever a chick he’s drunk on wears his shirt.
Facts of life from the Book of Grady.
Even worse, my bobcat’s pupils are right over her pert, suckable nipples, teasing me with how bad I’d love another taste. Just remembering how I’d softened those hard nubs with every stroke of my tongue puts lightning in my blood.
We’re all in the living room now, watching a movie that lost my attention an hour ago.
My one-track mind is stuck on her tits, and my cock jolts every time I look at her.
So this is how it ends.
My entire life, gone in a puff of manic, dick-crazed obsession with Little Miss Tiger Thief.
Fuck.
My eyes keep flicking to the birch-skinned clock above the fireplace, trying to make the minutes go by faster until it’s time for the girls to go up to bed.
I know.
Believe me, I know.
If I couldn’t actually see that silver minute hand slowly chugging along, I’d swear it needs new batteries.