Grip Trilogy Box Set

“Don’t play games with me.” Desperation sharpens my voice. I need to know she means it. She lifts her lashes, and fear saturates her beautiful eyes. Linking her fingers behind my head, her thumbs caressing my neck, she nods.

Not good enough.

“Say it again.” I resume pumping in short and shallow thrusts that will stoke the fire, but won’t satisfy.

“I’m scared to death.” Her words come on choppy breaths. Without breaking rhythm, I bend to her ear.

“You have nothing to be afraid of.” I press her hand to my chest, over my heart. “This is yours. No one else’s.”

I dip my head, slowing to nothing, but keeping her eyes.

“I’m yours. No one else’s.” I scatter kisses over her cheeks. “Even when we fight, I feel you. Your anger, your frustration. I feel your pleasure like it’s mine. Your emotions like they’re mine.”

I peer into the flushed beauty of her face. Her sweatshirt is still pushed up so her breasts press into my naked chest. I give her a moment to recognize the syncopation of our heartbeats.

“Don’t you feel how connected we are?” I ask. “If I break your heart, I break mine.”

A sweet smile spreads over her lips and she nods.

“I love you.” She laughs, shaking her head. “Eight years in the making, but I love you.”

“I love you, too,” I whisper into her hair. “You’re everything to me, Bristol. You gotta know that.”

Her tears come even as our bodies resume a ferocious pace. We splinter into a thousand pieces in her kitchen, becoming more together than we were apart. More than we were alone. With whispered promises and words of love, we exchange hearts.

Chapter 25

BRISTOL

BRIGHT SUN BEAMS through Grip’s windows, letting me know we’ve slept later than I usually do even for a Sunday. We spent the night at the loft, and as I shake off a veil of dreams, lines from Neruda’s “Night on the Island” filter through my consciousness. The poem follows a long night between lovers. Though I’ve read those lines more times than I can count, they were always beautiful hypotheticals. I never expected to sleep through the night with Grip or to wake with the possessive weight of h

is arm around me, welcome and beloved. I never expected any of what has transpired over the last two days.

And I almost gave him away.

I would have forfeited the perfect weight of his body over mine. Would never have felt the sweet heat of him wrapped around me, or the bold sweep of his hands over my nakedness under our covers in the morning. These are the things that cost nothing but are precious. And I almost never had them.

“What are you thinking about?”

Grip’s whispered question mists the sensitive skin of my neck, and I scoot back to snuggle under the covers and against his hard, naked body.

“‘Night on the Island.’”

“Fitting.” He opens his mouth over the curve of my shoulder in a kiss. “Because you were definitely wild and sweet last night.’”

“You weren’t so bad yourself.” I turn over to run my thumb over his full lips. “Neruda was so romantic. I’m glad you introduced me to him.”

“Dude had serious game.” Grip laughs. “No one writes about love and sex and passion like Neruda.”

He grins down at me, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “The original Chocolate Charm.”

We both laugh at that. I haven’t heard it in so long. It’s our own inside joke, from the first day we met, but Grip really could charm lint from your pockets.

“I believe you promised to make me come with words alone.” My husky laugh puckers the smooth quiet of the room. “Will you be using his words or your own? Or was that an empty threat?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” he teases me.

He pauses before going on with a more solemn tone.