Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“I lost control,” he admitted, and Libby’s brows rose to her hairline as she absorbed that statement. Greyson losing control was one thing, but she couldn’t quite believe that he had admitted to it.

She lifted her heavy head from its comfortable position to stare into his troubled eyes.

“Did you?” she asked, and he averted his gaze. His jaw tightened, and his throat convulsed as he swallowed.

“You know I did. I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I imagined us on the sofa. Making long, slow love . . .”

“I didn’t want that,” she inserted hastily, and his eyes dropped back to hers. He looked unsettled.

“What?”

“I’m happy it happened the way it did. We were both satiating a need, Greyson. Taking the edge off, so to speak. I didn’t want tenderness. I wanted exactly what you gave me; a quick, satisfying orgasm.”

“Too quick.”

“Just right,” she corrected him. She knew the loss of control disturbed him. She was used to much longer sessions with him. Where every kiss and caress—while earth shattering—had always felt a little rehearsed. This fast and messy encounter with him had seemed so honest. Maybe because, for once, he hadn’t hidden his responses from her. It had been raw and elemental and pretty damned amazing.

She wriggled in his lap, feeling uncomfortable and constricted in her bunched-up skirt. But he started to harden in response to her movements, and she smiled lazily at his reaction. She kicked her panties off, and before he could react, she sat up and turned to straddle his lap. Her hands settled on the back of the sofa on either side of his head, while her knees sank into the soft cushions next to his thighs.

“Though I wouldn’t be averse to another session,” she said breathily, sliding her wet furrow over the hard, eager length of him.

He made a helpless, harsh sound as she ground against him, and his hands reached up to grab her head and tug her down for an almost brutally hard kiss.

Libby broke the kiss with a triumphant laugh, reaching down between their bodies to grasp his hardness in her hand. She caressed the eager, hard knot of nerves between her legs with the glans of his penis, and they both moaned in reaction to that.

“Olivia.” His voice was loaded with gravel, and the sexy sound of it sent a shudder of pleasure down her spine.

“Not slow and not sweet, Greyson. Hard, like before,” she asserted, and his breath seemed to catch in his throat.

“Fuuuuck.” The word emerged from his throat as a long, low moan, and she smiled approvingly into his strained face.

“Exactly.”

“Great workout,” Sam Brand said between gasps two mornings later. He was grinning down at Greyson, who lay flat on his back, after Brand had felled him with a move Greyson had never seen before.

“You’re good,” Brand went on to say as he held his hand out.

“Not as good as you,” Greyson muttered as he took the man’s hand and levered himself up.

It was the second morning he had sparred with Brand, and after having his ass handed to him the day before, Greyson had handled himself better this morning. The man had found it marginally harder to beat him now that Greyson had a better idea of what Brand could do.

Greyson’s fighting skill came from years of practice in gyms, with the best instructors. Brand’s came from military training and real-life hand-to-hand combat. It was revelatory pitting himself against someone like Brand—the man fought dirty and employed moves that Greyson would love to learn.

“Yeah, but for a civilian you’ve got some great instincts,” Brand was saying. He reached for a towel and mopped the sweat from his face and neck. “You want to help me teach a couple of my self-defense classes?”

The question stunned Greyson, who stared at him in slack-jawed astonishment. Brand was chugging from his water bottle and fortunately didn’t see Greyson’s reaction.

“Self-defense classes?” Greyson repeated, his features schooled into impassivity when Brand looked at him again.

“Yes, I teach a class twice a week at the community center. And I took over a friend’s class at the youth-outreach center as well. There has been a fair amount of interest in the lessons at the community center. And I could offer two extra classes a week if I had another instructor. And I could divide my class into older and younger age groups at the youth-outreach center.”

“Sounds like quite a commitment,” Greyson said. “I have to take care of my daughter on weeknights.”

“We could shift the kids to Saturday afternoons. And have a midmorning class for some of the ladies during the week.”

Greyson considered the man’s suggestion. He didn’t know how long he would be in Riversend, but it looked like Olivia was here for the long haul. He had come here with the intention of bringing Olivia and Clara “home” . . . he nearly laughed at the memory of his own arrogance. Olivia had created a home for her and Clara in this town, and Greyson knew he was going to have to start permanently restructuring his life if he wanted Olivia and Clara to be a part of it.