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“Perfect,” I whisper, holding on tight.
Gray
I think I’m going to die. My chest feels like it’s about to crack open, expose my bleeding heart, and leave me wasted on the floor. I’ve never had sex with someone who mattered to me. It’s almost too much to handle. Because this is Ivy.
I’m inside Ivy. Finally inside Ivy. No barriers. Her tight, wet heat clasping my dick so good I have to grit my teeth to keep from shouting.
My fingers sink into her plump, sweet ass, spreading her wider as I thrust. Hard.
Deep. Steady. No more talk. Just Ivy. Having Ivy. Her long legs are wrapped around me, holding on tight. Water rains down on my back, slides over us, makes Ivy’s smooth skin slick, wet. It’s heaven.
Ivy utters a little whimper, like she’s as impatient and needy as I am. She cups my cheeks, finds my mouth. Wet lips, soft tongue. She kisses me as if I’m the best thing she’s ever tasted. And, fuck, it screws with my head. I want to cry, or laugh, or both. I don’t understand it, but I don’t want this to end. It’s agony and perfection all at once.
I angle my head, opening my mouth wider for her, thrust my tongue into her warm mouth. I kiss her until I can’t breathe, until I’m fucking dizzy on her taste.
Ivy makes that hot, feminine whimper again.
It’s too much. I’m losing my mind.
I pump into Ivy. Harder. Harder. I should be gentle. Slow. I can’t. I want to pound myself into her until I’m a part of her. Our lips slide apart, our movements too frantic now for kissing. My face burrows into the crook of her neck, my mouth open on her soft skin.
“Ivy.” I’m saying it over and over, with each thrust.
Ivy, Ivy, Ivy.
I don’t even know why. I want to tell her better things. That she’s everything to me. The best part of me. That I’ll take care of her, protect her—from what, I don’t know. But I will. I’ll keep her safe and happy. Because it’s my job. The most important job I’ll ever have.
But all I can say is her name, fuck her like I’m about to die.
She’s panting now, her slim arms sliding over the wet tiles, as if she’s trying to get away from the pleasure and reach for it all at once. Her thighs clamp down on my waist as she arches her hips into mine. And those sweet-as-fuck tits lift high. I haven’t even gotten a taste of them.
I duck my head, capture a pink nipple, and suck it in deep, lick the stiff little nub, flick it with my tongue. She loves it, her pussy milking my dick as she cups my head and writhes.
Fuck yeah. Heat washes down my back, up my thighs. My balls draw tight, my dick pulsing.
I grind against her, feel her clench as she comes, her cries echoing throughout the shower. And then I’m the one crying out. I don’t even recognize the sounds I make. They’re desperate, loud, and disjointed. I lose sight of Ivy, of myself. It feels so fucking good that, for a moment, I truly wonder if I am going to die. But I won’t, because nothing, nothing, is going to keep me from doing this again. And again.
Because I’m Ivy’s. Forever.
Chapter 21
Gray
There is something utterly satisfying about taking Mac out as her guy. This time when she dances in her wacky way, I can hold her close, run my hands over her curves, duck my head, and draw in her luscious scent. And when we sit with the guys, I can pull her onto my lap and kiss my way across her neck, taste her smiling mouth.
She cuddles me back, pets my hair, touches me as though I’m her own personal plaything. Which I am. In short: Best. Night. Out. Ever.
Mac is happy-buzzing by the time we leave Palmers and is singing Prince’s “Raspberry Beret.” Only it comes out as a throaty but off-key, “Raspberry bidet. I’m trying to find the helping hands floor.”
I don’t even bother to hide my laugh as she side-dances toward my truck. Alcohol does not improve her technique. If anything, her long limbs are even more uncoordinated, moving to a rhythm apparently only she hears. I can’t help but drink her in as she flails about, until she bangs into an unsuspecting trash can, nearly knocking it, and herself, over.
“Who put that there?” she says in outrage before leaning against it and snickering in little bursts of sloppy glee. In the yellow brightness of the streetlight, her eyes shine like onyx as she looks at me. “Get over here, Cupcake.”
My back hurts from purposely dancing badly to help her again, and I’ve got an early wake-up, but I don’t want the night to end.
“So now I’m your beck-and-call boy?” I ask, as I head over to her.
Mac snickers again. “Call boy. Get it?”
