Still (Grip Book 2)(22)

He closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath, but his body betrays how  much self-control he's exerting when his dick twitches against me.

"We have to drink," he says sternly, stepping back and leaving me chilled, bereft.

"We've been drinking," I whine, every cell of my body pouting because he's denying me.

"But we haven't toasted." With a devilish glint in his eyes, he walks  naked over to the table, the high, round arch of his ass flexing with  every step. He pours two glasses of champagne from the bucket that has  been chilling all night. My eyes drop between his legs and I force  myself to stay standing when he hands me the flute instead of dropping  to my knees and taking him in my mouth. Carnality courses through my  veins, feral desire possessing every part of me. I want him occupying  every empty space. I want to lick his sweat and bite chunks from him,  swallow him whole. I grit my teeth and accept the fragile glass filled  to the top with exhilaration and bubbles.

"This is a lot of champagne," I say, letting the bubbles tickle my nose. "I'll be too drunk for . . ."

I clear my throat, leaving wild thoughts unspoken and bucking in my mind.

"I think you'll manage." He lifts his glass and quirks a smile at me,  even as his eyes lose some of the humor. "A toast to our first night in  our first home together."

He gently tucks strands of hair behind my ear, rubbing the texture between his fingers before looking back to me.

"You didn't have to do this, Bristol," he says softly. "Move here,  disrupt your life, your career for me like this, but I'm glad you did."

"No, I did have to," I disagree, surprised to find myself blinking back  tears. "What I feel for you is not optional, Grip. It's a mandate, a  demand I have no problem meeting. I have to be wherever you are."

He studies me a moment longer, and the intimacy and openness are almost  too much, but I force myself not to look away. I've never been more  vulnerable to anyone, and I've never trusted anyone else the way I trust  Grip-with my life, with my heart.

"A toast then, to wherever we are." He clinks our glasses together,  raising his to his lips, but at the last minute and with a wicked grin,  pouring just a little onto my chest. I gasp as the cold liquid trickles  over my flesh, streaming between my breasts. Before I have time to  recover, Grip pours more over my nipples, which immediately bud and lift  as if they're drinking in the potent liquid. Not done, he pours the  rest of his champagne over my belly, wrenching a whimper from me when it  drifts between my legs, sluicing into my naked folds, seeking out my  core, the parts of me that silently beg to be filled.

"Grip." My voice emerges on a need-broken whisper. "What are you-"

With his lips, he answers the question I didn't get to voice, licking  the champagne from my shoulders and flattening his tongue between my  breasts, soaking up every drop in greedy swipes. His hands clamp around  my hips and he sinks to his knees, his mouth venturing across the flat  surface of my stomach like a sojourner, lost and searching. His tongue  delves into my belly button then he nibbles the skin at my hips and  above my pubic bone, the bristle on his chin abrading even as he  withholds his mouth from me. Over and over, he kisses closer and closer,  but never spreads me, never tastes me in the deeper places. The  champagne boils between my legs as my body heats.         

     



 

"Grip, please." His lips, torture and promise, keep relief and release at bay.

"What, baby?" His heated whisper lands on me, but he won't give me what  my body is weeping for. He runs his nose over the slit dividing me, and  with a deep inhale, draws in my scent. From his knees on the floor at my  feet, he lifts his eyes, burning a trail of possession over my limbs.  "Tell me what you want, Bris."

I swallow the words, holding out as long as I can in a sensual battle of wills I won't win.

He feathers kisses over my hips, runs his wide palms over my legs,  kneading the muscles of my thighs, sliding his finger between the cheeks  of my butt.

"Grip, you know," I whisper. "Just do it."

"I wanna hear." The measured control of his words is at odds with the rampage of his eyes. "Tell me what you want."

"My pussy." Tears adorn the corners of my eyes, the need is so strong. "Eat my pussy."

"Fuck yes," he growls, his fingers separating me and his tongue  unleashed to spear inside. He pulls my leg over his shoulder, opening me  up, and bites my clit, a double-edged sword of pleasure and pain  slicing through me.

"Oh . . . oh, God." I dig my nails into his shoulders-it's the only way I can stay upright.

He takes his time, sucking the lips, biting me, licking and slurping  until the champagne is gone and he's binging only on my juices, moaning  at the juncture of my body. He springs to standing, grabbing me by my  nape, pulling me into a kiss fierce enough, ferocious enough that my  teeth cut into my lips. He's feeding me the taste of my body, rich and  tangy on his lips. It's carnal and addictive. I grab his neck, too,  sucking on his tongue and biting his lips until the metallic sting of  our mingled blood christens the kiss.

With a growl, he lifts me up, and I lock my legs at the cleft of his  ass. He walks us to the padded bench in the middle of the greenhouse,  sinking down and fitting my thighs over his in a loose straddle.

"I'm gonna let you be on top the first time we fuck in our new house," he rasps, setting the words on fire in my ears.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice desperate with the need to vise the length of him with my body.

"But if you don't ride me hard enough, I'm flipping you over and tearing that ass up. Got it?"

"That sounds fair." I nod frantically, no breath left for banter. I'm just ready to impale myself on him.

With one quick motion, I rise up, knees on either side of his thighs,  and scramble onto him like his dick might get away from me, like he's  the last train and I might miss my ride. Every time, it feels like he's  too much, the blunt intrusion of his cock, but then my body remembers I  was made for him. I allow myself one second to feel the pinch and then  roll my hips once, slowly, letting him feel me again, the undulation of  my body a promise. Each time he goes deeper, crossing any barriers my  body, my heart would erect-only there's no barrier, nothing between us. I  grip his knee behind me for leverage to grind deeper, roll harder. My  breasts bounce in his face and he bobs his head, his mouth open and  seeking until he has one in his mouth. He suckles me hard, zipping  electricity from my chest to my core. It's a direct line, and with every  thrust, every stroke, my heart contracts.

"I missed you so much," I say, looking him in his eyes, letting him see  the ache I've carried around while we were apart. I withhold nothing  from him. Not my body-he can have it any way he wants it. Not my  heart-flung open like a door for him to walk through. Not my  soul-twisting around his every time he hammers up into me, possessing me  from the inside out.

"God, Bris," he says at my neck, scorching the skin with his breath. "I  was going crazy. We can't be apart like that. We just . . . we just  can't."

Words of love and devotion tumble between us, swirling around us,  cocooning us in the greenhouse. We are hothouse flowers, growing in  plain sight, blossoming under tinted glass. Beyond the roof, stars burn  light-years away, bright and already dying, but here, between us, brews a  solar storm, a stellar explosion behind my eyes, a constellation of  love and lust, dots connecting inside as I clench and squeeze through my  orgasm. He stiffens beneath me, his fingers clutching tightly enough to  bruise. I'll bear marks in the shape of his hands, bites on my nipples,  stubble burns inside my thighs, sensual mementos I'll carry with me.  I'll wear his touch tomorrow under my clothes. The marks he'll leave on  my body will fade, but the way he's marked me as his, the way he's  carved himself into my heart, that's forever.         

     



 





12





Grip





"Mmmmm." The sweet taste of plantain explodes on my taste buds, and I  squeeze my eyes shut in culinary rapture. "This food . . . damn."

"What'd I tell ya?" Iz sips his rum before diving back into the plate of oxtails in front of him. "I love Miss Lilly's."

The Jamaican diner is packed, and the asymmetrical patterns and bright, clashing colors animate the space.

"And not too far from campus," I mumble around a forkful of saltfish. "I need to bring Bris here. She would love this."

"And I need to find a way to get paid every time you say that girl's name." Good-natured teasing gleams from behind his glasses.

I could tell him that she says the same thing about him. Over the last  month, Bristol has settled in at our new place, and she teases me about  how much I talk about Iz. We've become friends, but there's still a  level of awe I hold for him previously reserved for the likes of the  MJs-Michael Jackson and Michael Jordan. It's his ideas, his perspective  that impresses me, though, not his prowess on a court or in the studio.