Grace

“Wait.”

Moments before Davis lowers his lips to my…well, you know…I stop him cold with that one word. His hand is looped around one of my ankles—my high-heeled shoe still strapped in place.

“I’m waiting,” he states before resting my calf on one round, muscular shoulder. He maintains eye contact, which is incredible. Since I’m naked from the waist down, he’s closer to looking my vulva in the eye than me.

“Um…”

He waits, eyebrows raised.

I bite down on my lip, weirdly embarrassed. “You don’t have to…do that.”

I mean, this is sort of Sex 202 stuff, right? First-date sex is usually had quickly—standing up…or in the back of a car.

Davis’s eyebrows crash over his nose. “You don’t want me to do this?”

“I didn’t say that.” I clear my throat, my face heating. We’re having the world’s most awkward conversation.

“Then why don’t you get comfortable, Gracie?” He winks and throws my other leg over his other shoulder, wedging himself into place between my thighs. “I’m not in the habit of doing things I don’t want to do, so no worries.”

“But—”

A wink precedes him lowering his face and giving me one long, slow, mind-bending lick.

I forget what I was going to say.

The result is like lightning striking—every part of me tightens in anticipation of the inevitable thunderclap. Davis glances up, a cocky smile on his face. But he doesn’t plead his case. He just does it again.

And again.

Soon my fingers are wound in his hair, my hips thrusting toward his seeking mouth. He takes his sweet time, squeezing my thighs as he administers his perfect licks. I’ve been so close for so long, I have no idea how much time has passed since he started.

I’m getting antsy—and not because Davis is doing anything wrong. Because my stupid brain won’t shut off enough to give me the pleasure the rest of my body is begging for.

So close.

So freaking close.

“Dammit,” I huff in frustration, tossing an arm over my eyes.

But Davis isn’t ready to give up. His fingers nudge, then slide deep, filling me, as his tongue finds my clit.

I incinerate on contact. Heat blooms low in my belly as he delivers blow after decadent blow. By the time he reaches up to cup my breast, I’m writhing. Then he tilts my hips and I’m totally gone.

The orgasm hits me mercilessly, shocking my entire system. I grab whatever’s close—a pillow from Davis’s couch—and smother my cries with it. As my hips pump their helpless rhythm, I’m aware of Davis leaving the cradle of my legs. I use the break to push my knees together, roll to my side, and cuddle the pillow against my chest.

When I finally open my eyes, Davis is on his knees by the couch in front of me. Not gonna lie, I half expected him to be rolling on a condom.

He pushes a lock of red hair from my eye and smiles proudly. “It’s okay if you’re nervous about performing, Gracie.” He lifts a haughty brow. “I’m a pro. You can trust me to get you there.”

I respond by lifting the pillow and smacking him in the face with it. When it bounces off his perfect jawline, he’s squinting one eye and his hair is falling over his forehead. He looks puckish and laid-back.

“Want some more?” he asks so sincerely, so sweetly.

“I want you,” I answer with my own sincere sweetness.

We lock eyes for a beat and a small part of my brain asks: Are we in uncharted territory?

I clasp his neck and tug him to me. I’m rewarded by his kiss—another intentional onslaught, slow and effective in its delivery.

“I have a condom in my purse,” I whisper when we part.

He grins, then puts a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Your purse is too far away.”

He turns behind him and lifts one of the stones from his decorative bowl, opens a little compartment, and extracts a condom.

I gape.

“A hide-a-key?” I say of the fake rock.

“I call it a hide-a-condom.” He tears the foil with his teeth as I giggle.

Damn. I’m not a giggler, but here I am—feeling warm and effervescent all over.

“You rendered me a giggler.” I shake my head in mock shame as he pushes his boxer briefs to the ground.

Then I lose my train of thought.

Davis’s penis stands erect—thick and long. I press my knees together in anticipation. I don’t normally categorize dicks as beautiful, but there’s something about the shape and heft of his that closely resembles a work of art. I’m speechless.

“I don’t mind giggling, Grace,” he says as he rolls the condom down his length. “As long as you know the appropriate time to giggle.”

He’s hovering over me a moment later, making room on his couch for both of us. I wrap my legs around his lower back.

“Now,” he murmurs, his lips very close to mine, “is not the time to giggle.”

With that said, he tilts his hips and pushes inside me. Once he’s settled, I realize I was remiss when I thought his fingers filled me. This kind of fullness is oh, so much better. Then he moves and I swear I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Like we did on the dance floor, we glide. He moves with intention and purpose and I return each of his forward thrusts with an upward shift of my hips.

He fits.

“Damn, Gracie,” he says on a harsh breath.

Palms flat on his pecs, I savor the firmness there before running both hands down his torso. His golden skin is stretched over taut muscles and firm abs.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” I say on an expelled breath.

His laugh blows my hair off my face before he lowers his lips and kisses me. The levity is quickly replaced by something much more intense—much more intimate. His kiss grows hungrier and I cling to his back as he picks up the pace and rides me.

I’m lost in the sound of our intermingling breath and bodies coming together—up to the point we actually come together. I squeeze him from within and he relinquishes his release on a growl.

My hands in his hair, I pull his delicious mouth to mine again, savoring the feel of him inside me. He can hardly keep our mouths sealed—each of his exhalations radiates gratification.

His breaths gradually slow along with mine. He lowers his elbows to either side of my body. Gently, ever so gently, he moves my hair from my forehead and watches me in the silence stretching out between us.

His gray eyes are fathoms deep, darker from a hefty dose of pleasure.

It’s enough to make me smile. He smiles back. I swear the earth shakes beneath me.

Something happened just now.

Something big.

Something I’m going to ignore.

Davis

Grace follows me to the bedroom, where I pull open a dresser drawer and extract my favorite OSU T-shirt. There’s a hole in the neck and the seams have popped on the sleeves. It’s as soft as fine silk.

I toss it to her and she catches it by launching a hand out in front of her and stopping the toss midair.

“That’s some badass kung fu shit right there,” I praise.

She’s dressed the opposite of when we were making love on my couch—not wearing a bra but wearing her panties. Grace’s breasts are too gorgeous to cover up, but judging by those pale pink nipples sitting like mini marshmallows on the tips, she’s cold and needs a T-shirt.

Pity.

“Stop staring.” She’s reprimanding me with a smile. We’ve been smiling at each other like we share a secret, though neither of us knows the other well enough to share what we think that secret is.

Wouldn’t it be a kicker if it was the same one?

She holds up the T-shirt, hugging it to her chest. “I don’t have to stay.”

“What’s with you and the phrase ‘don’t have to’?” I ask, because seriously—what is that?

She shrugs her shoulders and I mentally trace the dots of the smattering of freckles there.

“Never noticed these before.”

“Plight of the redhead,” she comments.

My fingers go to the dots fading off into the tattoo coloring her shoulder. “Always wanted to touch this.”

Her breathing goes shallow and I give in to the fantasy of tracing the lines of the roses and thorns, leaves and buds. Then I pause and narrow my eyes in thought.

“Is there another one?”

Her mouth forms a small O. “No?”

“Let me see it.”

She backs away, her grin returning. Dammit. I knew it. While I was busy with her on her back, I missed the opportunity to see it. She hits the wall next to the bathroom and bites down on her bottom lip.

“Gracie.”

“Fine. You’ll see it eventually.” She rolls her eyes. Turns around.

My mouth goes dry.

There, on the swell of her right ass cheek, is a shamrock. An honest-to-God shamrock. I laugh, touching it with my index finger before giving her perfect, round butt a squeeze.

“Why not four leaves?”

“Cliché.” She peeks over her shoulder at me, in a freeze-frame that’s hot as hell.

“Are you this into Saint Patrick’s Day, or is this a nod to your Irish heritage?”

“I liked it. So I got it. Same with the roses.” She turns to face me and I shake my head in admiration.

“Good reason.”

“So…are you sure about the shirt?” She holds it over her breasts again.

Every inch of her body is so sexy I hate for her to wear anything at all. It’s a crime to cover up that porcelain skin and her perfect curves. Nevertheless…

“No. But put it on. You don’t have to stay forever, but you’re not leaving right away.”

“Oh, I’m not?” She pulls the T-shirt on. It comes to her hips and her black lace thong teases me from under the T-shirt’s frayed waistband.

Fuck me, she looks good in my clothes.

“Didn’t peg you for a snuggler.” She releases her soft curls from the neck of the shirt and drops them on her shoulders. Her bare toes cut through the thick carpeting of my bedroom rug as she comes to me.

I’m in my boxer briefs and an OSU T-shirt too, though mine’s not as butter soft as the one I loaned her.

“Silly redhead,” I tsk. “Snuggling is the best part.”

She can’t tell if I’m kidding, as evidenced by the raised, questioning eyebrow.

“Couch or bed?” I end the question by gesturing to the bed behind me. I have a fantastic bed. One of those adjustable ones that I’ve loaded up with a down comforter, Egyptian cotton sheets, and a ton of pillows. No, not for the women who accompany me from time to time. For me. I like soft things. Speaking of…I reach out and cup one of Grace’s breasts through the T-shirt.

“God, they feel even more amazing through worn fabric.” My eyes sink closed. “Is there anything your tits can’t do?”

I earn a hearty laugh, but instead of swatting me away, Grace steps closer, letting me keep my hand where it is. She tips her chin for a kiss, which I gladly give while taking another for myself. My other hand moves to her other breast and we find ourselves migrating to the bed.

“Davis,” she whispers when I reach for the inconvenient shirt.

“Yeah, Gracie?”

She lifts her arms and allows me to undress her—again.

Another kiss and we’re falling into a sea of blankets.

Morning comes and Grace is in my bed. She’s not wearing my T-shirt.

She’s not wearing anything.

“Coffee?” I ask before reverently kissing one of her perfect nipples.

Sun streams through the curtains and paints her in golden light.

“Or more sex. I’m open to either,” I amend.

She smiles sleepily and opens her arms. “C’mere, snuggler.”

An odd term of endearment, but I do, in fact, go there. A minute later I’m wrapped in her arms.

Not a bad morning at all.