Sixteen.
That’s how many world-shattering, mind-fucking orgasms Grayson Walker has given me since last night.
Not that I’m counting.
Because who would do that? Count orgasms like they’re trying for some kind of world record?
But really, there’s no need. We undoubtedly already broke that record.
At least we broke my record.
In the past, with the losers I’ve dated, I was lucky to get two in one night. And that was before they passed out cold, then made up some excuse about being late in the morning so they could slip away without making plans to see me again.
But not Grayson.
Not only did he call in sick to spend the day with me, he’s like a machine. He never runs out of steam or...product.
Let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m on the pill. Otherwise, I think I’d be pregnant with octuplets by now.
And what was with him this morning? With all that ordering around and making me beg for it. He was like a sex drill sergeant. I don’t know where that came from—it’s certainly not any version of Grayson I’ve ever seen before—but it was probably the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever experienced.
And I thought being ordered around the kitchen was sexy.
Holy shit.
I can’t think straight. I’m in a state of perpetual post-sex bliss. I feel like I’m living in a cloud. And not the real kind of cloud—the ones that are nothing but cold damp air and weird gases. I’m talking about the fantasy kind. The fluffy white kingdoms floating in the sky. Where everything is warm and beautiful and naked.
That’s another thing.
We haven’t worn a scrap of clothing since last night. Since before the shower.
Grayson didn’t even put on clothes when our lunch was delivered. He simply cracked the door open, told the delivery guy to leave it on the front stoop, and then waited until the footsteps stopped echoing down the stairs before opening the door to retrieve the bag.
I’ve come to realize that clothes are actually pretty pointless things.
Especially in this city where everything can be delivered and there’s a gloriously hot boy who hasn’t left your side for almost 24 hours. Why put on clothes if you’re only going to rip them off a moment later?
Around seven o’clock I finally decide to do something about my haggard appearance. I scoot to the edge of the bed and tell Grayson I’m going to take a shower.
His sable eyes darken mischievously. “I like where your mind is.”
I shove him. “No. Like an actual shower. You know, to get clean.”
He grabs my arm, pulling me back and tucking me underneath him. “What’s the point when I’m just going to get you all dirty again?”
I giggle as his hands start to rove and his tongue finds my ear lobe. But I know where this is going and if I don’t extricate myself from the situation, I’ll never get into that shower.
So I give a huge heave against his shoulders, throwing in a fake grunt for effort. Grayson flops down beside me with a disappointed groan.
“I have to make myself presentable for you again,” I argue as I sit up.
I feel his lips against my lower back, kissing shivers up my spine.
“I think you’re pretty fucking presentable right now,” he murmurs into my skin.
Oh God, that’s good.
I nearly fall back into him. My will to do anything but let him devour me all over again is slipping at an exponential rate.
No!
I force myself onto my feet. “You stay here,” I command, “and figure out what we’re going to eat for dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mocks.
I walk slowly to the bathroom, my thighs (among other parts) stiff from all the incredible sexing.
“Mmm,” I hear Grayson’s husky voice behind me, “I like this view.”
I glance over my shoulder to see him lying on his back, his elbows locked behind his head, propping him up. He’s watching my ass with pointed interest.
I pause in the bathroom doorway. “Well, here’s a little sneak peek of what’s to come later.” I give my hips a slow seductive shimmy and hear Grayson sigh with frustration.
“Yes. That certainly is to come,” he calls out as I shut the door.
Once on the other side, I brace myself for my reflection. I just know it’s going to be hideous. I haven’t run a comb through my hair in over a day, and my make-up case is still lying completely untouched in my overnight bag.
But when I turn around and gaze into the mirror, I’m relieved to see it’s not as bad as I thought. My hair, having dried naturally (or as naturally as hair can dry while it’s being tugged and tangled and whipped back and forth), is fairly kinked and matted against my head, but thankfully, my face is relatively clean and smudge-free. The water from the shower yesterday must have washed most of my make-up away. And my skin is surprisingly radiant and kind of glowing.
Huh. How do you like that?
I guess all those things they say about sex being good for the complexion are true.
Good to know there’s no need to buy expensive face creams anymore. Grayson is my new face cream.
The thought makes me blush and I actually giggle aloud at my own dirty joke.
“I think you’re having too much fun in there without me!” I hear Grayson call through the door. “Should I be jealous?”
“Absolutely!” I shout back.
I step into the stall and turn the shower on full. The hot water feels good on my skin as I spin in a slow circle under the faucet. This is exactly what I needed. After only a few minutes under the warm drizzle, I start to feel refreshed and renewed. Ready for sixteen more rounds.
I lather shampoo into my hair, follow it up with some conditioner, and rinse.
After turning off the faucet, I look for something to dry myself with, but all I find is a stupid hand towel.
Typical bachelors.
Do they ever do laundry?
With a sigh, I grab the miniscule piece of terry cloth and hastily wipe it down my body, trying to soak up as much moisture as I can. I wring the excess water from my hair and, after wiping the steam from the mirror with the now soaking wet towel, I start searching for something to tackle these tangles.
I find what I’m looking for in the bottom drawer and pull the brush through my hair. It does a fantastic job of working out the knots and I hold the object in front of me to examine it.
This is actually a really nice brush for a guy’s apartment.
And then suddenly the blood drains from my face. I glance uneasily down at the open drawer, just now noticing that it’s absolutely crammed full with things. Feminine things. Moisturizers and hair rubber bands and tampons and...is that…vaginal lubricant?
With a thundering heart, I slam the drawer shut.
I stand motionless in front of the mirror, trying to erase the image from my mind but it’s trapped there like an angry animal locked in a cage.
Of course, she has things here.
This is her fiancé’s apartment.
Did I really think that she never came over? Never spent the night? Never needed moisturizer or rubber bands or...the other things in there?
But it’s not the stuff itself that bothers me, it’s the way it’s been shoved into that drawer. Hastily. Carelessly. Making me believe—no, making me know—that it wasn’t Alex who put it all there.
Super-organized, OCD Alex doesn’t throw things in drawers.
Which means Grayson must have done that.
Probably after he begged me to come over the other night.
I can just picture him hanging up the phone and frantically scouring the apartment for evidence of her. For residue of the relationship that he still hasn’t ended.
Suddenly I feel like a windmill is churning in my stomach. What the hell am I doing here?
You’re living your life, a tenacious voice argues from somewhere in the back of my head.
No. I’m living her life.
All over again.
It’s always Alex’s life. It’s never mine. And now I’m in her boyfriend’s apartment, combing my hair with her hairbrush, fucking the man she agreed to marry.
Why can I never escape her?
Why can I never climb out of her shadow?
Even when I try to claim a life for myself, it’s still her life I’m claiming.
I open the bottom drawer, stuff the hairbrush in, and bang it closed again. I have to get out of this bathroom.
I turn to open the door and that’s when I hear it.
Coming from the living room.
A female voice. Soft, seductive, enchanting.
“I missed you so much, baby.”
Holy shitballs motherfucker.
It’s Alex.
And she’s inside this apartment.