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I shriek when Greyson pulls out of me without warning, the removal of his thick cock from my ass hurting just as much as his insertion. Then the vibrator is tugged from my pussy, and I feel my entrance gape at the emptiness. The cuffs come off, and the blindfold is suddenly ripped from my eyes, and I shy back from the bright newness of the flickering lights in the club.

When I blink up at Greyson, his blue eyes are bright with pride.

“So how did it feel, angel? Was it everything you imagined? Did you like getting stuffed full like the prettiest little cumslut?”

“I loved it.” And I did. I’ve never felt so free and full and satisfied.

“Good,” he answers with a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. He bends over me and presses his lips to mine, the searing kiss carrying a depth that it never has before. The way he worships my mouth with his reminds me of something he said when he was deep inside me.

“You said you loved me,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

“Did I? Must have slipped out,” Greyson answers between kisses that leave me breathless.

I press against his chest, forcing him to look at me instead of distracting me with his lips. “Well, do you?”

He arches his brow, a mischievous tilt to his mouth. “Do I what?”

“Love me,” I answer, embarrassed that I’m forcing him to admit it. But I have to know.

He brushes his thumb over my lips, his eyes hooded and smoldering with heat. “How could I not, angel?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

ANGÉLICA

Idon’t know whether I expected things to change between Grey and me after he saidI love you—for there to be this noticeable shift in the way we act with each other. For the most part, there hasn’t been any change at all. Grey is the same demanding, brutal, passionate, caring person he’s always been. He works me just as hard, critiques me just as rigidly, hurts me just as much as I want him to, and fucks me just as viciously as he always has.

And I’m relieved that love hasn’t softened any of his sharp edges.

Our trip to Paris ended two week ago, and I can’t stop thinking about those few, perfect days Grey and I spent together, eating and fucking beneath the twinkling Parisian night sky. There’s something special about the city, a sort of creative pulse that you can feel thumping at its center like a heartbeat. Paris is a living thing with an old, artistic soul. I feel her call to me even now, beckoning me to the cafes and restaurants and clubs and markets where I felt so at home. Maybe one day, Grey and I couldmake itourhome.

For now, home is Grey’s apartment, overlooking the distant skyline of Chicago. We’re happy here, but I’m growing anxious for something new and exciting. Grey can probably sense the need for change stirring under my skin. I never sit in one place for too long; it’s a pesky habit I picked up after I left Colombia. Constantly looking over your shoulder leaves you looking for a new place to hide every time you focus on what’s ahead of you. And the urge to drop everything and run is like an itch I can’t scratch.

I wonder if Grey would come with me if I did?

Today is the one day of the week that we don’t have to work at the restaurant. Sunday tradition dictates that Grey and I spend the whole morning fucking—which we follow with religious dedication. Afterward, he cooks breakfast while I go back to sleep to rest up for the next round of taking his cock in one or more of my holes. This morning is eggs Benedict with an apple cider hollandaise sauce, crispy roasted potatoes, and smoked ham.

I guarantee his five-star meal will earn him a five-star blow job after the dishes have been cleared.

“Why don’t you shower while I clean up the mess in the kitchen?” I offer while gathering the stray dishes and glasses strewn across the bed and stacking them on the tray he used to bring them in. Grey grabs my hips and pulls me against him. Somehow I manage not to drop everything on the floor.

“Why don’t you fuck the dishes and join me in the shower?” he growls against me ear, nipping at my earlobe.

“I refuse to have shower sex while the kitchen is a wreck and dirty dishes are all over the bed.” I try to push him away, but that only results in me rubbing my ass against his obvious erection. “How are you still hard? We’ve already fucked three times this morning.”

“I have to spend the entire week resisting the urge to bend you over and fuck you while you sway this perfect ass around inmy kitchen. Sundays are payback for every time Ididn’tstick my cock in you. We have at least five more rounds to go before I’m moderately satisfied.”

“Five?” I gasp. “I’m not sure I can survive five more.”

“Well then, we’ll have to work on your stamina, chef. Starting with the shower.”

He starts to undo the buttons on my shirt before I brush his hands away. “How about you let me tidy up first, and I’ll agree to four more rounds?”

“Deal if I get to pick where,” his fingers slide down my shirt and undo the last two buttons, “and how.” Suddenly his mouth is against my neck, kissing me into a stupor. I won’t have the strength to deny him much longer.

“Should I be worried?” I sigh as his tongue slides up and down the length of my throat, tasting the salt on my skin.

I feel him smile. “Probably.” His hand slides under my open shirt and squeezes my tit before tugging on my pebbled nipple. I moan at his touch, shamefully susceptible to his skilled fingers.