Page 23

Astrid

When Grayson pinches me through my shirt, I—honest to God, hand-on-the-Bible—almost have an orgasm right then and there.

I must be an amazing instructor, because the last time I had Grayson in a bed like this, my arousal trended in the opposite direction—starting high and dwindling down when we got to the bed, startled away by his eagerness. The way the kiss turned to him pushing the skirt of my dress up my hips.

I’ve never in my life felt this close to an orgasm without someone —either myself, or the other person—with their hand on my clit. I’ve always been very particular, needing the right rhythm, the right pressure, the right pace.

But Grayson isn’t really even touching me, just applying a broad pressure with his thigh, and yet I feel like I’m going to fly apart into a million pieces, one second away from it. I once dated a girl who said she could come from nipple play alone, but that has never been me.

Grayson stops, staring down at me, his lips parted, and I realize he’s still waiting for me to answer his question. I told him I would let him know if I wanted him to stop, but I’ve effectively gone mute, so distracted by the endless waves of pleasure through my body that I can barely think until he takes his hand off

“No,” I manage to gasp, when he rolls my nipple between his fingers, his eyes locked to the movement like it’s mesmerizing to watch. “That doesn’t, either.”

“Under the shirt?”

Fuck . I want Grayson O’Connor to do more than reach his hand under my shirt—I want him to peel these jeans off of me, touch me— really touch me.

But I’m the one who talked about going slow. I’m the one who told him to wait, who said we’d just be focusing on foreplay and kissing today. And right now, I’m really starting to hate myself for it.

He leans down to kiss me again, his hand still on me over the shirt, because I haven’t answered yet. And so far, he’s been excellent at following instructions. Maybe the problem isn’t actually him—maybe his previous girlfriends just haven’t given him enough direction. Maybe I should have just told him what I wanted that night at the wedding, and things might have turned out differently for us.

“Only if it’s reciprocal,” I finally get out in response to his question.

When he nods, I giddily slide my hands up his shirt. He bites my bottom lip when I do, the action feeling like a knee-jerk reaction.

And the idea that I have that power over Grayson—to make him act without thinking—it only drives me higher, until I’m panting, thinking that I really might come against his leg, fully clothed, over the top of the duvet in the hotel room.

When the housekeepers come in, I’ll be able to say, See? We didn’t have an illicit affair in the hotel room. The bed is still made. We simply made out and dry-humped, fully clothed, until I came on his leg.

Then, all at once, my orgasm slips out of my grasp.

A trilling sound fills the room, and Grayson lets out a low moan against my mouth, kissing me deeply before pulling back.

I miss his heat immediately, and almost reach out to pull him back before instructing myself to keep my hands at my sides, because that would look ridiculous—me grabbing him and pulling him back in when his phone is ringing.

He stands, moving across the room, his face completely flushed, his shirt askew, his hair fully mussed from my fingers running through it. I stare at him like I’m in a trance, unable to pull my eyes away as he picks up his phone, looks at it, then silences the noise.

Holding it up to me, blank phone screen out, he says, “It’s my alarm. To get the girls.”

I’m sitting up, smoothing down my hair, clearing my throat, wondering if I looked as wrecked as he does.

“Okay.” I’m trying to keep my voice level, hoping it doesn’t betray how disappointed I am that the two hours have somehow managed to go by already. “Well…”

Grayson grabs his shoes, sits down to tie them, and I watch his fingers move quickly. My core still throbs, and I’m uncomfortably wet, still needy.

When he stands again, he runs a hand over the back of his hair, making it even worse, then runs his palms down his T-shirt.

“Alright,” he says, laughing a bit, “this is still weird, isn’t it?”

“You go ahead first.” I’m still on the bed, and I wave him out. “I’ll wait a while and leave after you.”

He nods, grabs his bag, turns to the door, then turns back, meeting my eye and shrugging, “If…if you want, you could stay overnight. Hotel is already booked, so…”

“I’ll think about it,” I say, but there’s no way I’m staying overnight at this hotel—I already have enough of a problem keeping Sloane McKenzie— Hendricks —out of my business. The last thing I need is her grilling me about an overnight stay somewhere other than her place.

“Okay,” Grayson says again, clearing his throat, then, the words coming out quickly, like he’s forced them, “Thanks. For doing this. I know it’s awkward, but I already…I already feel better. You’re a great instructor.”

“Save that for next time,” I joke, pressing the backs of my hands to my flaming cheeks. “When we talk about role play.”

His eyebrows shoot to his hairline. “Really?”

I laugh. “No. If you want a tutorial in that, you’re going to have to go to someone else.”

Why does that thought of that—Grayson outsourcing his sex advice to someone else—make my chest feel so tight? It doesn’t matter. We’ve already agreed that he won’t be with anyone else while we’re doing this. Just for safety. But after that, if he wants to continue his education, go to sexual intercourse graduate school…that has nothing to do with me.

“Okay.” It has to be the hundredth time he’s said it, and as he lingers by the door, adjusting his pants, breathing deeply. I get the feeling that he doesn’t want to go.

It makes sense, because I don’t want him to leave. The past two hours took me right back to the wedding, to the push and pull of him, the chemistry I thought was there the whole night.

“I’m going,” Grayson finally says, opening the door. The light from the hallway spills in, and once again, the whole thing feels illicit. “Bye, Astrid.”

“Bye,” I say, voice weak. The moment the heavy door swings into the latch, I roll over on my back, unzip my jeans, and shove my hand under the waistband of my panties. I gasp at the first touch of my fingers, body reacting so violently to it that I rock forward, eyes fluttering shut.

As I touch myself, finding that perfect rhythm, perfect cadence, perfect pressure…I think about Grayson O’Connor, and his fucking thigh between my legs.