Page 37

Astrid

If Grayson had eaten me out that first night after the wedding, things would have gone much differently.

I’m a firm believer that when it comes to oral sex, eagerness goes a long way. And Grayson O’Connor is nothing if not eager. That first touch, when he pressed his tongue to me and dragged it up the length of me, no hesitation whatsoever?

It fucking killed me.

The jolt that moved through my body was electric, reaching. And the worst part was that I was hyperaware of the fact that it came directly from him. Like the first hit for a soon-to-be-addict, I knew that I would crave it again and again.

And now? I’m going to touch him too. It’s all-consuming, rocking through me with purpose, re-energizing my spent, loose limbs with intention.

“Astrid,” Grayson says, his hair falling in his face as he reaches for me. “You don’t—”

But the words sputter out on his lips when I wrap my hand around the base of his cock. Normally, I am not a girl who enjoys giving blow jobs—or even hand jobs—but there’s something about Grayson O’Connor that makes me want to get on my knees. Show him that I can be just as eager as he is, that I can make him feel good, too.

And I can’t deny that I like the way I just made him go speechless. I like that his body responds to me just in the way my body responds to him.

Distantly, in the back of my mind, I’m aware of the fact that this is outside of our agreement. My logical self is tucked away, pacing and pissed off, desperately trying to move to the front and tell me that this is a bad idea. That giving him a blow job won’t necessarily help him get better at sex. That it might affect our already strange dynamic, affect that tenuous, holding connection between us.

But I don’t care. Something in me can’t possibly settle with the knowledge that he’s touched me, and yet I haven’t touched him. Not like this.

That night in the guest room, we were lights off, fumbling hands and mouths, and everything happened so quickly I didn’t even get a good look at him. There was no laboring over each other. Not like here, not with the lessons we’ve been doing together.

He’s seen me, and I want to see him.

Now, I stare at my hand around the base of him, actually—embarrassingly— gulping at the sight of it. I’m not going to lie and act like I haven’t thought about it. Of everything that went wrong that night, his size was not one of them.

I thought about it the first time I saw Grayson again, and again when we were making out, when he was pressed against me. I’d had half a mind to just say fuck it and escalate the lesson to the full fucking thing.

And now that I have him in my hand again, I’m remembering just how gifted he is.

“Astrid,” he chokes, clearly trying again to deter me, to make sure this is something I want. I do want it—but more than that, I want to make sure I avoid listening to reason right now. If I stop and think about all the reasons why touching Grayson like this might be bad, I might be sensible and change my mind.

So I take action, leaning forward and lowering my mouth to him. I press my lips gently against the head of his cock. It’s soft, and salty from pre-cum, and I know that normally, this is the part I’d be trying to get through, reciprocating because I should.

But now, with Grayson—I feel giddy, eager, like this is an opportunity I’ve been waiting and waiting for.

He jerks, letting out a low, guttural noise when I touch my mouth to him, and when I feel his hand reach for the back of my head, a shiver runs down the length of my back. He’s gentle, threading his fingers through my hair, tipping his head back against the pillow.

I close my eyes and focus on what I’m doing—one hand wrapped around the base of him, working what I can’t reach with my mouth, the other splayed out on his thigh for support. His skin is warm under my fingers, his body feeling entirely different from my own.

If I wanted to keep up a facade, I could try and coach him through the blow job. But, if I’m being honest, I don’t want him to act a certain way right now just because I say he should.

I want to see what he does with my mouth on him. I want to know exactly what Grayson O’Connor looks like when he’s in a position like this. When I think about this later, I want to know that he was being fully himself.

“Astrid,” he rasps, saying my name like it’s a prayer. I can tell he’s getting close, his muscles stiffening, his hips thrusting in little bursts against my mouth. When I open my eyes, I realize he’s staring down at me, something like wonder in his expression. Wide open and raw, marveling. Like I’m a goddess, a miracle.

He looks at me like I’m something absolutely precious.

It cuts through me to my chest, tightening it, making my throat feel thick with something I don’t even want to risk describing. Something that longs for him, that only wants him, and aches to be near him.

Something that loves knowing I can make him feel this good.

When he jerks hard, on the verge of orgasm, he tugs on my hair, gesturing for me to pull away from him. Normally, I would. Every other blow job I’ve given in my life has ended with my hand on him, a towel or tissue to catch the mess.

But for the first time in my life, I don’t want to pull away. I want to stay close to him, taste him. For the first time, it doesn’t feel disgusting, but really, really fucking sexy.

I ignore his tugs on my hair, hear his hastily whispered “ Oh fuck ,” and keep my lips wrapped around him as he comes.