Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Grady tugs off both my socks like he’s unwrapping a present, slow and careful, eyes on me the whole time. Warm palms wrap my frozen right foot; his thumbs press into my arch and—oh. Ohh . . .
“Good?” he asks, voice low.
“So so good.”
Better than good. A moan escapes my throat.
His thumbs slide up my instep, and I melt, spine going soft, dignity slipping right off the couch with my socks.
“Tell me if you want more or less,” he murmurs, head bowed like he’s concentrating.
“More,” I breathe. “Definitely more.”
He kisses the inside of my ankle—quick, reverent—then trades feet, working slow circles that spread heat up my calves. My bones go boneless.
When he squeezes behind my knee, a tiny gasp flies out of me.
Grady’s eyes flick up. “Sensitive?”
“Apparently.”
His thumbs trace the inside seam of my legs, slow enough to make a shiver roll up my back. He presses another kiss above my knee. Then a little higher.
“I thought this was a medical procedure,” I manage.
“It is.” His smile curves against my skin. “Restoring circulation.”
He guides my heels onto his shoulders and leans in, mouth traveling a lazy path that has nothing to do with podiatry and everything to do with the way my hips tilt toward him.
Grady is all smoke and heat as his hand slides under my sweater, his palm wide and warm over my stomach. I arch into it—into him—and he groans, a sound that vibrates right through me as nervous energy floods my belly.
Why do I feel a tad guilty?
Like I’m cheating?
Hayes and I barely speak.
He’s not here.
“Come here,” Grady says, voice reeling me back into the moment.
Straddling him is a revelation: the solid breadth of him, the way his hands bracket my hips and guide me down to where he’s hot through denim.
Hard.
I gasp; his fingers tighten as I roll my hips, grinding into his erection, body on autopilot.
He kisses me like he’s got nowhere else to be, slow and devastating, then trails his mouth along my jaw, my throat, the edge of my collar. “Can I take this off?”
“Yes.” Obviously . . .
He peels my sweater off like he did my socks, eyes skimming over bare skin before he bends to taste the new warmth he’s uncovered. Kissing my breasts above the lace of my white bra.
My hands fist in his hair. The storm knocks against the windows, and I swear the sound lives in my chest now.
“Doctor,” I moan. “I think I need follow-up care.”
His thumbs slide beneath the band, stroking the undersides until my nipples pebble tight through the fabric. “You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice rough. “But I want you prettier.”
“Then take it off.” It comes out breathless, so needy I don’t recognize myself.
This is not me. Grady and I . . .
Haven’t had sex yet.
I’m still unsure how I feel about him. And yet . . .
The cups of my bra fall, and cool air meets hot skin, and then his mouth is there, warm and wet, tongue circling, sucking my nipples; I gasp. My hips rock, and he groans, palms sliding to my ass to drag me down harder against the thick line of him.
“Grady,” I whisper, dizzy. “God.”
“I know.” His hands frame my face, he kisses deep, then his hands lower again, hungry like he can’t choose where he wants me most. “You feel incredible riding me like this.” He pants. “Think about how good it would feel with me inside you.”
Inside me.
“I feel—” Greedy. The denim is torture—in our way—and I want more but not all of it . . .
I tug at his belt, clumsy with urgency. He lifts his hips so I can shove his jeans down to mid-thigh; the bulging erection strains against dark compression briefs, thick and tempting. I settle over him again, and the first grind—thin cotton against thin cotton—rips a broken sound from both of us.
“Jesus, Layla.” His hands span my waist, guiding me. “Keep doing that . . .”
But the second I feel that thick pressure beneath me—his body responding, mine answering—I swear my vision blurs. His head tips back against the couch, throat flexing when he swallows, and it hits me: This man is beautiful.
Safe.
A really good guy.
The kind of guy you want to bring home to your parents and introduce to your friends.
And he deserves better than being the guy I use to forget another.
Shit.
I catch his wrist when he tries to slide his hand between our bodies, his knuckles grazing the heat soaking through my leggings, and he mutters a curse, eyes darkening.
“Fuck, you’re wet.”
I want so desperately to feel more when I kiss him. I want to lose myself in how delicious he smells and how easy it is to be with him. I want to move on.
Still. Hayes’s face flashes across my mind—sun on his skin, the way he called me good girl, the way my body still remembers him—and guilt spears straight through the pleasure.