Page 32 of Giving Grace

What her pussy tasted like when I licked her arousal off my fingers.

“Grace.”

When I say her it out loud, my hips give an involuntary upward thrust, off the mattress and into the grip I have on my cock. I think about her. That night. The way she felt against me. Her stiff, swollen nipples pushed against my bare chest. Her warm, soft breath against the side of my neck. The way her tits bounced and brushed against me with every hard fuck I gave her with my fingers. The hot, wet slide of them, in and out of her pussy. The tight clench of it, how she screamed my name when she came.

Suddenly, I’m not fucking my hand. I’m fucking her. Grace is riding me, lifting and lowering herself along the shaft of my cock. Pumping and stroking me with her slick, hot pussy and I feel myself start to falter. Start to doubt myself. An annoying little itch at the base of my brain, trying to convince me that this would never happen. That even if Grace ever did decide to give me a second chance, let me touch her again, she’d take one look at me and nope herself right out the fucking door.

Old worries.

Distant doubts.

Ones I work hard every day to rid myself of.

With a vicious growl, I force myself back into the present. Try to do what my therapist told me to do. Concentrate on now. Open myself up. Let myself feel. Enjoy the ride.

Make me come, Ryan. Please make me come… I don’t care how.

“Grace…” Her name tears its from my throat on low groan and I feel it, let it come—the hard, tight bolt of heat that spirals like a rocket up the length of my cock, so fast and hot I have to tighten my grip while spasm after spasm wash over me, hot jets of semen lashing against my bare stomach and chest.

My ears are still ringing and I’m breathing in deep, ragged gulps when the egg timer on my nightstand lets out a spastic ring, letting me know my thirty minutes of self-exploration are over.

Reaching out with my free hand, I open the nightstand drawer without looking and knock the still ringing timer into its depths before slamming it shut and throwing an arm over my face. I feel the heaviness in my chest return. The pain in my leg. The static in my brain.

It’s better than it used to be.

A hell of a lot better.

So much better that there are times that I forget what happened to me. That I’m not the same and never will be, but better doesn’t mean gone. It doesn’t mean same.

I get that now and I live with it, even if there are times I don’t want to. Times that I want to give up. Let the pain and rage that I keep locked in a cage out to destroy all the hard work I’ve put in. Take me away from the people I’ve worked so hard for.

Because I’ll never be me again.

I’ll always be different.

But I can’t let knowing that stop me.

Because someday, Grace might need me. She might want me again and I want to be ready for her, even if it’s only a pipedream. Even if it’s only a maybe that will probably never happen.

So I put it away.

Push myself out of bed and lurch my way to the shower to start the next round.

Because it’s time to put in the work.

Twenty minutes later, I’m cutting through the lobby of the center, when I spot Con on the indoor basketball court through the thick panes of glass that enclose it, wearing nothing but a pair of basketball shorts and a whole lot of tattoo ink.

Because I know why he’s here, I take a detour and head for him, mentally prepping myself to endure his this is a big day, don’t fuck it up, pep talk because he can front all he wants but I know Con’s just as nervous about today as I am.

Letting myself onto the indoor court, I stand on the sidelines and watch as he gives the ball in his hand a few hard bounces, the muffled sound of his shoes squealing across the court as he moves into a fadeaway jumpshot that sends the ball flying in a perfect arc toward the basket.

Swish.

Racing across the court to retrieve the ball, he gives it another fast series of dribbles before executing a perfect jump shot.

Swish.

“Is there anything you’re not good at?”

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