Page 71 of Drop the Mitts

Grace was out cold. She lay curled on her side, blankets tangled around her legs, one arm draped over the pillow like she was holding it hostage. That soft little crease between her brows barely relaxed, even in sleep.

He swallowed hard, then tiptoed into the bathroom, took a piss, washed his hands, and brushed his teeth. He moved back into the bedroom and stripped off his joggers. Grace wasn’t watching. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

He clicked off his flashlight, plugged in his phone, and slid under the covers. Just as he exhaled, sinking into the mattress, she shifted.

He froze.

Grace moved again, her leg brushing against his. André went still as stone. Was she awake? Moving in her sleep?

He moved, resting his arm in a defencible position that also happened to cross the midline of the bed. Grace drew in a breath and changed position, her hand landing directly beside his.

Every hair on his body lifted. He wasn’t going to do anything. He wouldn’t touch her, not if she didn’t say something. If she didn’t?—

Grace’s fingers twitched against his, and then her pinky lifted. She brushed it over his knuckle, then curled it around his.

André struggled to breathe, any exhaustion he’d felt seconds before completely obliterated. He was wide awake. Buzzing. His blood pumping so hard, he couldn’t hear himself think.

He traced his thumb over her palm and pressed against her wrist. Her breath caught. She uncurled her finger and slid her hand into his, palm to palm.

André rolled onto his side, and the heat from her body reached him before he touched her. His fingers trailed up her arm, grazing along the dip of her elbow, the curve of her shoulder. He swore he could feel her heartbeat in the tips of his fingers. Or maybe that was his. Hard to tell.

Grace shifted closer. Her thigh brushed his under the blankets, and his pulse jackknifed. She felt bare. Warm and soft. Her hand slipped behind the hem of his shirt, fingers spreading over his ribs and pausing, then tracing, mapping.

The silence between them buzzed. Electric. Holy. His palm found the dip of her waist, then followed the soft rise of her hip, thumb dragging beneath the elastic of her shorts. She gasped, a small sound, but he felt it all the way down to the base of his spine. She smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral. He wanted to bathe in it. To drink it.

Grace’s hand moved to his chest, then trailed down his stomach, slow and deliberate. He flinched when her pinky grazed the edge of his waistband. His stomach clenched. His breath hitched. She didn’t go farther, just let her hand rest there. A question.

André didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He didn’t trust his voice. Instead, he slid his hand up to her collarbone and followed it to her throat, gently brushing her pulse point with his thumb. Her skin was silk, flushed, alive beneath his touch.

He pressed in another inch, and her lips were so close he could feel the shape of them in the dark. Her breath mingledwith his, and he stilled, not sure where to go next. He knew where he wanted to go, but her hand held him like a tether.

Just like the first time, he didn’t know who moved first, but the kiss was featherlight. A brush. A thousand volts right through his bloodstream.

Grace paused, then dragged her lower lip over his, her hand tensing at his waistband. He was going to split at the seams. Then she deepened the kiss, her hand dragging over his stomach, tugging at his shirt while her other hand looped around his back, tangling in his hair, nails skimming his scalp. His body damn near folded in on itself from the heat of it.

She kissed like she argued. Zero to a hundred. Intentional, relentless, and with a wild, focused control that made his head spin.

He grabbed her hips and brought her body flush against his. Warm. Nearly bare. Her chest was soft against his.No bra.He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her on top of him, groaning into her mouth as she straddled his hips.

Every slow grind made his vision blur. Her heart raced against his chest, and his hands roamed. They slid up under her shirt, over her back, memorizing every dip of her spine. Every shiver he caused. Her thighs tightened around his hips, and he was drowning, completely undone, unravelling in the dark.

André kissed her harder. Every flick of her tongue and sigh into his mouth driving him out of hisdamn mind.

His hand slowed at her waist, his breath catching. Was she fully awake? Had she gotten a drink with the girls before coming up to bed?Was this really what she wanted?

He pulled back, just barely, mouth brushing hers. “You with me?” he whispered, throat raw.

Grace exhaled, her forehead pressing to his. “Yes.”

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and strained, every inch of him fighting his body for control. “Because I don’t?—”

“You were right,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to let go. I want to let go.”

That hit like a knife between his ribs. Not what he wanted to hear. This wasn’t about him. Grace wanted a release. She felt safe enough with him to try, so that was something. But was it enough for him?

He pressed a kiss to her cheek, knowing full-well he wouldn’t deny her. “I can help with that.”

She kissed him again, her fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, trailing fire across his stomach, and that was it—his restraint snapped like a twig under a boot.

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