Page 126 of Seeing Grayscale

Iusedtothinkthat my one-night stands or arranged hookups were enough for me. Foryears, I lived off the assumption that as long as I had that, I could manage everything else—a harmless secret that was used as a tool to relieve stress and fulfill my sexual urges. It’s only now that I realize how unsatisfying that way of living had been.

I never knew I'd need the weight of Gray’s body against my back, his soothing touches, and warm breaths over my neck. I’ll always prefer to make my partner come first, and I’ll always crave the control from it. Still, the aftermath—this sharedintimacy and familiarity—is more precious to me than anything else.

How did I go without this before?

Would I feel differently about this moment if I had let myself take something more from sex?

Honestly, there’s no point in dissecting it. I’m with Gray—Iwantto be with him. The past is irrelevant because even without experience, I know I was meant to end up here.

“Don’t move,” Gray says suddenly, gently squeezing my hip.

I’m exhausted, so I do as he says, tucking my hand under my cheek. He fumbles around in the nightstand, the drawer sliding open and shut. When the weight shifts beside me and his legs tuck back against mine, I blow out a relieved breath. My eyes drift closed only to fly back open as a mildly sharp poke hits my lower back.

I lift my head to look over my shoulder, but his hand pushes my face forward. “I said don’t move,” he laughs.

“What are you stabbing me with?” I chuckle along.

“You’ll see.”

Looks like there’s nothing left to do but resign to my fate. I get comfortable again, and after a few seconds, I realize he’s drawing on me. “That’d better not be a cock.”

I can hear his smile as he mumbles, “With monster balls.”

“Is it our initials? H and G forever in a heart?”

“Shh.”

Flutters erupt low in my stomach, so I bite my lip and let him continue using my skin as his sketch pad. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

It’s quiet for a while, the little scratches on my back relax me further, and eventually he says, “I technically have a house. When my parents died, it was in their will. But I guess that got lost somewhere from when I was twelve to eighteen. The house was sold. Now, Martha and Tim live there with their two kids.”

“Martha and Tim?” He’s never mentioned those names before.

With a cute snort, he continues, “I made up those names. I don’t know the family that lives there. But I’d go watch them sometimes. Your turn.” Whatever he’s drawing grows, more of my skin is being vandalized.

“My turn? You were just getting started.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

I sigh. “Alright.” There’s plenty he doesn’t know, but since he’s changing the subject, I’m taking it as he wants to keep things light. “I’m double jointed but only on my left hand.”

The drawing pauses. “Let me see.”

I lift my left hand and bend my PIP joints. “Oh what the fuck!” he squeaks, holding my hip to look closer. I bend my DIP joint on my index, keeping the rest of my finger straight, and he wiggles. “That’s so creepy but so cool. And only on the left one?”

“Yup. It was pretty popular among my classmates when I was a kid. Your turn.”

“Like I can top that…” A little huff, then he’s back to drawing. “I never remember my dreams.”

“You don’t?”

“Never.” What I now know is a pen swoops over my lat muscle. “I know people are supposed to, but I don’t. The weird thing is I have a crazy imagination.” Something wet swipes over my skin, and I jerk a little. “Sorry. Messed up.”

“Did you lick me?”

“Yes. With my face all the way up here. My tongue is super long, didn’t you realize?”

I reach behind me and slap his ass. “Brat."

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