Page 73 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
A cocky—no pun intended—smile. “It’ll fit, Red.”
He takes my uninjured hand, wrapping it around the hard length of him, and God, but I can barely make it all the way around him, he’s so thick.
Which is when my nerves go into overdrive.
He guides my motions, teaching me how he likes to be stroked, how tightly he likes to be gripped.
Then he releases my hand, placing his on the counter beside my hip, head dropping forward on a groan. “Fuck, baby,” he rasps, “but I like it when you touch me.”
I like it too. So much so, my dirty mind makes an appearance. “I want to taste you too.”
He goes statue still.
Then he’s kissing me and his fingers are moving in me and I’m stroking him and?—
I have power here.
Power to undo this big, strong, gorgeous man.
Power to make him lose control.
Power to own what I want, what I need…and the power to tease him back.
And that’s when things get a little crazy—we’re a flurry of limbs, of measuring cups and the mixer bowl and bunches of bananas and burned loaves hitting the floor. We’re flour flying into the air, sprinkling over our naked skin. We’re lips and teeth, tongues and touch.
And then…
We’re one.
Gray managing to find his wallet, extracting a condom, rolling it down the hard length of his cock.
He notches himself at my entrance, slowly strokes in…and he’s right.
It does fit.
We fit.
“Good, Red?” he asks, when he’s fully seated.
It’s a rasped-out question, his body taut, all those gorgeous muscles of his on display. My heart pulses, knowing he’s trying to go slow, trying to be careful for me, trying to care of me.
But I don’t want him to be careful.
I want Gray.
Every single inch of him.
“I’m great, honey.”
A flicker of emotion in his eyes before he smiles. “Good.” He draws out slowly, slides back in just as leisurely. And he repeats that slow and steady, over and over again, incrementally driving us both insane.
And I can feel it.
The leash he’s holding fast.
“Gray?”
A rumbling groan. “Yeah, baby?”
