Page 102 of Triple Play
His eyes go dark. “Elise.”
“I mean it. Touch me. Stop holding back. Stop punishing yourself.” I grab his shirt, pull him closer. “I want you. I’vewanted you for two years. So stop acting like you don’t get to have this.”
“I don’t deserve—”
“I don’t care what you think you deserve.” My voice comes out fiercer than I intend. “I care what I want. And I want you.”
Footsteps on the stairs. Jordie and Wyatt, because of course they followed.
“Everything okay?” Jordie asks, but his eyes are tracking the way Grant’s got me pinned to the wall, the way my hands are twisted in his shirt.
“No,” Grant says without looking at them. “Everything’s not okay. Because I’ve been watching you two touch her for weeks and I—” He stops. Takes a breath. “I want her. I need her. And I’m done pretending I can handle sharing.”
The hallway goes quiet.
Then Wyatt speaks, his voice calm. “So don’t share. Not tonight.”
Grant finally looks at him. “What?”
“You heard me.” Wyatt’s expression is unreadable. “You need her? Take her. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
“I’m not—” Grant’s jaw clenches. “I can’t ask you to—”
“You’re not asking.” Jordie’s leaning against the wall now, arms crossed, watching us with dark eyes. “We’re offering.”
Grant looks at me. Searching for something. Permission maybe. Or reassurance that this is real.
I reach up, cup his face with both hands. “I want this. I want you. All of you. But right now?” I let my thumb trace his bottom lip. “Right now I want Grant.”
Something breaks in his expression. Relief and desire and that possessive edge I’ve seen glimpses of but never fully unleashed.
“Thank fuck,” he says roughly.
We end up back on the couch, because its closer. Grant pulls me into his lap and kisses me again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding under my shirt to find bare skin.
I arch into him and he makes this sound—half groan, half growl—that goes straight between my legs.
Jordie and Wyatt settle on either side of us. Not touching, just watching. The heat of their attention makes everything more intense.
Grant pulls back just enough to look at me. “Tell me what you want.”
“You. This. Everything.”
His hands find the hem of my shirt—Wyatt’s hoodie actually—and he pauses. “Can I?”
“Yes.”
He pulls it off in one smooth motion and for a second he just looks at me. Like he’s memorizing this. Then his mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my breast through my bra.
I’m making sounds I should probably be embarrassed about but I don’t care. Not with the way he’s touching me like I’m something precious and filthy all at once.
My hands find his shirt, start working the buttons. He helps me, shrugging it off, and I get my first real look at him shirtless.
Broad shoulders. Defined chest. Abs that look carved. That scar on his collarbone from the accident, and another on his ribs I hadn’t noticed before.
“You’re staring,” he says, but there’s satisfaction in his voice.
“You’re beautiful.”
