Page 37 of From Coast to Coast
When Grayson’s hand touches the skin low on my stomach and slides up inside my shirt, I realize my arms are hanging loose at my sides. We’ve been making out for fuckingminutes, and I’ve just been standing here like anidiot. I reach for him, intending to find out exactly how his chest hair feels against the calluses on my hands.
He stops me. Deftly catching my wrists, he traps both of my hands in one of his and pins them to the wall above my head.
Oh my fucking god.
The unholy noise this pulls from me has Grayson breaking our kiss and resting his forehead against mine. We’re standing a lot closer than before, and I’m gratified to feel that I’m not the only one excited about what we’re doing. I’m hard, Grayson is hard, and if I rock my pelvis forward, I can feel just enough friction to keep me repeating the motion. I want to dry-hump him into oblivion.
“Okay?” he murmurs, and I try to laugh, but it comes out sounding strangled and a little bit unhinged.
“Fuck, yes.” I strain a little bit at the hand holding mine against the wall. He tightens his grip. “Holy shit. Holy shit, don’t stop.”
Unlike me, Grayson has a free hand which he puts to good use by sliding my pants down my hips. He goes back to kissing me as he does it, languid and gentle, as though he’s not blowing my mind right now. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted—my entire body hums with energy, and my skin feels too tight and overly sensitive.
When he’s got my pants down to mid-thigh, I shimmy my legs until they fall the rest of the way to the floor. I mindlessly struggle to free my hands, thinking that it would be nice to be able to touch him back, but the moment his fingers wrap around my dick, I can’t think of anything else. He works me slowly and kisses me even slower. I’m not sure anything could make this man move faster.
“Gray.” His name comes out as a whimper, but I’m so fargone at this point I can’t even bring myself to care how needy I sound. He stops kissing me long enough to whisper instruction.
“Hands on the wall.”
I barely have time to think through that sentence before gentle hands are on my waist, spinning me around. Putting my hands flat on the wall, I lean my forehead down and shiver as Grayson strokes his fingers down my spine. I turn my head just enough to watch him spit into his palm before he’s stepping forward and pressing himself against me. This time, my eyes really do roll into the back of my head when he wraps his hand around my dick.
He doesn’t mess around anymore, but strokes hard and fast. I’m biting my lip—eyes squeezed closed—as I desperately try not to come. I want this to last. I want Grayson’s hard, muscular body pressed against me without the presence of clothing. I want to feel himonme. Unfortunately, I am a mere mortal and cannot be expected to resist Grayson Brody.
It’s the kiss he places to the top of my spine, right above the neck of my shirt, that does me in. I explode, and cum paints the wall of my new apartment. Groaning, I lean forward and pant as Grayson’s hand continues to move. Wrapping his free hand around my chest, he pulls me off the wall and back until I’m leaning on him instead. When his hand finally stills, I drop my head back against his shoulder. We stand there, pressed together back to front, and breathe.
Holy shit.
I blamepost-orgasm insanity on the fact that I let Grayson leave my apartment without returning the favor. It’s hours—fuckinghours—later when I realize that he didn’t come. Picking up my phone, I call him. No answer. For a few seconds I contemplate just grabbing a cab over to his place, knocking on the front door and offering to blow him. Instead, I send a text.
Remy
Hey, I need you to come back.
I wait, staring down at my phone for a full minute while I wait for a reply that doesn’t come. Did he go home and go straight to bed? Maybe his notifications are off and he hasn’t seen the text. I call him again. I can’t fucking believe I just let him walk out the door, hard up and unsatisfied after giving me the world’s greatest hand job.
I decide calling him again would be a little too needy, so I compromise by calling Alex. He answers with a request to hold on before he mutes me. I wait, checking my text messages every five seconds to see if Grayson has replied. I really, really want him to come back. What the hell kind of person lets their friend with benefits leave without getting their benefits? I’m such an idiot.
“Hey, sorry.” Alex comes back on the phone abruptly. “What’s up? How’s Canada treating you?”
“It’s good. Cold, though.”
“Pussy.” There is the sound of shuffling papers in the background, and Alex sighs.
“Long day?”
“You have no idea,” he says. “Actually, you might have an idea. Imagine the worst hockey game of your life, but a divorce court dispute.”
“So, you’re exhausted? Why do I get the impression that you’re still at the office instead of home, having a bath and a foot rub?”
He laughs, which was my goal. “First of all, as hard as my job might be, I don’t require an ice bath afterward. Second, Serena would sooner eat live bugs than rub my feet. If anything, I need somebody to rub my brain.”
“I can let you go, if you’re busy. I was just calling to tell you what a jackass I am.”
“Oh, goody. What idiocy were you involved in this time?” Alex sounds disproportionately excited. I cringe, already envisioning the shit he’s going to give me for this.
“Well, I just experienced what is probably the best hand job ever given in the history of hand jobs and then I let him leave without reciprocating.”
“Him being that giant monster you play hockey with?”