Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(17)

“I have a condom in my purse,” I whisper when we part.

He grins, then puts a kiss on the tip of my nose. “Your purse is too far away.”

He turns behind him and lifts one of the stones from his decorative bowl, opens a little compartment, and extracts a condom.

I gape.

“A hide-a-key?” I say of the fake rock.

“I call it a hide-a-condom.” He tears the foil with his teeth as I giggle.

Damn. I’m not a giggler, but here I am—feeling warm and effervescent all over.

“You rendered me a giggler.” I shake my head in mock shame as he pushes his boxer briefs to the ground.

Then I lose my train of thought.

Davis’s penis stands erect—thick and long. I press my knees together in anticipation. I don’t normally categorize dicks as beautiful, but there’s something about the shape and heft of his that closely resembles a work of art. I’m speechless.

“I don’t mind giggling, Grace,” he says as he rolls the condom down his length. “As long as you know the appropriate time to giggle.”

He’s hovering over me a moment later, making room on his couch for both of us. I wrap my legs around his lower back.

“Now,” he murmurs, his lips very close to mine, “is not the time to giggle.”

With that said, he tilts his hips and pushes inside me. Once he’s settled, I realize I was remiss when I thought his fingers filled me. This kind of fullness is oh, so much better. Then he moves and I swear I’ve died and gone to heaven.

Like we did on the dance floor, we glide. He moves with intention and purpose and I return each of his forward thrusts with an upward shift of my hips.

He fits.

“Damn, Gracie,” he says on a harsh breath.

Palms flat on his pecs, I savor the firmness there before running both hands down his torso. His golden skin is stretched over taut muscles and firm abs.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” I say on an expelled breath.

His laugh blows my hair off my face before he lowers his lips and kisses me. The levity is quickly replaced by something much more intense—much more intimate. His kiss grows hungrier and I cling to his back as he picks up the pace and rides me.

I’m lost in the sound of our intermingling breath and bodies coming together—up to the point we actually come together. I squeeze him from within and he relinquishes his release on a growl.

My hands in his hair, I pull his delicious mouth to mine again, savoring the feel of him inside me. He can hardly keep our mouths sealed—each of his exhalations radiates gratification.

His breaths gradually slow along with mine. He lowers his elbows to either side of my body. Gently, ever so gently, he moves my hair from my forehead and watches me in the silence stretching out between us.

His gray eyes are fathoms deep, darker from a hefty dose of pleasure.

It’s enough to make me smile. He smiles back. I swear the earth shakes beneath me.

Something happened just now.

Something big.

Something I’m going to ignore.





Davis


Grace follows me to the bedroom, where I pull open a dresser drawer and extract my favorite OSU T-shirt. There’s a hole in the neck and the seams have popped on the sleeves. It’s as soft as fine silk.

I toss it to her and she catches it by launching a hand out in front of her and stopping the toss midair.

“That’s some badass kung fu shit right there,” I praise.

She’s dressed the opposite of when we were making love on my couch—not wearing a bra but wearing her panties. Grace’s breasts are too gorgeous to cover up, but judging by those pale pink nipples sitting like mini marshmallows on the tips, she’s cold and needs a T-shirt.

Pity.

“Stop staring.” She’s reprimanding me with a smile. We’ve been smiling at each other like we share a secret, though neither of us knows the other well enough to share what we think that secret is.

Wouldn’t it be a kicker if it was the same one?

She holds up the T-shirt, hugging it to her chest. “I don’t have to stay.”

“What’s with you and the phrase ‘don’t have to’?” I ask, because seriously—what is that?

She shrugs her shoulders and I mentally trace the dots of the smattering of freckles there.

“Never noticed these before.”

“Plight of the redhead,” she comments.

My fingers go to the dots fading off into the tattoo coloring her shoulder. “Always wanted to touch this.”

Her breathing goes shallow and I give in to the fantasy of tracing the lines of the roses and thorns, leaves and buds. Then I pause and narrow my eyes in thought.

“Is there another one?”

Her mouth forms a small O. “No?”

“Let me see it.”

She backs away, her grin returning. Dammit. I knew it. While I was busy with her on her back, I missed the opportunity to see it. She hits the wall next to the bathroom and bites down on her bottom lip.

“Gracie.”

“Fine. You’ll see it eventually.” She rolls her eyes. Turns around.

My mouth goes dry.

There, on the swell of her right ass cheek, is a shamrock. An honest-to-God shamrock. I laugh, touching it with my index finger before giving her perfect, round butt a squeeze.