Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(58)
“Poor Gracie.” I offer a pout.
“What about you? How many times have you been dumped. I bet…” She trails off as she realizes her glaring faux pas. “Hm. I guess you were the ultimate dumpee, weren’t you?”
“If they handed out engraved gold cups for that kind of thing, I’d have one.”
Grace doesn’t miss a beat. “The kind with a handle on each side?”
“That’s the one.”
Her green eyes hold mine.
Captivated.
“You don’t like being called ‘boyfriend,’ do you?”
“It’s emasculating. And ‘man friend’ is geriatric,” I toss in before she tries that one out.
“Agreed.” She purses her lips as she thinks. “What if I introduce you as ‘my guy’?”
“It’s accurate. I am your guy.”
We turn another circle, her smaller hand resting comfortably in mine.
“Are you?” she asks. “Mine?”
I let go of her hand to lift her chin. I don’t break eye contact when I confirm.
“Gracie Lou Buchanan. I’m your guy.”
We kiss as the song winds to an end, parting when the beat picks up. Moments end, and this one is no exception.
“You two are positively delicious!” Roxanne says as she and Mark go swing-dancing by.
“Think we can take ’em?” I ask Grace.
She hoists a brow in challenge. “I think we should try.”
I take both her hands and we do just that.
Try.
It’s what we’re doing with everything—the dating thing. The us thing. We’re trying.
From my point of view, it would appear we’re succeeding.
Chapter 21
Grace
Once we returned to my place, I invited Davis in for a nightcap.
He followed me to the refrigerator, pulled my hand off the handle, and prodded me upstairs by poking me between the ribs as I giggled uncontrollably. I’m ticklish and made the mistake of admitting it a few days ago.
He won’t let me live it down.
He removes my dress, taking his time kissing my neck as I cup his manhood and massage his swelling erection through his suit pants. He rakes his teeth over my collarbone as he slides his hands around my ass. Then I’m in the air, being lifted and placed over his lap.
We half fall onto the bed before he sits up again and arranges my knees on either side of his thighs.
“I want you on top,” he rasps. I look down at him, admiring his painfully handsome face, clean-shaven jaw, and eyes the color of cloudy skies in the winter. Except there’s nothing cold hovering in Davis’s eyes. Especially now.
He unhooks my bra—black to match my dress and heels, both long gone. He pulls the straps down my arms and his eyes darken hungrily when my breasts are bared.
He ducks his head and takes a nipple on his tongue, and I rake my hands into his thick hair. Pleasure shoots like lightning from my breasts to between my legs. His attention goes there next, and he watches me openly while slipping his fingers past the barrier of a scant pair of silken panties.
My breaths are truncated, shortened by lust and an emotion far more dangerous than lust. In the desire-soaked air between us, Davis seems to share that thought. It’s scary and titillating and distracting and exciting. It’s the Ferris wheel all over again—the instability of the carriage, the intoxication of being up so high…
With one role reversal.
At the top of that Ferris wheel it was Davis holding tight, nervous about being so high. I was the one who embraced it. I was the one empowered by it.
Love, for us, elicits the opposite response.
My contemplation evaporates with the next sweep of his fingers against my center. Heat builds as he suckles my breasts—first one, then the other.
“Condom,” he says as the air chills my damp nipples.
“Nightstand.”
“Get it.”
“Yes, sir.” Fire consumes me when I crawl from his lap and earn a smack on the ass. I dig the condom out of the drawer—buried beneath a brush, nail file, lotion, and several other random single-woman paraphernalia.
Back on the bed, I tear the packet open as Davis kicks off his boxer briefs. Even though I’ve seen it repeatedly, the sight of his cock renders me speechless.
Jutting out from between his legs, it promises pleasure. Davis fills me like no one else. He wraps his fist around his thick shaft and gives one tug—then another. Between my legs, another surge of pressure pulses.
“You make me so fucking hot, Gracie.”
I roll the condom on him, taking my time at the ridge along the head before easing it over his length. Davis watches. I lift my eyes to his when I’m done, then move to straddle him. He surprises me by rolling on top and pressing my back into the bed.
“I thought you wanted me on top,” I breathe.
“Changed my mind.” He pins me with his weight, hooking one of my legs over his hip and tilting his pelvis forward in one firm thrust. I gasp.
I’m his.
He rocks into me again, one long, hard thrust. Over and over until the air swells with sounds of pleasure—mine and his.
His guttural growls mingle with my breathy moans. Soon we’re working up a sweat, pillows tumbling to the ground as our flesh slaps. I shove against his chest to push him over, to take over, but he doesn’t allow it. Trapping my hands over my head, he gives me a cocky smile and purposely slows his movements.