Grayson (The Kings of Brighton Book 3)

by Megyn Ward

  I’m in love with her.

  Have been, pretty much since the moment I met her.

  Which makes me a masochist.

  And stupid.

  A stupid fucking masochist, right?

  Because this woman has never done anything but drive me absolute batshit for the last six years. Has made it her mission to fuck with me. Anything to make me miserable. Anything to dig her thorny ass in my side.

  Be honest, pendejo—is that really what’s made you miserable? Was it her spoiled, rich girl antics that had you all twisted up or was it the fact that you wanted her but knew there was no way in hell someone like you would ever stand a chance with someone like her?

  Because if it’s the latter, that makes you the asshole, doesn’t it? Makes you no better than every trust fund baby and hedge fund dickhead who’s ever bought a woman a drink and expected it to be reciprocated with a blowjob and got shitty when it wasn’t.

  Shit.

  Cutting off the water, I feel the back of my neck go tight. My shoulders tense.

  Because I know the answer.

  Adding an apology to the list of things I owe her, I towel off and get dressed. Went came into the kitchen while I was making Delilah dinner and dumped a pile of brand-new clothes on the counter. Since you’re already wearing my clothes, I’m assuming we’re roughly the same size he muttered on his way out the door. Before he passes through it, he stopped. Look—she’s a pain in the ass, I don’t have to tell you that… but it’s not without reason so if you’re just here for the clout that being her flavor of the month will earn you or because you’ve got some fucked-up savior complex going on and you end up hurting her, I’ll fucking kill you—not because I’m her big brother. Because she deserves better and if she’s not going to demand it for herself then I’m just going to have to demand it for her. Because I love her.

  Seconds later, he’s gone and the adjoining door between his suite and Delilah’s slams shut and I’m alone again.

  Hearing her brother’s cut and dried assessment of what’s happening between us was enough to get me to pull the emergency break. Rethink everything. Realize that I can’t just keep doing this without potential consequences. Because maybe he’s right.

  Maybe Conner is too.

  Maybe this isn’t about Delilah.

  Maybe it’s about saving her.

  I had myself convinced that that was it.

  That I’d gotten myself mixed up in this mess, in hopes of changing the outcome. Saving her the way I couldn’t save Camilla.

  I wasn’t going to walk away but I was going to take a step back. Deliver her dinner and then take my pile of designer hand-me-downs to the other side of the suite and barricade myself in the nearest bedroom until sunrise. But then Delilah opened her bedroom door in my T-shirt.

  And everything changed.

  And fuck me sideways if knowing that doesn’t scare the absolute piss out of me.

  Pull the tag off a pair of black cashmere sleep pants, I pull them on before giving myself a hard look in the mirror.

  You don’t belong here, pendejo. She’s not in love with you. She’s just scared and confused. You know that and as soon as this shit is over with and she comes to her senses, she’s gonna know it too.

  Flipping off the bathroom light, I open the door, half expecting her to be asleep—maybe half hoping—but she isn’t. She’s sitting up in bed, a glass of expensive wine in her hand and one of those trashy tabloids in her lap, her perfect face folded into a wounded frown while she reads all the lies her friend sold about her.

  Aiming my gaze at the sitting area, I feel a frown dig itself into my own features. The dinner I made her is barely touched. Aside from a few bites of steak and some eggs, it’s mostly intact. “There something wrong with my cooking?”

  She looks up from the magazine in her lap and blinks at me a few times like she forgot I was even here. “No. It was delicious...” She shakes her head at me, catching her lower lip between her teeth to give it an absentminded gnaw—something I recognize as a nervous habit of hers. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought.” She drops her gaze back to the magazine and flips the page.

  “Delicious?” I laugh a little. “I think you mean edible.” My joke barely gets a reaction and it bothers me. Probably more than it should. “I don’t understand why you insist on reading that shit,” I tell her, the sound of my voice rough, almost angry. “It’s just a bunch of lies.”

  The sound of it picks her head up again. Has her aiming a faint half smile in my direction. “Not all of it.” She looks back down at the magazine in her lap and flips through its pages. “Matter of fact, some of it is pretty true.” She stops flipping and drops her finger, pointing at what looks like a collection of photographs spread across the page. “This is a timeline of my greatest hits, starting with the time I stole that horse from Central Park stable when I was eighteen and—”

  “It’s just a list of stupid shit you did,” I tell her, pushing myself out of the doorway toward the bed. When I get there, I take the magazine from her and drop it on the floor. “It’s not a list who you are.”

  She looks up at me, eyes so blue and wide I can feel myself slipping. The ground under my feet start to crumble. “What if I don’t know who I am.”

  “Then you ask me.” I reach down again, this time pulling the glass of wine from her hand. “You ask me and I’ll tell you what I see.”

  She shakes her head, folding her empty hands nervously in her lap. “I’m not sure I’d like your answer.”

  Forty-eight hours ago, her concern would be well-founded. Forty-eight hours ago, if someone had asked me to describe Delilah Fiorella, the adjectives I would’ve used would’ve been less than favorable.

  Vapid.

  Spoiled.

  Entitled.

  Impulsive.

  But that was before.

  Not before I fucked her.

  Let myself get mixed up in her and her problems.

  Those are the ways I would’ve described her before I let myself see her.

  Really see her.

  Looking down at her, now, I see her. Not who she tries to be. Not who she wants to be or who she thinks she really is.

  I see her.

  Messy hair and freshly scrubbed face, wearing nothing but my old T-shirt and the fresh wounds she’s inflicted on herself as punishment for something she has no control over. Didn’t ask for.

  “You might be surprised.” Lifting the glass to my mouth, I drain it. Let the cool, slightly sweet liquid ease the ache in my throat. “You were right. She did come back for the dress.” Setting the glass on the nightstand, I lift the bottle next to it and re-fill it. “The next day—it belonged to one of our dancers. She’d planned on changing into it after her shift and going out with friends.” Setting the bottle back down, I cut her a quick look, wondering if I’m going to have to backtrack. Explain to her who I’m talking about. Remind her of that night in the VIP corridor. Of the first time she kissed me. That way I tried to force her into a dress that didn’t belong to her and she refused. Demanded my T-shirt instead. I thought she did it just to be difficult. Just because she could.

  I was wrong.

  I was wrong about a lot of things.

  The look she’s aiming at me tells me I don’t have to remind her of anything. She remembers that night. What happened between us. “She came in for her shift the next day, frantic because the dress’d been in her bag and it dropped out somehow.” Lifting the glass, I take another drink, swallowing half of it down before lowering it. “She bought it on credit. Planned on wearing it once and returning it. That’s why the tags where still on it—apparently, it’s a pretty common practice. Buying designer clothes on credit to wear out and return later.” Pressing the glass into her hands I smile a little at the memory of how relieved the dancer was when I told her it was in lost and found. I don’t even remember her name but I remember that she was so relieved she’d started to cry because the dress cost more than she made in
a month and there was no way she would’ve been able to cover its cost. “You knew that though, didn’t you? That’s why you didn’t want to wear it home. Because you knew it belonged to someone who couldn’t afford to lose it.”

  “So I don’t steal from cash-strapped club dancers.” She flashes me a brief, sardonic smile before raising the glass of wine I poured her to take a drink. “Wow, there’s a ringing endorsement.”

  “You recognize and respect that other people aren’t as privileged as you,” I amend. “That’s not something a lot of people in your social circle can say about themselves.”

  “It was just a dress,” she says dismissively.

  “If it was just a dress, you would’ve taken it.” I’m not buying it. I see her now. The real her and now that I do, I can’t look away. Can’t convince myself that she’s the same shallow, selfish creature I always believed. “Worn it home without a second thought.”

  “Maybe…” Her gaze travels slowly up the length of my torso. Lingering on my abs and chest. My shoulders and mouth before meeting mine. “Or maybe I just wanted to see you with your shirt off.”

  She’s trying to lighten the mood. Deflect and I let her. Laughing, I take the glass from her, take a drink before handing it back. The wine is good. Better than I expected. “Your brother thinks I’m sticking around, either for the fame that being your working-class boytoy will get me or because I’ve got some sort of messed up hero complex.”

  “Is he right?”

  I watch her when she says it. Catch the way she stiffens her spine because she thinks she already knows the answer. That whatever reason I have for being here, that reason isn’t her.

  “No.” I shake my head, the corner of my mouth lifting a little. “I think we both know I’d make a terrible boytoy.” I ignore the other reason he mentioned—that I’m here because I think that saving her will somehow fix me—and so does she.

  “I don’t know…” Gaze still locked on mine, Delilah lifts the wine glass to her lips, drinking the last of it before setting it on the nightstand. Pushing herself to the edge of the bed, she slips her leg around mine, caging my legs between hers. “I think you’re doing pretty good so far.”

  “I’m not sure if I’ve just been complimented or insulted.” I laugh, the sound of it going dry and dusty in my mouth when she reaches for me, settling her hands on my hips. “Delilah…” It comes out sounding horse and tight. Like someone is strangling me. Like I can’t say her name without it causing me pain. “I—”

  “You promised…” She moves again, sliding her hands from my hips to my ass. “You promised that if I let you in, we wouldn’t have to talk.”

  “No…” It comes out on a groan, low and guttural. “I said that we—”

  “I don’t want to talk anymore, Gray.” She finds the waistband of my borrowed sleep pants and pushes her way past it, fingers sliding over my ass. “I want to taste you…” She leans in to skim her mouth along the taut muscles of my stomach and just like that, I’m hard. So fucking hard I’m seeing spots. So hard, it’s all I can do to keep myself from jerking my pants down so I can shove my cock in her mouth. Wrap my hands in her long silky hair so I can fuck her mouth.

  “Delilah…”

  This time when I say it, it sounds like a prayer. Like an act of worship and I’m sure she can hear it because it’s all right there—everything I feel for her—held together by the sound of her name.

  “Shhh…” She moves again. Pushes my pants over my hips, stretching them to accommodate the thick, heavy erection jutting out from between my thighs. Keeps pushing while she runs the tip of her tongue along the tight line of muscle that connects my groin to my hip and I groan again, my cock jerking in response, the shaft of it brushing against her cheek.

  I look down at her. Watch my hands slip around the soft curve of her jaw. My fingers slide in her hair. The pad of my thumb skim along her lush, lower lip. My breath harsh and shallow in my chest as she opens her mouth under the gentle pressure of it, her hand wrapping around the base of my shaft to hold it steady so she can slide the head of it between her lips.

  The second her warm, wet mouth close around me, my balls go tight and my hand fists in her hair, hips flexing instinctively into the pressure of her mouth while she teases and skims the rim of my cock with the tip of her tongue.

  “Christ…”

  I let my head fall back on my shoulders when she begins to suck, her jaw relaxing under my hand while she wraps her tongue around the length of my shaft, slowly moving down the length of it, taking my cock deeper and deeper, until the engorged head of it bumps against the back of her throat before she retreats, licking and sucking her way back up while she works the rest of me in her hand. She does it again. And again.

  “Fuuuck…”

  Unable to stop myself, I look down at her so I can watch her while she fucks me with her mouth. Cloudy blue eyes pinned to mine, she pumps and strokes me, again and again and I instantly know it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have looked. Shouldn’t have given in. Watched her work my cock in her mouth because the sight of her looking up at me while she does is better than any fantasy. Any dark, dirty thought I’ve ever had about her and seeing it pushes me to the edge in an instant.

  “Delilah…” It’s a curse this time. A warning and she moans around my cock in response, the pressure of her mouth intensifying. The frantic lick and whip of her tongue lashing against me. The pump and snap of her hand wrapped around the base of my shaft, spurring me on. Urging me to let go. Pushing me until the need to come barrels down on me, a wildfire, searing its way down spine, so sudden and hot I can’t stop it. Barely have time to take a breath before that searing heat is spiraling its way up the length of my shaft, my balls tightening almost painful for an instant before I’m coming, my cock jerking and spasming against the back of her throat while she continues to suck, swallowing everything I give her in deep, greedy pulls that nearly send me to my knees.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Delilah

  GRAY’S BARELY FINISHED BEFORE HE’S PULLING

  away from me and pushing me across the bed. I expect him to stretch himself over me. Push my panties to the side so he can stroke himself into me. Fuck me hard and deep the way he did this morning.

  He doesn’t.

  He just stands over me. Thick, muscular chest pumping, harsh and uneven. Cock half hard and still wet from my mouth. Dark gaze hooded and heavy. Mouth slightly parted like he’s having a hard time catching his breath.

  Touch yourself.

  It’s like he said it out loud and I don’t even realize what I’m doing until it’s already half done. Until my fingers are sliding down the length of my torso and brushing against the lace edge of my panties. Pushing past it. Lower, until their tips are skimming the seam of my pussy, my breath hitching in my throat when my slick, sensitive folds split under the pressure of them. “Gray…” I whisper his name, the last of it coming out on a breathless moan as they slip higher, slick with my own juices, to graze against my clit.

  Touch yourself.

  I do it again, giving myself a slow, delicious circle that sets me on fire. Unleashes a torrent of memories. Gray’s huge, imposing frame pressed against me. His hands in my hair, rough and angry. Pulling my head back. Bearing my throat under the pressure of his mouth. The scrape and nip of his teeth against the soft skin of my neck. The slow, soft sweep of his tongue against mine. His harsh, warm breath against my ear. His fingers clasped around my wrist, dragging my hand up the length of my trembling thigh. Pushing past mine to hook themselves around the edge of my panties. Pulling them aside. Exposing me to the cool, dry air of the stairwell we’re in.

  Touch yourself…

  Eyes closed, I arch into the pressure of my hand, fingers swirling and teasing my slick, swollen clit while the other pushes under the hem of my shirt, streaking up the ladder of my ribs to shape itself around my breast, pinching and teasing its stiff, hard nipple while I—

  Rough fingers hook themselves into the wa
istband of my underwear, jerking them down the length of my legs, seconds before the bed dips and I force my eyes open so I can see him.

  Gray.

  Kneeling on the mattress between my legs.

  He’s hard again, his thick, swollen cock inches from where I need it, so close I don’t know if I want to weep with relief or scream in frustration.

  “Don’t stop,” he tells me, fisting a hand around the head of his engorged shaft, gathering the pre-cum leaking from its tip. “Keep touching yourself for me…” He gives himself a stroke, pumping his cock in his fist from root to tip, coating his shaft in his arousal. Jaw set and heavy. Dark gaze fixed and smoldering on my pussy. The fingers swirling and circling my clit.

  “Ohmygod…please.”

  Rough hands again. This time gripping around my hips to drag me closer. Lifting and angling them until my thighs are draped over his and his hips are wedged into the juncture of them, the thick, blunt head of his cock notched against me.

  Yes.

  He strokes himself into me on a hard, deep thrust that tightens his grip on my hips, his fingers digging into me like he barely holding on. Like he’s ready to come again and I can feel the answering ripple of it inside me—a wild shake of desperate heat coursing through me, so intense that I can feel its grip against every bone and muscle, ratcheting tighter and tighter with every deep, hard pump of his cock inside me until I’m falling. Burning and breaking apart inside my own skin. “Gray...”

  He keeps fucking me through my orgasm, the grip and pull of it sending him into a frenzy that has him raising himself even higher. Lifting my legs over his shoulder and wrapping his thick, powerful arms around my thighs so he can pound himself into me even deeper—so deep it triggers another orgasm so intense that for a moment, I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can feel is this. The way he’s moving inside me. Him.

  Gray.

  “You remembered.”

  He says it quietly. Like he’s hoping I’m drifting off to sleep and won’t hear him.