She squeezed tightly and he groaned loudly as intense pleasure washed through him. After she squeezed and released several times, she held the last squeeze and he held his breath. When she finally released the pressure, his breath came out in a whoosh, carrying the tension in his body with it. She immediately kneaded his nape, smoothed her thumbs outward and swept away the rest of the tension there. She patted his back before she slid her palms to his shoulders and he moaned when her fingers dug in there.
For a man who didn’t take vacations, he sure felt like he was in the throes of a luxury one right now. If he could only finish that book while she finished her massage, he’d be a happy man. Instead, he closed his eyes and replayed those scenes in his head to further torture himself.
“Are you always this tight?” she asked with concern, focusing to knead a particularly sore spot near the left edge of his back.
Tight? Ninety-nine percent of his body felt like a cooked noodle right now. The other one percent was halfway to Oz. Gray bit the inside of his cheek as her fingers curled around the cap of his left shoulder and her hands flexed and released.
His body melted into the mattress with a satisfied growl, and her throaty laugh echoed inside his skull, ramping up his pleasure. She slowly worked her hands inward, then massaged his back with her fingers, the heels of her hands, and the weight of her body.
Between the whiskey, the endorphins, and the herbs in that oil, Gray felt drunk, but on fire, energized but relaxed, his muscles buzzed, but his body felt boneless. It was a very strange state of consciousness, but definitely not an unpleasant one. Her hands became hot silk against his skin, his sole focus, as he charted her movement down his back.
His breaths came quicker, and his heart raced when she reached the center of his back. A lazy tingle started near his hairline and slithered down his spine as she continued to push the river of endorphins in his body downward. When she reached the spot on his back that paralleled his navel on the other side of his body, she stopped to scoot her ass back to the base of his spine.
He heard a soft whimper as her hands moved against his back again. The heat between her legs stroked his lower back as she became more vigorous with her massage. She moved her hips in time with her hands until Gray felt like she was riding him like a prized horse. With each sway of her body, she ground his aching cock deeper into the mattress. His balls contracted, heat scorched up to the head of his cock and he knew he had to stop her now or embarrass himself.
With a growl, he reached back to grip her thigh and pushed up. She gasped in surprise when he rolled her onto her back and spun to trap her underneath him. Her glassy eyes met his and her chest heaved against his side. The pulse pounding at her throat told him she was either scared or as turned on as he was. Her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks pointed to the second option.
“I shouldn’t do this, but I have to,” Gray growled, breathing hard. “I’m going to kiss you, Jersey, so tell me now if you don’t want that.”
Her molten, hazel eyes met his and, with purpose, she grabbed the back of his skull to pull his mouth to hers. Her hot, plump lips met his and Gray groaned as their warm breath mixed. He sealed his mouth to hers and teased his tongue into her heat. She mewled as she curled her sweet tongue around his, wrapped her calf around his knee and moved her hips against him.
That’s when Gray knew there was no going back.
For more Bites by Becky McGraw, visit her at https://bookandmainbites.com/BeckyMcGraw
If you loved this Bite, read Gray Matter on Amazon and iBooks
About Becky McGraw
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Becky McGraw writes happily-ever-afters with heat, heart and humor. A Jill of many trades, Becky knows just enough about a variety of subjects to make her contemporary cowboy and romantic suspense novels diverse and entertaining. She resides in Florida with her husband of thirty-plus years, is the mother of three and grandmother of one. Becky is a member of the RWA, Sisters in Crime and Novelists, Inc.
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Eruption
Dylan Allen
His warm hands close over my mine and then he whispers my name.
I inhale the breath from his words and use it to exhale my own.
“I love you,” I murmur as my fingers glide into his hair.
He groans and slides his hands around my waist and draws us together.
I go willingly, and my body melts into his. His erection molds itself against the yielding flesh of my stomach.
That first delicious quiver of desire spreads and blooms into a flurry of need that grips my entire body. I press closer to him, trying desperately to erase the distance between us and pretend that this moment isn’t, in fact, a eulogy.
My eyes flutter closed as I caress the round curve of his skull before I cradle it in my hands. I savor the soft feathery slide of his hair through my fingers and inhale the lingering scent of ginger from his shampoo.
“I love you, too,” he says softly. His voice is heavy with regret that when I lick my lower lip, I can taste the residue of it.
And then, his lips sweep across mine. The touch is light as gossamer, as fragile as the strands of a spider’s web. Yet it shakes me to my very core.
“Open your eyes, Sunshine.” Graham's voice wafts over me, and I shake my head. If I open my eyes, this will end, and I’m not ready.
“Please,” he asks in a voice I have never been able to resist.
I open my eyes to find his stardust gray eyes wet with unshed tears.
“I’ve never kissed anyone, Apollo,” he says before he lowers his mouth back to mine. Our eyes stay fixed on each other, and I can see the truth in his. He’s letting me go.
My heart thumps in my chest, and I whimper when our lips meet in another gentle kiss.
“I’ve never loved anyone.” He takes my top lip between his. He sucks it gently, and I hate him so much for doing this to us. Even now, when everything is broken, when he’s shaking the very foundation my hopes are built on, all I want is for him to choose me.
We feel so good together. So right.
Squandering this feels like sinning.
He drags his lips across my cheek and presses them to my ear.
“I’m saving everything I can for you. And I’m sorry, so fucking sorry,” he whispers and then rubs his face into my hair.
“You’re my oxygen,” he murmurs before his lips come back to mine. His strong, warm hand is tender when it cups the nape of my neck. His other hand tightens around my waist, his fingers grasping and pulling me closer. I place my hands on either side of his and then everything else falls away.
I’ve imagined this kiss. I thought I was prepared for it. But now I know that the myths, the sonnets, the odes to kisses have all been flimsy, feeble, failed attempts to describe the indescribable.
There are no words for the exquisite, explosive moment your lips touch those of the person who is the keeper of your heart.
This is a glorious exhibition of years of wanting.
This is a dormant dream, refusing to be deferred for one more second.
It erupts, disrupts, and gives life to all of my secret, unspoken wishes.
My lips absorb the imprint of his.
Nothing short of his kiss will ever be enough. Not for as long as I live.
When his tongue slides against mine, I tremble and open to him.
It feels like falling off the edge of a cliff.
I would die for Graham to belong to me and me alone. The way I know I’ll always belong to him.
I would wait forever for him.
I would walk through fire.
I would scale mountains and swim oceans. I would let him take everything he needed from me, and then give him more unt
il I had nothing left.
Once upon a time, he had been my compass.
My star.
But, I can’t do this anymore. Not for one more day.
Loving Graham is killing me.
Slowly.
Softly.
Surely.
This time, though, as I fly off the side of the cliff, I know I’ll have to save myself.
Slowly, with an aching reluctance and gnawing regret, my hands slip from his hair. My lips, having had what they want, must now yield to what I need.
For more Bites by Dylan Allen, visit her at https://bookandmainbites.com/dylanallen
If you loved this Bite, read Envy on Amazon
About Dylan Allen
Dylan Allen is a Texas girl with a serious case of wanderlust. A self-proclaimed happily ever junkie, she loves creating stories where her characters chase their own happy endings. When she isn’t writing or reading, eating or cooking, she and her family are planning their next adventure.
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Not Nice
Kate Canterbary
Surveillance wasn't my thing.
I hated all the waiting and watching. Don't get me wrong—keeping track of a bossy redhead who didn't know how to mind her own business was one of the easiest gigs to ever fall into my lap, but it was tedious as fuck. This was why I couldn't do protection ops. I was a scalpel: perfect for quick, quiet attacks, the kinds that were measured and rehearsed for the greatest impact.
I was about ready to bind and gag Shannon Walsh, and then lock her in a closet until the wedding was over. Listening in from the far end of the bar while she quizzed the bartender on his stock of craft beers only reaffirmed it.
She couldn't go five minutes without flitting between the Walsh encampments, and that was on top of her routine cross-examination of the inn staff. She wanted to know when they were pitching the reception tent, where the blue hydrangea centerpieces were being housed for the night, whether they'd prepared extra scallops wrapped in bacon for the cocktail hour.
Apparently those were the groom's favorite, and if her tone was any indication, the catering manager could expect Shannon's fancy high heel to find a home in his small intestine if he underdelivered.
I had to hand it to her—the bitch had balls.
And maybe I was a little punchy. I'd been traveling for the past seventy hours and my body and brain were still in mission mode. There was a gravity associated with coming off deployment. All sailors experienced it, but everyone experienced it differently. For me—after nearly three years hunting terrorists—it was the sudden, shocking loss of purpose. Without the constant chatter of comms in my ear, the familiar weight of body armor and weapons, the adrenaline of running exceedingly dangerous ops, the dual responsibilities of guarding my country and getting my men home safely…without all that, I didn't know what to do with myself.
Instead of figuring out how to shake off the culture shock, I fixated on Shannon. She was the expensive, refined kind of beautiful. High maintenance. Diamond earrings bigger than most mortar shells. She couldn't go thirty seconds without checking her phone.
Amazingly enough, that wasn't the most annoying part.
No, it was that this woman didn't even like beer. I refused to believe she could. This chick was too high society for beer, even weird hipster beer.
"What about Upper Case?" she asked. There was no hint of impatience or condescension in her voice, and that was the secret weapon. She was calm and relatively pleasant, but it was obvious in the sharp angle of her eyebrow that she was ready to climb over the bar, show this guy how to do his job, and shrivel his dick off with little more than a tight grimace. "Or Congress Street? Triple Sunshine?"
The bartender studied the taps in front of him and then crouched low to inspect the bottles lined up in the refrigerator. He stood, shaking his head. "I've got Smuttynose, and…and Slumbrew."
She drummed her fingers against the bar while she contemplated those options. I was actually concerned the bartender was wilting under her glare. She was a dictator dressed as a socialite, and I doubted she wilted under anything. "What about Sea Hag?"
He snapped his fingers and pointed at the fridge, smiling with relief. Hell, I was relieved on his behalf. "That I can do for you."
"I knew you'd come through for me, Barry." She sent him a wink as he slid the uncapped bottle toward her. He high tailed it to the other end of the bar, presumably to dislodge his nuts from wherever Shannon shoved them.
I was expecting her to dart back to Lo's side or hunt down other staff members to harass or just go the fuck to bed because it was past midnight and even the wicked required rest, but that all changed when she turned her gaze on me. She collected her bottle and marched my way, offering a bright, plastic smile as she approached.
"I have a thing for IPAs," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. Skinny silver bracelets encased her wrist, and they clanged against each other whenever she moved. From where I was sitting, it looked and sounded like she was accessorizing with a Slinky. "A list of the best local breweries was published last month, and my goal for the summer is to try each one." Unbidden, she tucked herself into the seat beside me. "We met earlier, but I know there are a lot of us and things have been so hectic. I'm Shannon, Matt's sister."
I accepted her outstretched hand, and as our palms met, I realized she was a tiny little thing. She was just a peanut. At first glance, she didn't seem small, not with that feisty attitude and fiery hair, but she was the definition of petite. Slim fingers, smooth skin, trim, compact body, and…freckles. So many freckles.
It was as if Strawberry Shortcake fucked Winston Churchill, and nine months later, Shannon Walsh was born.
"Right," I said. "Will."
"Are you an India Pale Ale fan, Will?" Her eyes dropped to the Corona bottle beside me and she forced that fake smile again. It was obvious she did this with frequency—handling people, subtly manipulating them, getting her way while letting everyone think it was their idea—and it annoyed the fuck out of me. "Oh, that's just silly."
"Is it?"
"Yes," she said, then called down the bar, "Barry! Get my friend a Summer Ale."
Barry didn't react quickly enough for Shannon, and his shift was probably long since over but he didn't know how to break that news to her. With a sigh about wanting things done right meant doing them herself, she stepped behind the bar, grabbed the bottle, popped the top, and placed it in front of me.
"Put it on my tab," she yelled as she settled back into her seat. Barry gave us his best deer-in-the-headlights look and went back to restocking. It was late, and he was the only one manning the patio bar. My money was on him counting the seconds until this rowdy crew cleared out. "So I started my IPA adventure with an Olivette from Paisley Pines and then I discovered Lost Highway Breweries, and now I'm dying to try the Veridien from Banded Horn Brewery."
Bound. Gagged. Closet.
"So tell me, Will," she said, inclining her head toward me. "What's your poison?"
An image of Shannon bent over my knee flashed into my mind, and fuuuuuck that had to stop right now. I swallowed it down, drowning that thought in cold beer. "Whatever's on tap," I growled.
In all fairness to my dick, this was nothing more than a natural reaction to being off-base and in the presence of gorgeous women who were free to dress however they pleased. Hell, I hadn't seen a lady in heels like Shannon's, with ribbons lacing all the way up her leg, since…ever.
I sent a silent prayer to my cock, begging it to calm the fuck down.
"There you are," Shannon said as Lo draped her arm over my shoulder.
"Hey, Will, this is my friend Andy. She works with Matt," she said, gesturing to the brunette beside her.
"Will Halsted," I said. She shook
my hand without saying a word. "You're not related to this crew?"
"No," Andy said, and her gaze traveled over the patio area to settle on Patrick, the oldest Walsh. He was one stoic motherfucker. I'd only picked up general details about the family Lo was marrying into, and I knew Riley was the fool, Sam was the playboy, Patrick was the hard-ass, Nick wasn't related but came with the package, and Matt was the golden retriever: obedient, loyal, and couldn't keep his tongue in his mouth.
Andy ordered a glass of wine, and thank God Barry was able to meet her request without much discussion. I doubted Shannon cared whether she was empowered to fire him or not; she'd make it happen.
"Finally, an impartial witness. Sit down," I said, pulling up a chair.
If I could get Andy talking, I knew Shannon would go looking for attention elsewhere. That meant I could get some history on these people and distance from Shortcake. Seemed like a win.
But Andy turned away from Patrick a second before he pivoted. A quick inspection of the patio told me that everyone else saw it too. I couldn't understand how she missed his hot stare.
So that's how it is with them.
"Are we not having a conversation?" Shannon asked, and fuck. Just…fuck. If I had the time or interest, her mouth would be too busy with my cock to make those comments. And no, I did not want to be interested but post-deployment horny didn't discriminate against viper-women who inspired fear in wolves and inadequate men.
First Kisses: a Book+Main Bites anthology Page 14
