by Nikki Sex
I’ve told him my stories and he’s told me his. That’s what really close friends do. Now I just need to figure out how to get them out of his head, and turn him into a confident lover. My lover.
I squeeze my eyes shut. God, I want to feel his hands on me. I want to feel my hands on him. I imagine him naked, my nails scratching his back as he pushes inside of me, deep and hard.
Waiting has been agony. For the love of God, will he fuck me now? Here? Tonight? Ever?
I feel as though I’m losing my mind.
I decide to have a quick shower and wrap myself in one of those fluffy bathrobes the hotel provides. Maybe that will give him some ideas.
The smell of hot, fresh pizza fills the room as Grant returns. “You took a shower,” he says, as he eyes me in the robe with my freshly washed and blow-dried hair.
“Sure did.”
“Good.” He nods and looks me up and down speculatively. “You got anything on underneath that bathrobe?”
I give him a teasing smile. “Not telling. That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
He raises an eyebrow, and once more peruses my covered body with a long, leisurely stare. “Now, I really want to see what’s under there.”
Grant is so relaxed at this moment, I don’t feel that anxiety vibe he radiates whenever he thinks of being intimate with me. I’m not sure exactly where he’s getting all of this confidence, but I think he needs to be rewarded.
“As you wish,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes.
Under his intense scrutiny, I slowly untie my bathrobe, taking one side of the terrycloth material in each hand, and pull it open—flashing him my naked body while undulating in a slow, sensual dance. It reminds me of my striptease from our special ‘Truth or Dare’ night weeks ago, which puts a big grin on my face.
Grant laughs—he laughs!
“Renata, only you!” he says, then clears his throat. “You’re cruel. Um… pizza, remember?” He shoves the pizza box toward me as a reminder. “Pizza!”
I laugh and cover up. “I get it. Address one hunger at a time, huh?”
“Yes.”
Grant drops the box on the nearby table and we both sit down. A few minutes go by as we eat. The near silence is punctuated with an occasional “umm” or groan of pleasure.
“What’s with you?” I ask him once my initial hunger pangs have eased. “You seem… stress-free.”
Long legs stretched out in front of him, Grant slouches back in the chair. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“You know I’ve never actually slept with a woman, right?”
It still blows me away that I’m going to be his first, yet I keep my features composed. “So I understand,” I say evenly.
“I’ve been nervous about tonight,” he says, “but I’m not nervous anymore.”
“What changed?”
“I’m not sure,” he says, taking another slice of pizza. “It felt good to tell you what happened in Michoacán—I think that may be part of it. It was a huge relief to be able to finally talk about that. I’ve had all sorts of idiotic thoughts running through my head. I’ve been worried about doing something stupid, or of you finding out who I really am, or what I’ve done and possibly hating me for it.”
I want to jump in here and deny I could ever hate him, but André’s lessons hold me back. I need to be the therapist, right now. Grant is still working through something. Opening my big mouth would just interrupt his train of thought.
André says all counselors talk too much.
Every. Single. One.
He confessed he only knows this, because he’s been one of the biggest offenders! Listening is much more important than talking. Dieu nous a donné deux oreilles et une seule bouche, he says. That’s why God gave us two ears but one mouth.
Nothing helps a client more than intently listening in silence. It gives a person time and the headspace to work things out for themselves.
Grant stares at his pizza as he thinks. “I’ve been afraid of feeling sick or panicking and needing to flee like a coward. Fear of failing, too—failing is a big one.”
I pause, waiting to see if he’ll say anything else. When he doesn’t, I ask, “You don’t feel those things now?”
“No,” he says, lips curving into a smile. “I suspect thinking about something is much harder than actually doing it. It’s strange, but now that you know so much about me, and I know so much about you, I feel… safe.”
I nod. “I know exactly what you mean.”
He smiles back at me and then chuckles. “You don’t scare me anymore.”
I shake my head, laughing at that nonsensical notion. “Me? Scary?”
“It’s true!” he admits. “I always thought of myself as a monster, and you always thought of yourself as a mouse. Yet, I think in a way, I’ve been the mouse. I’ve been afraid of so many things—my secrets, my guilt, sex and women. I’ve hidden these fears from everyone, starting with myself.”
“Wait… does that make me the monster?” I say teasingly.
Grant grins. “Never.”
I grin back at him, but say nothing.
I’ve been wanting to ask him about what happened when we were playing ‘Truth or Dare.’ That was when he first realized he found sex easier when focusing his attention on me rather than himself. Too bad I can’t ask about that now.
André says, ‘The enemy of good is “better.’ Why try to ‘improve’ a good thing? Grant is doing well. I don’t want to risk breaking his current mood.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” Grant says, standing up and glancing down at me, “and I think I’ll come out dressed like you.”
“Does this mean we are going to have sex tonight?” I ask hopefully.
“Absolutely.” He stares at me. “I have a plan.”
His gaze travel from my breasts, to my face. For a moment he focuses on my lips, then higher.
Our eyes lock.
Grant’s piercing gaze makes my inner muscles clench. I squeeze my thighs together, trying to curb an overwhelming need to squirm under his intense scrutiny.
I ache and I’m empty. I swear—his hungry stare is all the foreplay I need. The tension in my core builds, coiling tighter at the thought of finally having his body inside of mine again.
Grant taking me.
Using me.
Filling me. Oh yes!
I clear my throat and swallow hard.
“Do you?” I manage to choke out. “When did you come up with this plan of yours?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks, but I finally figured out exactly what to do while I was going down to get the pizza.”
Grant ‘going down’ for pizza takes on a whole new meaning. How does that work? It cracks me up, easing my extreme arousal. Stupid jokes fly through my mind, most of them having to do with; ‘meat lovers,’ and ‘sausages,’ and ‘if I don’t come in thirty minutes, is the pizza free?’
“What?” he asks, confused by my laughter. “What’s so funny?”
I shake my head. “You don’t think it’s funny? While going down for pizza, you figured out your big plan of seduction. Did you think it would work as a pickup line? Hey baby, how about sex and a pizza? No? What's wrong? Don't you like pizza?”
Laughter bubbles from his throat, when I explain all the silly jokes going through my mind.
He strides into the bathroom and I hear the shower as I tidy up and pull back the covers on our bed. When he comes out, he’s wearing the bathrobe that matches mine.
“Want to use the restroom?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you.” I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth. When I’m done and I open the bathroom door, Grant is standing right there.
I peer around him but see the bedroom is now pitch black. Grant has drawn the blackout curtains. No lights are on in the room. The only light comes from a digital clock at the bedside and of course, the bathroom light, behind me.
Grant stands before me, a smile flic
kering in his eyes and around his mouth. There’s lust in his features and also a glint of wry humor. Still, I can’t help but be daunted. He seems so damned big—his body fills the entire doorway.
I sense no air of vulnerability, uncertainty or nervousness in him. He’s comfortable and at ease, which ratchets up my desire to instant overload.
Jesus, is this man finally going to let himself go?
My pulse spikes and heat pools between my legs. “What’s up?” I ask, licking my lips. “Why is it so dark in here?”
Grant’s sexy grin enchants me. “You like the dark because you enjoy climbing into that box of yours. Darkness is safe and private. I think I’ll be more comfortable in the dark too.”
“Oh,” I say, my whole body zinging with electricity. “Yes, dark can be good.”
Grant takes off his bathrobe and throws it across a nearby chair. He stands in front of me, utterly naked and as hot as hell. Perfectly sculpted, he’s like the marble statue of a Greek God.
My gaze roams over his face, his broad shoulders and muscular chest, moving lower and converging on his proudly upstanding cock.
It’s huge.
Jesus! Did someone just suck all the air out of this room?
My body stills, my mind goes blank. I’m pretty sure my heart has somehow been transported lower—it’s now beating furiously between my legs. I feel it throbbing, thundering like a pulse right there.
Grant stares at me, aware of my aching arousal. I don’t know how, but he knows. His nostrils flare.
What? Oh my God. Can he smell me?
“Lose the robe,” he growls in a low, husky voice.
I tremble, as everything within me—everything I am, responds to his erotic command. I make a tiny sound as I untie my robe, and let it drop behind me at my feet.
Holy shit, he’s so damned sexy!
Grant nods his approval at my compliance, but his lips are pressed together in a firm line. I recognize his single-minded expression.
Grant wants to fuck me.
He has the confident look of a man who fully expects to get what he wants.
Raw, intense and strangely imposing, he holds out his hand to me. I need the support—my knees feel as if they’re about to buckle. They barely hold me up.
Somehow, I manage to place my smaller palm in his. The contact of his warm flesh on mine burns like a brand. Everything about Grant utterly disarms me.
I can’t speak. There’s no oxygen getting to my brain. I’m pretty sure all of my blood flow has migrated south to my swollen, tingling breasts and my pulsing clit.
“Why don’t you turn off the light, darlin’?” he murmurs in his sexy, Texas drawl.
As if hypnotized, I keep my eyes on his.
Then I turn off the bathroom light.
Chapter 43.
“Sex is an act of pleasure and an expression of love. How better to communicate one’s deepest feelings than without the clumsy use of words?”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
I don’t mind being in charge in the bedroom—it can be super, sexy fun. Dominating André had been a real hoot. However, considering Grant’s history, I don’t think having another person direct his actions is such a good idea.
Control was wrested from him by his abuser when he was a child. As Grant got older, even his body betrayed him, reacting in ways he didn’t want. During sexual therapy, he needs to take back that sense of power and control.
Right now, Grant is hot as hell and he isn’t in any way tentative. He knows what he wants and doesn’t hesitate to go for it.
This is the real Grant Wilkinson, the I’m-in-command and you’ll-follow-my-orders, Grant. This is who he is beneath the emotional fallout of his abuse—he’s a confident, no nonsense, dominant, alpha male.
From the moment Grant takes my hand, he’s running the show.
Hallelujah!
In one smooth motion, he pulls me against him, my back to his chest. His left arm clasps around my stomach, capturing me and pulling us close. Scorching hot and throbbing, Grant’s solid erection rests heavily between the cheeks of my bottom.
I sigh deeply with genuine pleasure as I absorb the heat that radiates from every part of him.
One touch from him and I soften, pliant and willing under his firm hands. The feel of his hard, muscular body against mine is amazing. His skin is warm and smooth, his abs taut.
The fingers of his right hand thread through my hair, pushing it all to one side. Grant doesn’t let go, instead he firmly pulls on the strands, tilting my head to the side to expose the arch of my neck.
I moan, more than happy for him to have as much access there as he likes.
Jesus! How does he know hair pulling does it for me? Or that my neck is a serious erogenous zone—one of my most blistering of hot spots. There is direct wiring from that spot to every nerve in my body.
God, I love this position—the feel of him firmly holding me and fondling me so intently is glorious. I throw back my head and raise my arm, running my fingers through his soft hair.
The total darkness makes everything seem so much more intense. His scent. The sound of our breathing. The feel of his hot flesh and his calloused fingers.
My whole world is focused on him as he takes control of everything, doing as he pleases—stroking, caressing and ruthlessly driving me toward orgasm.
Grant’s lips are warm and soft. They brush against my temple, exploring along the line of my jaw and down my neck, throat and collarbone. He leaves a trail of kisses and nips, branding me with wet heat, sending shivers rippling down my spine.
I tremble under his touch.
He licks behind my ear and when I respond with a helpless whimper, he does it again. His mouth remains open against my skin, deliciously sliding along my flesh. His tongue and teeth excite me as his hot breath pushes me further into ecstasy.
Goosebumps rise across my skin.
Within moments he reduces me to a quivering mass of jangling nerve endings—all sensation, pleasure and brutal need. I’m barely in control of my body at all.
When he gently nips my earlobe, I gasp out loud. This bite of pleasure-pain sends an electric jolt right down between my legs. He eases the small nip with a sensual caress of his tongue.
“You liked that,” he rasps, as his sweet breath fans my throat in a warm caress.
“Mmm,” I murmur.
“Good,” he replies, continuing to nibble and suck my earlobe, throat and neck.
Both of his hands begin to purposefully run up and down my body, traveling along my thighs, my stomach and my back, caressing the curves of my ass. He’s leisurely stroking every inch of me, except he’s avoiding touching the places I most want him to touch—the wicked tease!
The scent of sex, man and my own arousal, perfumes the air. My God, it smells divine!
If I could package his scent, every woman would become addicted, as I have. He’s like a drug and I’m hooked. I’ve been desperate and hanging out, dying for him to touch me for way too long. I’ve needed my Grant fix!
Now I'm high… on him.
Warm and heavy, my breasts ache for his touch. One of his hands slides up to fondle and squeeze them—thank God! It’s such a relief, that I reward him with a moan.
“Yes,” he whispers, “That feels good to me, too.”
“Mmm.”
With the tips of his fingers, his other hand traces sexy circles on my hips and thighs.
My empty core clenches and throbs, starved for his attention. Why is he ignoring my wet, swollen folds? Is he deliberately neglecting my clit?
Damn, I need him! I really want him to press his hand between my legs.
With a forefinger and thumb, he gently tugs and rolls my nipples. I inhale sharply, reveling in the sensation.
“Mmm,” he murmurs and repeats the caress.
I’m so incredibly turned on! I whimper, sigh, moan and pant. I thrash, squirm and shift restlessly. I can’t remain quiet o
r still—every single thing he does to me feels so damn good!
“I love the sounds you make for me,” he growls.
“That’s good,” I pant. “I don’t think I can stop. I’ve wanted you for so long.”
Grant bites me, holding me with his teeth between my shoulder and neck. It takes me by surprise. I’m caught so off guard, I instantly become motionless.
His bite is so primal and raw! It’s something a male animal would do to control and claim their mate. I absolutely love it.
“I’ll never stop wanting you,” he says, as he releases me.
His words are exactly what I’ve longed to hear. He encircles my hips with proprietary intimacy, holding me in place with his big warm hands. He pulls me even closer until our bodies join skin to skin, thighs, hips, torso—we merge together.
Our pure, profound connection is wondrous. I can no longer tell where I end and where he begins.
He’s possessing me.
Owning me.
I belong to him.
“Yes!” I gasp. “I want you, Grant.”
My pulse kicks up further—it’s already racing. I’m soaked with sweat, and I feel a trickle of moisture traveling down along the sensitive skin between my thighs. I’ll come within moments of him touching my clit.
“Please,” I beg breathlessly. “Please!”
“It won’t take much to make you come, will it?” he asks, and I can hear the awe in his voice.
“No,” I gasp. “Please, Grant!”
“Soon.”
“You’re so bad!” I tell him.
“But I’m trying to be good.”
I chuckle. “You are good. But when you’re good—you’re really, really bad.”
He chuckles. “Did you just give me a compliment?”
“Damn right.”
Even in the darkness, I swear I can sense him smile.
Without warning, Grant pinches my nipple. A zing of excruciating pleasure shoots straight to my pussy, causing a spasm of sensual delight.
“Oh, God!” I jerk and cry out.
“You like that,” he says—it’s a statement, not a question.
“Yes, yes,” I moan, my whole body aching with the erotic sensation. “I love everything you’re doing. I need more. Please!”
