Us, Again

by Elle Maxwell

  I don’t realize until it’s too late that I’ve inadvertently issued a challenge.

  Graham puts one large hand on each of my hips and backs me slowly toward the bike. I gulp at the predatory look in his eyes.

  “You’re underestimating my gift for logistics. I’ve got this all figured out, baby.”

  The back of my thighs brush the side of the bike as he maneuvers me all the way up against it. Then with a swift movement, he uses his grip on my hips to rotate me around so my back is to him. Graham moves in so close that his entire front is pressed to my back, enveloping me in his warmth and giving me a very clear idea of how hard he is as he presses his erection against my lower back. He places a palm along the middle of my spine and leans down to speak into my ear. The bristle of his facial hair lightly scrapes the edge of my jaw as his mouth moves, causing goose bumps to spread over my entire body.

  “See, babe, I’ll just bend you over it and fuck you from behind.”

  With a gentle but forceful push of his hand, he guides my torso down until I am bracing myself with forearms resting on the seat of the bike. He stands back up, hands curled around my sides right at my hipbones, the tips of his long fingers pressing into the top of my pelvis. Their placement is maddening—low enough that it causes my pulse to pound through that area and down to my sex, but not low enough to touch the place he’s made ache. Behind me, he’s rock hard and nearly lined up where he wants to be, pressing that impressive erection to the seam of my jeans.

  “Oh,” I say in a voice that’s slightly faint. I swallow hard and can’t help but push my hips back just a bit to rub against him. “That could work.”

  Who knows how far I’d have let him go if a deep throat clearing didn’t sound behind us at that moment, reminding me that we’re still in Griff’s garage. I jerk in surprise and probably would have toppled to the other side of the motorcycle headfirst if Graham wasn’t right there to tighten his hands at my hips and pull me backward to my feet. Griff’s deep raspy voice rings out as I’m still regaining stability.

  “Not in my house, kids. Do whatever you want with her once you get her home, but she’s still mine until you leave.”

  My mouth is ready to drop open in shock and outrage before it dawns on me … He’s talking about the bike.

  Graham laughs and his hands that are still at my hips give me a little squeeze. I’m certain I’m as red as a boiling lobster; it feels as though half of my body flushed in embarrassment.

  “Oh, I will,” Graham replies, and I smack him in his stomach. Of course, the damn thing is hard as stone so the only thing it hurts is my hand meeting zero resistance from his abs.

  Griff turns to lead us back inside, and Graham’s fingers graze the side of my face, moving a strand of hair so his lips have unobstructed access to my ear.

  “Was that a yes?” he half whispers, half growls.

  “Your house has a garage, right?”

  “Yup.”

  I don’t answer him with words. I just reach down and palm him between the legs, where he’s still straining against his jeans. He curses low as I walk away from him toward the door, making sure my hips sway a little extra just to torture him.

  20. KEEP THE HELMET ON

  Graham

  I’ve had a semi ever since Griff’s garage. The sight of Mackenzie’s perfect ass in those skintight jeans as she bent over the bike … Fuck it was hot.

  But when she climbed onto the Harley to ride it back to my house? I almost lost it in my goddamn pants like a kid.

  I can barely focus on the drive home, which is hardly surprising since all of the blood in my body is concentrated in my dick right now.

  I’m so desperate for her that I can’t even wait until she’s climbed off the bike, or for the garage door to fully close.

  “Keep it on,” I growl as I stalk toward her. Her hands, which are at the sides of the helmet, about to pull it off her head, halt at my words.

  I pick her up by the hips and swivel her around in the direction I want her, handling her weight with no effort at all because she’s so fucking delicate. My very own fuckable china doll. No … that’s messed up. Shit. I’ll come up with a better analogy when my dick allows some blood back up to my brain.

  Once she’s sitting sideways on the saddle, I drop to my knees with no further hesitation. I have her jeans around her ankles in record time, and I’m running my beard along the insides of her thighs the way she likes.

  “Graham …” She already sounds turned on as fuck, which is good because I’m harder than the concrete floor I’m kneeling on.

  She hisses a sharp inhale when I use my nose to rub over her folds, and her hips shift forward on the bike to get closer to my mouth. Yeah, baby, I want you as close as possible too. I hook my fingers around her hips to hold her to me. Then my tongue dives right inside those pretty pink petals. The smell and taste of her arousal coats my tongue immediately, and I groan, which makes her pussy spasm hard enough that I can feel it.

  “You already this wet for me? Were you thinking about me fucking you the whole ride here?”

  “Yes,” she breathes out.

  “Me too, babe. I’m gonna eat you first, and then I’m gonna bend you over that bike and come inside you.” Right before my face, I watch the muscles of her sex contract. She loves it when I talk dirty to her.

  I’m still not close enough, so I lift her legs and drape them over my shoulders. And then I eat her as ravenously as if I’ve been starving for days. From within the helmet she’s still wearing, I hear her quietly chanting, “Oh my God, oh my God.” She’s so turned on, she immediately starts bucking her hips and tugging on my hair in the pursuit of her orgasm. I’m almost disappointed by how quickly she comes … almost. Because I’m beyond ready for round two.

  She sags forward and I hold on to her legs to support her while she recovers from her orgasm, placing random kisses on her stomach and rubbing some of her juices off of my beard and onto her skin (which for some reason I find so fucking hot).

  “You ready?” I ask her when her shaking has mostly stopped.

  “Yes. Can I take the helmet off now?”

  Fuck—I might be a terrible person, because it makes me so hot hearing this badass of a woman asking my permission. I’m not into that dominant Fifty Shades of Fucking nonsense and I would never want to actually hurt her with whips and shit—I mean, seriously, bro?— but there’s something about her letting me be in control that’s a huge turn-on.

  “Yeah, baby. Take it off.”

  I let her keep her shirt on because it’s cold now that the sun’s gone down, and the garage isn’t heated. I plan on keeping her pretty damn warm, though.

  As soon as she has the helmet off, I dive in and taste her mouth with the same ferocious strokes of my tongue I just used on her pussy, and she wraps her legs around my waist. I’m still wearing my pants, which are strangling my dick, so I create just enough space that I can free him. We’re not quite lined up this way, though, so I pick her up again and set her down on the floor with her back to me. Then I guide her to bend over and brace her arms on the bike’s seat, recreating our position in Griff’s garage—except this time her bare, luscious ass is sticking in the air before me and there’s no Griff nearby to come and be a motherfucking cockblocker.

  I lean over so my chest is pressed against her back, covering her body completely with mine. I reach around to knead her breasts, pinching her nipples through the fabric of her bra and clothes. She wiggles that ass backward trying to relieve the need I’m revving up. And who am I to let my girl suffer? I know how ready she is—the evidence was dripping from my mouth just a minute ago—so I don’t waste any time taking her by the hips and tilting her to the perfect angle. I drag my cock through her wet folds a couple of times, driving us both crazy, and then I plunge inside the only heaven I’ve ever known. I’m so goddamned worked up I almost come right away, but I manage to fight it back. This is too good to let it end so soon.

  Sometimes when we get n
aked, we make love—but this is undeniably fucking. It’s uncontrolled, a little crazed, completely perfect. Around us, the garage is filled with the sounds of skin slapping on skin, the pants of our heavy breathing, and the occasional pleasured moan or curse.

  I slam into her, burying myself all the way before pulling out fully. Then I do it all over again. With every forward thrust of my hips, Mackenzie pushes her ass back against me as though trying to take me impossibly deeper each time. With my hands still firmly gripping her hips, I pull her ass a little higher, angling her so I can reach that magical spot that sets her off like nothing else. I need her to come. I can tell that she’s close—her tight inner muscles start to clench around me rhythmically.

  “Come, baby,” I demand, my voice rough from exertion and tight with the strain of holding back my own climax. “Come for me.”

  She does. Once her body begins spasming around me, squeezing my dick over and over as she rides her orgasm, I let go too. It only takes a couple of frenzied pumps into her still pulsing core before I come so hard I almost lose my footing. Her legs are unsteady as well, so I shift her back up to sit on the bike. Then I brace my arms on the bike on either side of her thighs and bury my face into her chest. For a minute or so, we simply stay there, unable to move or do anything but both breathe heavily.

  “The logistics won’t work, huh?” I mutter with my lips on her skin.

  She laughs weakly, like I’ve fucked all the strength out of her. I sure as hell feel wrung out after that.

  “Feel free to prove me wrong like that any time,” she says.

  We finally pull ourselves together enough to stumble out of the garage and up the stairs to my room where we collapse onto the bed. Mackenzie falls asleep almost immediately. It takes me a little longer, but I eventually join her in unconsciousness.

  It’s my first full night of sleep at this house in five years.

  21. GHOSTS

  Mackenzie

  I wake slowly. My mind’s transition to consciousness is gradual, the way thick honey drips from a jar. With my eyes still closed, I become aware of my surroundings one detail at a time. First, Graham—his big body is curled around mine, spooning me from behind, arms wrapped around me with a hand on my waist and the other cupping one of my breasts. My bare breasts, because the second thing I register is that I’m naked. The details are hazy in my sluggish mind, but I think I must have pulled my clothes off in the middle of the night, or maybe Graham did it (I can totally imagine Graham sleep-stripping me, the way other people sleepwalk). But I’m sure I was fully clothed when we stumbled into bed … which I also notice is not my bed. This isn’t my house; something about the atmosphere tells me I’m not at home, though there’s also a surprisingly potent sense of familiarity.

  Finally, my eyes slide open to the sight of Graham’s bedroom. I’m facing the room’s large outer window through which morning light is creeping, illuminating my view of the gorgeous old trees that border the backyard. The plaid bedsheets beneath me, the sturdy wooden headboard visible in my periphery, even the smell of the pillow near my head … it all hits my senses in a sudden wave of déjà vu. It’s all exactly the same as it was five years ago, down to the scent of the laundry detergent I now detect in the fresh bedding around me.

  I carefully dislodge myself from Graham’s grasp. He is out so deeply he merely flops onto his back and continues sleeping. Unusual muscles twinge as I step from the bed, and I remember. The motorcycle. My cheeks heat with the mental replay, a warmth that flows to other parts of my body as well … That was so hot. No wonder I don’t have any memory of being in this house or how I ended up in Graham’s childhood bed last night. Those were two seriously mind-scrambling orgasms.

  I grab a shirt from the neatly stacked pile in his dresser—the exact same drawer where they used to be—and throw it on. Before slipping from the room to make some desperately needed visits to the restroom and kitchen, I steal one more glance back at the bed and the grown man asleep in this time capsule of his adolescence. My reaction to the sight of him is no longer a choice. It is as immediate and instinctual as breathing. I love him.

  Padding my way barefoot over the dark hardwood floors of this massive house, I completely understand what Graham meant when he compared being here to living among ghosts. Within these walls time has stood still for the past five years, a perfectly preserved monument to a world that ended the day Graham’s parents died. He’s mentioned there was some paid cleaning service that took care of things all these years, and they did a hell of a job, because I don’t see a single speck of dust as I run my eyes along the various framed photos decorating nearly every wall.

  My heart squeezes as I stand before a photograph taken just months before the accident, from a charity benefit Graham invited me to: we’re standing in our formal wear next to his parents, looking so very young and in love. The four of us are captured in a moment of happiness that makes me ache now.

  I can only imagine the power of Graham’s grief over the loss of his parents because I’ve mourned them deeply in my own way and my connection was trivial in comparison to his. The Wyatts were always good to me. They welcomed me with open arms from the moment Graham first brought me home and always welcomed me like a part of the family, treating me with love and acceptance. They weren’t just good parents. They were good human beings, people I would have wanted to know even if I weren’t dating their son.

  In the kitchen I gulp down a glass of water and pop some dry cereal into my mouth (Lucky Charms … typical Graham). Every room of this house holds memories for me that seem to play out before my eyes. I can see Mr. Wyatt sitting at the kitchen barstool, reading on his iPad and drinking coffee. There were a couple of mornings he caught me sneaking out (it turned out he was a very early riser), but he just went back to reading and always pretended it hadn’t happened, earning eternal cool points in my book.

  It must be so hard for Graham to be here. I hadn’t truly appreciated it until now.

  Back in Graham’s bedroom, I’m trying to be quiet as I collect my clothing from the floor when a large hand wraps around my waist, pulling me back onto the bed. I laugh and shake away the hair that flew across my face during his assault.

  “There you are,” he murmurs, gazing at me with sleepy hazel eyes and a smile that makes my insides quiver. “I don’t know how you do it, but you make everything better. Even this place.”

  I run my hand along the overgrown scruff on his face, as always loving the rough scrape of it against my skin.

  “You hate it so much here, why stay? Sell it. Or if you’re not ready for that, just buy something else. You could get a place in the city. You’ve got the money. There’s nothing keeping you from doing whatever you want.”

  “Is that an invitation to officially move in?”

  “No! Graham! We’ve only been together a couple of months.”

  His mouth tips up at the corner as his eyes take on a devilish glint.

  “By my count it’s been almost eight years.”

  I stare at him, unamused.

  “I mean, we never actually broke up, so I’ve decided we were together the whole time.”

  I maintain my stern look but add in a little eye roll for good measure.

  “Do you remember a break up conversation?” he continues, undeterred. “No, ’cause it didn’t happen. So, technically, we never stopped dating.”

  He looks so proud of himself. A war wages inside me, frustrated exasperation wrestling against the pull of his charming irreverence. Frustration wins.

  “I do remember a conversation, actually. It was when my dad woke me up in the middle of the night because he got a call from Chief Duluth that you’d been arrested in connection with a murder and were being booked without bail.”

  The cocky glint in his eye disappears, replaced by an all too familiar remorse that casts a darkness over his features. He opens his mouth, probably to apologize again, but I stop him with a finger to his lips. I’m not going to let him distract me fr
om my point. I return to the original topic of this house.

  “It’s not your fault they died. You don’t need to torture yourself in this house as some sort of penance.”

  “It’s not my fault they died, but everything I did after is.”

  I stare at his face, trying to read him. He’s lying on his back, and I’m right beside him with my head propped on one arm, looking down at all of his tragic, rugged beauty.

  “You did your time, Y. Don’t you think you’ve been punished enough? It’s time to start believing you deserve good things again.”

  “Z, you’re more of a good thing than I could ever hope to deserve.”

  The melancholy beneath his words tugs at me, and suddenly there is too much space between us. I sit up and swing a leg to his other side, straddling his stomach. I reach down to run my hands over his sculpted chest.