He jetted off and, usually, I pull away when men do, but when I felt him tense up and I was about to pull back, he cooed, “Every last drop of come is yours, Melanie.” He fisted my braid, his eyes demanding and commanding, and suddenly I wanted to please him, taste him, and I did.
I close my eyes briefly and exhale out the memories of yesterday. When I open my eyes, he’s out on the balcony, still on his phone. His legs, thick like tree trunks, are braced apart, long, muscular, and just dusted with hair. His calves are shapely and powerful, his tan golden, his ass perfection, as perfectly molded as the muscled, upside-down triangle of his broad shoulders and narrow hips. And he’s just out there for anyone with binoculars to see, buck naked. Standing right there.
A fucking sex god.
When Greyson rolls the glass door open, he’s still on the phone. As he comes back into the room and hangs up, I notice he’s got a thick bandage wrapped around his upper arm.
As he approaches, I lift the sheets because I crave his heat, his nearness, the smell of him on my skin.
“Work?” I ask.
“You could say that,” he says as he gets under the covers with me. I hold my breath because his hard cock tells me he craves me too. I kiss his throat and curl my fingers around most of his girth, loving how hard he got, so fast. His cock had turned semihard by the time he took the call, but it’s fully swelled again. Oh, fuck, I really dig this guy. What he whispers when we fuck?
My skin tingles everywhere, remembering.
He looks down at me with sleepy eyes and my toes are curling full force. When he smiles that sensual smile, I die.
Unexpectedly, he slowly pulls the sheet off my body. Full sunlight streams through the window, and when he tosses the covers aside to look at me, I squirm on the bed.
“Don’t,” I protest, attempting to pull up the sheets, squeaking in embarrassment.
“Yes,” he sternly counters. He grabs the sheets in a fist and tosses them aside again, pressing me down on my back.
Immediately I think of my kidney scars. “I’m not used to being seen like this.”
“Get used to being seen like this by me,” he says gently.
Though I’ve turned bright red, he’s got me mesmerized enough that I’ve fallen utterly still, on the bed, my breasts heaving up and down as he looks at me. THE LOOK he gives me feels like a live, physical touch. It travels every inch of my body, from the top of my head down to my toes, like a tremor.
I never thought a look could be this powerful.
It makes me forget my scars, my every hurt.
You’d think that because I had the kidney transplant when I was a baby, the scar would be tiny. It’s not. It’s a slash on the lower right of my abdomen, and it’s grown with the rest of my body. It’s faded a very light pink and makeup does wonders for it, but the makeup is gone by now.
And Greyson sees it.
He traces the scar with one finger and sets my hand on his own scar. The gesture only endears him to me. Because he’s scarred too, but he’s not embarrassed about it.
As he bends over and presses his lips to my scar, my eyes well up.
“What happened here?” he murmurs.
I don’t know why he makes me emotional, but I blink back the tears and slide my hand down his chest over his own scar. “What happened here?” I counter, my voice thick with emotion.
“Ladies first,” he says gently, easing back and watching me with eyes that are no longer sleepy, but dark and patient.
I’m not sure I want him to know that one of my kidneys is not mine. That I’m a transplant patient. That I need to take pills to make sure my body doesn’t reject my donor’s organ. That maybe in a couple of years, I’ll need to exchange this one for a new one yet again, if it starts giving up.
These are not things you tell a man when you’re starting to date, or just fuck, or whatever we’re doing. There’s this show called the Millionaire Matchmaker, and I will never forget how the expert Patti went all over a girl who’d dumped some serious issues on a poor bachelor’s lap.
You do not do that!
Guys do not care about it unless they genuinely care about you first!
Quietly, I touch Greyson’s nipple ring instead, and hearing him hold his breath when I tug it playfully, I grin into his suddenly very dark, hungry eyes and say, “I should get a nipple ring.”
He laughs, then sobers up and shakes his head. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
“Why not?”
He rubs my butt. “That’s not fucking happening. No one’s getting anywhere near my business.”
I realize the thick bandage on his right arm is stained with blood, so I sit up with a start. “What happened here? Did I scratch you?”
He merely smiles to himself as he tightens the bandage. “It takes a little more than a kitten’s claw to make me bleed.”
“Let me help.”
Shifting closer, I take the bandage and carefully wrap it around his bulging arm. “Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m good,” he says dismissively.
When I finish wrapping it up, I impulsively set a kiss on it, slowly setting my lips on him and closing my eyes as a tenderness sweeps through me. A man making me feel this tenderness is so alien to me. Usually men are just . . . guys to me. Not even human. More like enemies that must be handled with care. Used, on occasion. But what I feel for this one is the most powerful thing I’ve ever in my life felt. Almost as if I know him from before. In some past life . . . in my dreams . . .
Before I can lift my head, his nose finds my ear, making me smile against his bandage and squirm when his breath tickles me.
He trails his hand lightly down my spine and settles it at the small of my back. This man gets my lower body on overdrive, but my upper body is getting the same workout, just ask my heart, which hasn’t beaten right for over thiry-six hours. And is he giving me the look too? I raise my head, and I’m tingling from my fingers to my toes. His smile is lazy, sleepy, and it melts me.
“That’s nice,” he says in a rumbly voice.
“What?”