Page 49 of Swim To Me

“No.” Grey shakes his head, eyes warm but smile gone. “Blake stopped swimming when we we’re fifteen. Mum got sick, unexpectedly and…” I can see the way his throat bobs with emotion. “It threw us all, the whole family, for a while. But Mum’s fine now. Blake never went back to swimming, he’s a football coach at a high schoolnow.”

I don’t press Grey for any more details. Whatever happened to his mum, I can tell it bothers him to this day.

With everything laid out ready for our dinner, I round the countertop to cross over into the living room, stopping only when Grey catches my wrist. He peers down at me, thumb rolling over the ball joint of my wrist. “Are you going to tell me what got you so up in your head before?”

“I—”

“Surely you didn’t think I wouldn’t notice, did you, Delilah?”

Grey’s tone is cocky, as is the smirk upon his face which matches.

Heat pools in my stomach, a stab of desire throbbing in my core, and I can’t stand myself for liking the attitude he’s giving off. I like it and I don’t want to fucking admit it.

“It wasn’t anything,” I lie through my teeth, that stone of unease settling in my throat at even the smallest white lie.

Grey says nothing for a second, drinking in the sight of me, until he’s threading his fingers through mine, pressing his bare chest up against my breasts and walking us both backwards towards my sofa.

“What are you doing?”

“If you won’t talk to me then I’ll have to help you get out of your head another way, gorgeous.”

Bending his head, Grey sucks at a spot on my collarbone, up to my ear, along my jaw and takes my lips for his own, swiping his tongue along the seam until I open up to him with a moan. My hands come up to round his shoulders, skimming past his warm skin, up until I can run my fingers through the short hairs at the base of his skull.

With practised ease, Grey pushes my shorts down past my hips, leaving me to step out of them. He gives my arse a quick squeeze, while I pull my camisole over my head, ignoring the ping of static from the material.

Bare, my body lights up at Grey’s touch, as if it has already learnt exactly how much pleasure he can wring from us and we’re greedy for him to do it repeatedly.

“So responsive,” he mumbles, circling my tummy button. Instinctively, I suck in, my lips stuttering against his in the same way my mind is stuttering with insecurity.

Grey has to feel it, the tensing of my abdominal muscles, but then he’s tiptoeing his fingers up to pinch my heavy breasts, and I can breathe normally again, stomach not super flat. I think I’ve gotten away with it until Grey raises his head, lips red and puffy from our kisses and looks me right in the eye. “Don’t hide from me, gorgeous. You need to get out of your head.”

I know I do, but I just find it so difficult, practically impossible, really, because—

I only realise I’ve spoken out loud when Grey is nodding, tracing my Cupid’s bow with the pad of his thumb. “Let me help.”

My lower back bumps into the arm of my sofa, and I’m about to step out of the way, until Grey cages me in, turning me around in one fluid motion and bending me over. The arm of my sofa digs into my lower stomach and pelvis rather painfully, a squawkof protest bursting from my lips even if my core does pulse at the dominance of it all.

It’s never been something I’ve experienced in my real sex life before, although I’ve read plenty of books about dominant men and I’ve certainly gotten off to the sheer thought of it, but I never thought this would be me. I like my control, I like to hold onto it, tightly. But something about Grey’s movements, putting me into a position of his liking, moving me how he wants me to be, it’s got me hot all over.

“Grab a pillow.”

I do as Grey suggests, reaching for one of my throw cushions, the soft edges of it denting beneath my grip. I hold it above my head as high as I possibly can in this position, still unsure what on earth is going on, until Grey takes it from me and wedges it beneath my pelvis and the arm of the sofa.

At this angle and height, I’m propped up higher, my short little legs unable to reach the floor, perfect for Grey to reach. There’s no longer a painful, dull ache of pressure stabbing me in the lower stomach, just the soft cushioning from the pillow instead.

“Grey?”

He strokes a hand down the length of my spine. “Yes, gorgeous.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you out of your head,” he repeats, kneading the thick flesh of my arse. “Tell me what I’m doing to you, Delilah.”

“Making me fucking horny,” I mutter into my arms, burying my head.

Grey laughs, the loud sound echoing off the four walls of my living room. “Glad to hear it, I feel the same way, but I meant where am I touching you? Literally.”

I’m glad Grey can’t see the red tinge of embarrassment at the knowledge I got his question wrong, coating the apples of my cheeks. “My-my bum.”

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