Page 22 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He flips his screen around. His match’s name is Marina. Her profile photo is of her standing completely still in a black-and-white striped shirt, face painted white, holding what appears to be a floating imaginary fishbowl. Name: Marina. Occupation: Professional mime and part-time underwater basket weaving coach. Fun Fact: Only communicates in haiku during daylight hours. A message pings.

Marina: “Silence is golden / Water weaves secrets through time / Can you hold your breath?”

Grayson looks at me, deadpan. "She sent a haiku."

"You're lying."

"Swear on my last protein bar.""

We burst out laughing. It’s the first time in days that I actually feel the tension crack. I slump back into my chair, giggling uncontrollably, while Grayson covers his face like he’s trying to keep it together.

"Okay, okay," I wheeze. "Clearly we have more work to do.”

“Or," he says, eyes dancing, "we accept the obvious. The only person compatible with you is the guy who actually thinks peanut butter and scrambled eggs could work."

"Ugh, I hate you."

"You love me."

"I do," I say, quieter now.

He glances over. "Same."

The laughter fades but the warmth lingers. And for the first time in a while, it feels like us again. He sets his laptop aside and crosses the space between us in two easy strides. His hand finds my waist, warm and familiar, and when he looks at me, it’s not with a joke on his lips, it’s something deeper. Something heavier.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

I rise to meet him, and the moment our mouths touch, it’s like something clicks into place. The laughter, the chaos, the pressure of everything that’s been crushing us, it disappears. His kiss is slow at first, coaxing, and then hungrier as my hands slide up his chest and fist into the fabric of his shirt.

He backs me toward the couch, his lips never leaving mine, until I sink down, pulling him with me. His fingers tug my hoodie up and over my head, and I gasp as his mouth finds the base of my throat.

“You always taste like trouble,” he mutters against my skin.

“And you always come looking for it,” I breathe.

Clothes fall away fast, desperate hands tugging, buttons popping, skin flushed and hypersensitive. Grayson groans as his hands skim over my curves, reverent and hungry, like he’s cataloging every inch he missed. My breasts press against his chest, my nipples tightening as his palms slide over them, teasing, learning me again with infuriating precision. I feel the heat coil tighter in my belly as his lips trail down, mouth hot and open over my skin, leaving a path that makes my breath hitch and my thighs tremble.

He touches me like he knows my body better than I do, every dip, every arch, every place that makes me fall apart. I’m already wet, aching, needy, and he grins when he feels it, one hand slipping between my thighs, fingers stroking in slow, devastating circles. "You’re already shaking," he whispers, his voice low and wrecked. "You’ve missed this."

I can’t deny it. My body is strung so tight it’s vibrating. I want everything, his hands, his mouth, his weight, his name breaking in my throat as I shatter under him. It’s messy and consuming, the kind of need that’s been simmering too long. When he finally sinks his cock deep into me, I arch beneath him, our bodies moving in sync like they never forgot.

“Fuckkkkk…Margot,” he groans, low and reverent, as my fingers dig into his back.

I pull him closer. “Don’t stop.”

There’s nothing soft about this. It’s fire and friction and the kind of intimacy that only comes when you’ve nearly lost everything and found your way back. Our bodies collide again and again, every movement building toward something inevitable and overwhelming. He grips my hips tighter, anchoring me to him, driving into me with a rhythm that’s all urgency and need. His name leaves my lips in a breathless moan as his mouth trails down my throat, over my collarbone, and lower, teeth grazing just enough to make my pulse stutter.

He lifts me slightly, adjusting the angle, and the new depth draws a cry from me that he swallows with another kiss, messy, uncoordinated, but full of heat. I wrap my legs tighter around him, urging him on, chasing the pleasure that’s building like a storm in my veins.

“You feel so damn good,” he groans against my skin. “Every time.”

His words, the way he moves, the way he knows my body, it's all too much. I come apart with a gasp that tears from my throat, my back arching as I cling to him. He follows a moment later, shuddering through his orgasm with a hoarse, broken sound that makes my chest ache with something more than lust.

We collapse into the cushions, tangled and breathless. My legs still wrapped around him, his fingers lazily tracing circles against my thigh. His skin is warm and slick against mine, his chest rising and falling under my cheek as we both try to remember how to breathe. For a long moment, we say nothing.

Then he presses a kiss to my temple. “Still think Blaze was a better match?”

I snort. “Blaze doesn’t do what you just did.”

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