Page 191 of Accidental Husband
She pulls back to groan. "Fuck, Griff." Her eyes fix on mine. Then they close.
Her lips crash into mine.
Her kiss is hard and hungry.
I kiss back with the same need. Then I drive into her again and again.
She arches her hips to meet me.
We fall into a perfect rhythm, moving together, groaning together, breathing together.
I fill her with steady thrusts.
She rocks her hips to push me deeper.
We stay locked together until she's there.
Her groans vibrate down my throat as she comes. She claws at my back. Tugs at my hair. Rocks her hips harder and faster.
Her cunt pulses around me.
It pushes me over the edge.
She holds me close as I come inside her.
Pleasure spreads through my pelvis, stomach, arms, legs, fingers, toes.
And there's something else too. This satisfaction that goes all the way to my bones.
She's mine.
No matter what happens, I need to hold onto that.
I need to hold onto her.
Chapter Forty-Two
Griffin
Eventually, we drag ourselves to the kitchen, eat dinner with our current YA book on the speakers, listen as the couple falls madly in love, fucks everything up (it's hard to blame teenagers for being unable to communicate, but come on), cries through the loss, then comes back together.
The guy makes a big gesture, shows up at prom dressed as a character from the fictional cartoon they watch together.
It's sweet, but it's so over the top.
Wouldn't it be better to show up at her house with an apology and an honest promise to try harder?
Anyone can be the perfect boyfriend for a night.
Showing up and trying every fucking day—that's what counts.
We debate the book—Jules thinks the gesture is sweet—through dessert (matcha ice cream, of course).
Then we take a long, slow shower together.
Her scars are more obvious in the bright room.
They terrify me. They do.
