Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
“Seems it worked,” I say, hanging up my towel. As he does the same, his stomach rumbles.
Laughing, I pat his firm belly. “You as hungry as I am?”
“Famished,” he declares. “Let’s order something. A lot of something.”
In his bedroom, Grant grabs a pair of gray gym shorts from a drawer and tosses them on the bed beside him. “Want shorts?”
My brow knits. I’m quiet for a few seconds too long. “We’re sharing clothes?” I ask like a robot.
He levels me with a skeptical stare. “Dude, I just came inside your body, and you don’t want to share clothes? That’s your line?”
Shaking my head, I close the distance between us. “No. I’ve just . . . never shared clothes.”
Snagging a pair of navy basketball shorts, he tosses them my way. “Good. Start with me. I want that first and I want it now.”
Laughing, I pull on the navy shorts, going commando.
Grant opens another drawer, wiggles an eyebrow, then spins a pair of red underwear on his finger. When he pulls them on, my chest heats again.
“Whoa.”
He glances down at the form-fitting underwear that emphasizes the outline of his dick—deliberately. He’s wearing the kind designed to show off a guy’s package.
“Oh, you like?” he asks with a naughty grin.
“Your underwear upgrade? Yeah, those are fucking hot,” I say. Those tight, red boxer briefs are snug enough to make your lover drop everything.
“I decided I was done shopping for briefs at T.J. Maxx or Target. No more boring gray or black. Rafe Rodman all the way.”
I gotta say, that designer knows what dudes who like dudes like to wear.
“Not gonna lie. I can’t wait to take those off you later. They make me want to get you even more naked,” I say.
“Then they’re working,” he says as he tugs on the gray gym shorts over them, his gaze traveling up and down my body. “Yup. I like you in my clothes. Go figure,” Grant says with a happy shrug. “Come check out my new couch. Bought it a few weeks ago.”
“Are you showing me because you’re into home decor, because you want to give me a tour of your house and all your stuff, or is it a sex couch?”
I arch a brow. “This is you and me we’re talking about. It’s damn well going to be a sex couch.”
“Then I want to see it now.”
We head downstairs to the living room where he grabs his tablet from a black coffee table, and we settle onto the world’s biggest couch. It’s a U-shaped thing, with big cushions and more space than the back of a truck.
“Sex couch,” I declare, as he taps on the iPad. We pick a Vietnamese place, ordering enough food to feed an army. As we curl up on the bigger-than-Alaska couch, I reach for his left calf, wrapping my hand around it. “Noticed this ink while I was inside you.”
With a laugh, Grant wiggles a brow. “Did you now?”
“Well, your legs were in the perfect position for me to check out your calves. Kind of fitting.”
“I’d say there’s no more perfect time for you to spot it.”
“Your equals sign,” I say, admiring the smallest tattoo on his body. It’s less than a centimeter, right above his ankle, precisely drawn and deceptively simple. Two black lines. Equal rights. Equal love.
“Got this when I started doing even more work with the Alliance,” he says, his shoulders straightening. “I did a video series for them, all sorts of speaking engagements, talking to teens. I wear so many of my other mantras, and it seemed the right time to add this statement on my body.” Grant stretches forward, rubs his thumb over the ink on his leg. “And this is everything to me. This is why I do what I do. This is what I’ve always wanted. Not just for me. For everyone.”
A glow spreads from deep inside me, like a fire in a hearth warms a house. “I love this,” I say, stroking the lines on his calf, his heart on his skin. “I love what you do. I love how you put yourself out there.” I bend my face, brush a gentle kiss across the black ink, then sigh contentedly. “I started doing some volunteer work in New York after I saw you at the agency party.”
“Yeah?” He sounds delighted as he lies back on the couch, stretching his legs across my thighs. I snap a mental picture of this moment—him relaxing on me, us hanging out together on a Friday night as the world goes by and all that matters is happening inside these walls. Everything feels so right, as right as the sex we have, like this could be us in a month, a year, five years.
“I helped out with some events in the city,” I say, answering him. “A game night type of thing, board games and trivia, at a couple local high schools.”