Page 13 of Grave Obsession
But it does.
Grave didn’t just listen when I told him my fantasy. He paid attention. Every detail of my fantasy. From taking me by surprise to breeding me and everything in between. The mattress jostles again, and his muscular, tattooed arm wraps around my waist. Without warning, he drags me back into bed with him, playfully growling as he pulls my back flush against his rock-hard body. “I said, get back in bed.”
I squirm against him, and my ass inadvertently grinds against his hard morning length, causing him to groan in delight. He works his hand beneath the fabric of the hoodie I’m wearing and rubs it over my full stomach for a moment before tenderly squeezing my left breast. Even as logic screams at me, I can’t stifle my moans as I enjoy the feel of him on my skin. “This is crazy, Grave. Grave? Fuck! I don’t even know your real name.”
“Grave,” he lightly laughs against my shoulder as I try to pull myself from his grip. Kissing along the length of my neck, he gravelly whispers, “Grave Henderson. Do youneed me to sign it over your clit with my tongue again so you remember?”
Flashbacks of his face between my legs momentarily turn my brain to mush, and all I can think about is letting him have his way with me again. “This…this isn’t—” I stammer.
Grave interrupts me. “Normal?”
“Yes!” I exclaim. “This. Us. This isn’t normal.”
“No, it isn’t,” he confirms the validity of my thoughts. “But nothing about you is normal. You are fucking exquisite and all-consuming. From the night we first met, I’ve been fucking enamored with you.”
“You don’t even really know me.” I shake my head, trying to rationalize.
Abruptly rolling me onto my back and pinning me to the mattress, he stares down me. “I know you, Kayce James. Your name. Your birthday. Where you’re from. That the tiny honeybee tattooed on your hand is a reminder if you work hard, you can accomplish anything. Even things you don’t actually want. You’re going to Dartmouth next year to study medicine to appease your family, but you’d much rather be accepting the scholarship you received to Mass Art. Your eyes are hazel, a gorgeous shade of caramel, but the left one has a few tiny flecks of green around the iris.”
My chest heaves, and my heart races as I listen to him. Heat floods my face, and he smirks as he continues, “And that your naturally rosy cheeks adorably flush to abeautiful shade of ruby when I pay you compliments. Iknowyou, Kayce James.”
“Grave…” His name trembles off my quivering lower lip.
“I never thought I’d meet the perfect girl online or that I’d fall for her the way I’ve fallen for you.” His lips crash against mine, and I’m suddenly lost in him again. Logic and rationalization—even fucking common sense—can’t compete with the way Grave makes mefeel.
Breaking our kiss for a moment, he pulls his sweatshirt over my head. It barely clears my face before his lips are back on mine as his hands explore every inch of my body. His lips dust over mine, and I speak through our kiss, “Somewhere, I fell for you, too.”
He pulls back just far enough to stare into my eyes as he softly strokes his fingers along my jaw and over my lips. His eyes never leave mine as he leaves a trail of kisses over my breasts and down my stomach. He takes his time exploring every inch of my body with his mouth, and I’m ready to explode by the time his face is between my thighs. Unlike last night, his licks are slow, gentle, and deliberate as he savors me until I come with a toe-curling orgasm that will probably wake his neighbors.
“I know you have to be sore after last night.” He settles between my legs and aligns his thick cock to my entrance. “I’d promise to be gentle, but I don’t want to lie to you.”
EPILOGUE
GRAVE
A LITTLE OVER ONE YEAR LATER…
The light flurries preceding tonight’s massive snowstorm fall from the sky. The icy droplets blow against my face and stick to the wool of my camel-colored jacket before promptly melting. Temperatures are dropping fast, and the brisk winter breeze is growing colder every minute that I wait for her.
With my hands shoved into my pockets to keep warm, I sit in the same place I do every Thursday afternoon; a wooden park bench across the street from Branford Hall, where she has Mixed Media Studio with Professor Jameson until 4:25 p.m.
Pulling my phone from the front pocket of my jacket, I take a quick glance at the time—4:42 p.m.
She’s late.
She’salwayslate.
At times, I think she might be more obsessed with this art class—with all of her art classes—than she is with me. The door to the building pushes open, and Kayce briskly walks toward me, still pulling on and buttoning her navy peacoat.
Reaching me, she huffs, “I know, I know. I just couldn’t stop. We have plenty of time to get across town to meet them.”
She unnecessarily apologizes because I don’t care that she’s late. Even on the nights she completely loses track of time in her studio and leaves me waiting for hours, I don’t care.
Because she’s mine.
I knowexactlywhere she is, and I absolutely love how fucking happy this move to Massachusetts has made her.
Pulling my plaid crimson and navy cashmere scarf from around my neck, I loop it around her before using it to drag her close. I won’t let my girl feel the cold. Forcing her onto her toes, I pull her toward my mouth to finally taste her pouty lips.