How to End a Love Story(68)

His other hand brushes down her stomach, down past her underwear, and onto the tops of her thighs, finally drawing slow circles on the inside of her knees. She becomes aware of a keening sound that’s coming from the back of her own throat.

Grant lets out a low, answering growl as he runs his hand down to grip her ankle, and brushes his thumb over her Achilles, then her ankle bone.

“Why does that feel so good,” she breathes.

He follows the path of his hands again, dropping a kiss to her stomach, then the inside of her thigh—where he once wrote his address, she remembers suddenly—then her inner knee. Finally he kisses the inside of her ankle, resettling back into the chair, his gaze hot on her even as he maintains contact only around her ankle.



Grant leans back, his jaw tensing, his breath coming out in sharp, ragged pants.

Helen is most sensitive on the soft spots of her inner thighs, knees, and ankles, and he relishes in the knowledge of the discovery. He keeps drawing a slow circle around her ankle bone, unwilling to break contact completely—he feels like he’s just started a new favorite book and he can’t put it down or he’ll lose his place.

“I don’t think you realize,” he says slowly, “how often I’ve imagined this.”

His eyes rake slowly down her body; he can see the rise and fall of her rib cage.

“How often I’ve come into my own hand at the thought of you on this table,” he murmurs, and watches her eyes flare with heat.

Grant pulls his shirt off then and it drops in a heap on the ground.

“Do you ever touch yourself, Helen?”

She watches his hands moving toward his belt with such intense concentration, he can almost feel the heat of her gaze on his knuckles. She nods slowly.

In a few short movements, he unbuckles his belt and shoves his free hand—the hand that isn’t still drawing slow circles on her inner ankle—down his pants. He squeezes himself and lets out a shaky breath. His cock surges against his own hand, as if to remind him there’s a warmer, sweeter place for it right in front of him.

“Take off your bra,” he says, “and cup your breasts for me.”

She watches him as she takes the bra off, finally, finally revealing pebbling brown nipples and peaked globes that make his mouth suddenly water like a man starved. Her hands move up to cup them obediently, her eyes flitting from his eyes to his hand working slowly, rhythmically below his belt.

“Pinch your nipples,” he says, and is gratified to hear her gasp as she complies. She closes her eyes to the sensation as her head falls back, but he squeezes her ankle. “No, don’t close your eyes. I want you here with me.”

Helen opens her eyes then, her lips falling open in a pornographic pout.

“They’re so pretty, I want to lick them while you come,” he says, giving himself a harder tug.

She lets out the softest whimper, and he has to force himself to stay in his seat and ignore the all-consuming desire to dive forward.

“Do you ever think about me when you touch yourself?” he asks.

Helen exhales and nods.

“Show me,” he demands.

One hand drifts down her body, and she slides a flat palm against the front of that maddeningly enticing triangle of black fabric. She hooks a thumb against the elastic, while her other hand continues to work her breasts.

“I thought about you like this,” she says. “Sitting in your chair. Watching me.”

She squirms against her own hand, her mouth forming a perfect O at the sensation, and he can tell she’s close from the glaze of her eyes, the unselfconscious way she rocks against the table.

He drops a quick kiss to the inside of her knee, his hands flexing around her ankle and his cock at the same time. He has to slow down, he knows, but he can’t resist a final tug before he stands up between her legs. His pants fall to his ankles, and he thinks it must be very undignified but can’t be fucked to care when he can feel the heat radiating from her perfect pussy through the fabric.

“Helen, I think you’re going to make yourself come for me now,” he whispers into her ear, his fingers gripping the sides of her thighs. “And I’m gonna lick your nipples till you beg for me.”

She whimpers then, as he presses the hot flat of his tongue against one peaked brown nipple. He licks her like ice cream—slow, dragging, savoring the taste of her.

“I . . .” she pants, still writhing against her own hand, and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever witnessed. She lets out a tortured sob. “Please, Grant.”

“Please, Grant what,” he murmurs against her breast.

“The other one now,” she breathes, and he complies.

“I’ll give you anything you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You just have to ask.”

She whimpers again, and he suckles her areola into his mouth, scraping his teeth gently against the nipple. She gasps then, and he feels her grind against her own hand once, twice, and her other hand flies up blindly to grip his hair as she comes apart on the table. He feels her shuddering against his tongue, under the iron grip of his hands at her thighs, and she lets out a single tortured groan before her breaths turn to shallow pants.

Her hands pull at his hair and urge him up until she’s kissing him desperately, as desperately as he feels like he’s drowning in her.

“I love your body,” he says, between bruising kisses. “I’m so fucking lucky to be here.”