Chapter 42  

Skyler

This is an even better kiss than the one in the hospital, all sweetness and heat, the steam from the water enveloping us, his firm, towering body pressed against me. His hands brace my back and neck, and it feels like I could fall into them, trust him to buoy me. His lips and mine—it’s like music, the perfect tempo, the perfect balance of give and take, high notes and low.

His tongue traces my lips, sweeping over me, light, almost tickling, building this yearning to take him into me, his tongue, his fingers—all of him. I move my hands up to his neck, the spray from the shower going everywhere, and I deepen the kiss, wanting to dive in and taste every bit of him, touch every inch of his slick, beautiful body.

“Sky, I may not survive this shower,” he murmurs against my lips. He kisses the side of my face, then, hands firm on my back, he runs his hot darting tongue along the hollow of my throat, his teeth grazing my collarbone, tasting me. His mouth on my skin is perfection, and he’s so hard, pressed against me, it literally makes me breathless, creates a caving ripple inside, a need like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I want him so much, but I can barely hold on to his broad shoulders and massive triceps, so slick from water, and my legs start to tremble.

“Grey?”

“Hmm . . .” He bends me back, and his tongue is everywhere now—on my throat, my lips, the delicate skin beneath my ear. His breath is hot against me; the warm water swirls around us, and it’s all so electric, so pure and good, I don’t know what to do with myself.

My knee buckles a little, reminding me that I don’t want to go down in a heap in a shower. And I want more from this. Want to touch Grey, to taste him, to have to every part of him close.

“Let’s lie down,” I say. Looking into his beautiful lucent eyes, almost silver in this light, the color of raindrops shimmering on a window, I want to drink him in forever, spend hours exploring the lines of his body, taking his strength into me, giving him mine.

“Okay,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

We turn off the shower and step out, wrapping ourselves in the plush white towels warmed by the heating bar. It’s pretty decadent, but we only enjoy it for a few seconds before we move toward one another again, as if propelled, the force between us so strong.

He sweeps me against him to kiss me again, crushing me to him, all of him wrapped around me. Then he lifts me, like I’m nothing, and I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his hips, the towel parting across my thighs. I tease his ear with my tongue, telling him things I’ve never told anyone, about how I want to make him feel, what I want to do to him.

He groans and staggers a little, and we laugh while he carries me to the bed, the two of us still half wet, as he sets me down atop the plush linens. I sit on the edge and reach for him, running my hands along his rock-hard thighs, my fingers trailing beneath the towel, finding his warmth, his hardness, touching him, now, the way I’ve wanted to touch him.

I look up at him, at his sweet, serious face. His eyes are slitted but sparkling, his mouth parted with the pleasure of it, with my touch making him feel good now. My turn to give him back some of what he’s given me.

His breath comes hard, and his fingers move into the wet strands of my hair, stroking it. “Sky, you’re . . . ​This is . . .”

I tug the towel away and pull him down onto the bed. Laughing, we move together to the center, throwing pillows out of the way, tossing the heavy comforter to some corner. He parts my towel, and his eyes on me, on my body, the pleasure I see there, tells me everything.

“You’re amazing.”

“That’s you,” I tell him. And it is. His corded muscles, the ripples of his abs, the broad, broad expanse of his chest, his smooth tan skin, the lines and shadows of him. All perfect and beautiful and all mine right now. All mine to taste and touch, which I do.

We kiss and kiss some more, me sinking into him, him sinking into me, tongues and lips and sounds, all so hot and perfect. We breathe into each other, tasting each other. We talk and laugh and kiss and kiss until I’m drunk on him, spinning, and his lips move away to trail down along my body, his fingers following.

He leans over me and sucks first one nipple and then the other into his mouth, slowly, teasingly, firming his hands over my breasts, his thumbs circling, and again so perfect, like he was designed only to make me feel good. Like that’s his mission.

“Tell me what you like,” he says in a hoarse whisper. “I want you to feel good, Sky. Tell me how to make you feel good.”

“You do, Grey. You are.”

“What else?” he insists. “What else do you like?” His fingers move down along my body, tracing over my lower belly, plunging farther down. My breath hitches as his warm fingertips close over me, and I rise to his touch.

“This?” he asks, looking up at me, his fingers moving, plunging. His gray eyes pierce me. “Like this?”

“Yes,” I say, though it’s barely a whisper. He feels so good, and his eyes on me—it’s so much. So much sweetness. So much pleasure. So good it almost tips into pain, into the best kind of ache. “Like that, Grey. Just . . .”

He touches me over and over, and his lips move over my body, over my belly, up to my breasts, his tongue making hot circles, his mouth and teeth and tongue everywhere, and we’re kissing, and his fingers are moving, moving over me, and it’s good. So, so good. I’m trembling under him, this hot spark flaring to life within me, igniting where his fingers move against me, igniting and sparking and flowing out like a wildfire, searing across my body. We’re kissing and kissing, and my body trembles against his hand, all of me reaching for that place, that place of heat and light and sharpness.

And then it comes, lashing through me, so hot and intense that I cry out against Grey’s soft sweet lips, still pressed to me. And he groans, too, the two of us locked together, this fever burning through me, rippling on and on from a deep sharp pit that unknots and seems to flow outward forever.

Words come from me, and from him, but I can’t make sense of them, can’t make sense of anything but this beautiful, perfect connection, his hands, his fingers and lips, his sweetness pouring over me, his need. And my own need. My need for more of him. To have all of him.

I push him gently onto his back on the bed. And he smiles, this gorgeous, avid, lazy smile. Smug and adorable because he knows what’s coming next. He knows I want him to feel even a tenth of what he makes me feel.

Out of nowhere, he produces a condom and gives me a wink. “Extra magnum,” he says, which makes me laugh so hard while we put it on him together.

I climb onto him, feeling like a feather against the solidity of him. He’s slick from the shower, still gives off waves of sweet-smelling heat. I straddle his hips and run my fingers along his pecs, stroking the muscles of his arms, his torso, bending over him to tease my tongue over his smooth flesh, to taste him. I graze my teeth over him, and he groans and grabs hold of my waist, tugging me down, his hips rising beneath me.

“Let me know if anything’s not okay,” he says. “It’s . . .”

“Extra magnum. I’m well aware.”

I move down, slowly, and his hands guide us, and he’s a lot, but it’s so good. He feels so good. His hips move beneath me, and mine move to join his, and we look at each other, just the two of us, caught together in a swirl of white sheets and fading sunlight.

My hair falls into my face, and he reaches up to move it back, holding it away.

“I want to look at you,” he tells me. “I want to watch you feel good.”

I moan. Because this is so perfect, and because I want to watch him, too, as we move together, as he fills me, as his eyes close, finally, and he throws his head back against the bed, his jaw flexing, all of him tightening beneath me.

His hands take control of my hips, gripping them as our movements intensify, as our breath comes harder and faster. I spread my body over his, my full weight against his massive warmth. I put my hands in his hair, kiss and lick and suck on his lips and tongue, the smooth skin of his shoulders. He groans, and I do, and we move together, faster, both of us trembling, both of us seeking after that light again.

He gets there before I do, his harsh gasps, the sharp movements of his body beneath me, telling me everything, pushing me over the edge. Again, that lashing, exquisite warmth, the ripples undulating like sun-warmed waves, flowing outward and over us, sweeping us along, as we rock together, trembling, sharing breath, fingers locked together now, bodies joined.

We settle, finally, and he takes my face in his hands and leans up to kiss me.

“Sky, beautiful Sky.”

“Grey, beautiful Grey.”

“Oh, shit.” His smile disappears. “I just realized something awful.”

“What?”

“We’re Grey Sky. I mean, our names together. Grey. Sky. That’s awful.”

I laugh and kiss him. Then I rest my cheek against his chest, listen to the fierce and steady beat of his heart. “Yeah, that kind of sucks.”

“I don’t think we can be together,” he says.

“No, you’re right. Not with those names.”

“We should break up.”

“Definitely.”

“When do you think? Like, three hundred years from now?”

I smile. “Maybe five hundred.”

He tightens his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “Okay, five hundred years, and that’s it.”

We doze and wake up to kiss again, to touch one another, to whisper all of the things we’ve spent months not saying. It’s like that night in the darkness of my room when he held me, only so much better. Because now his body is mine to explore, now we can pour out our hearts to one another, tell each other our dreams and plans and know, because we’re free to say it, that we’ll pursue those dreams and plans together.

“Are you sure you want to keep acting?” Grey asks. “I don’t like what it did to you.”

I smile and slide my bare leg over his. “Acting didn’t hurt me. I hurt me.”

“Still . . .”

It occurs to me that being good at something, that making people happy with a gift, isn’t all of it. It has to feed me, too. It has to give me joy the way music does. The way Grey does. I’m hungry, I realize. So hungry for so many things. Food, most definitely. But for my music, too. For a life that reflects my passions. That gives me life, makes me burn inside. I’ve been starving myself in more ways than one.

Mia comes to the door with a couple of carryout containers, which I grab from her like she’s handing out fistfuls of gold doubloons. I don’t even care what’s in them.

“Whoa,” she says and peers around me into the room where Grey lounges on the bed, barely covered and smirking.

He gives her a jaunty wave. “Howdy.”

“Uh, howdy to you.”

I turn back to her with a look I know is the absolute opposite of a poker face. “Thanks for the food. And for everything.”

She grins. “So, I should come in, right? Hang out with you guys? You look like you want company.”

“Um, that’s a big N-O, but thanks again.”

“Fine.” She gives me a phony pout.

I give her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll text you later.”

“You better.”

“I will.”

I close the door, and Grey is right there, taking the boxes from my hands. “I’m starving.”

“Me too.” I know I need to take it easy. I don’t want to make myself sick. But it’s like a switch has been flipped inside me again. I have so much more energy, such a stronger feeling of just plain life than I’ve had in a while. I guess intravenous fluids and a couple of orgasms will do that for a girl.

I start with a container of chicken soup, which is just heaven, and Grey tears into a turkey club sandwich, though he wraps up half for me and makes me promise to take a few bites at least.

While we sit there, I send an email to Parker and Jane, telling them to hold off on scheduling anything for me until further notice. They know I’ve been sick, but that hasn’t kept them from coming at me with messages, phone calls, notes of concern wrapped within reminders of obligation. But I know I need to take care of myself first. I don’t need my body to tell me that twice.

Next comes the tougher call—the one to my mom. I sit there and polish away the smudges on my phone screen with the edge of the sheet.

“You okay?” Grey asks.

“Yeah. Have to call my mom. Just not sure what to say.”

He leans over and smooths the hair away from my neck to press his lips there, trail kisses down to my shoulder. “Just tell her how you feel.”

“I know. I just . . .”

“Just what?”

I shake my head. “It’s just hard to let her down.”

“Well, don’t you think you’re letting her down worse by making yourself sick and taking on too much?”

“I guess.”

He starts in on the French fries. “So, this thing I figured out, with some help from a friend, is that if you avoid something it just keeps coming at you, over and over again, to kick your ass in bigger and bigger ways.”

I sigh. “You’re right.”

“I am wise beyond my years.”

He takes the soup from my lap, clears all the containers from the bed. Then he draws me against his chest and puts his arms around me. Grey kisses the top of my head. “Whatever happens, I’ve got you. More importantly, you’ve got you. Believe me.”

I feel a tingle in my sinuses that tells me I’m about to start crying. Lately, I’m just a wreck over everything, but I know that’ll get better as I do. “I believe you.”

Picking up my phone again, I have Siri call my mom. I feel like I forget to breathe as the phone rings once . . . ​twice . . . ​three times before my mom answers.

“Oh, honey, are you all right?” she says. “I’ve been so worried about you. I wanted to come there, but—”

“It’s okay. I’m out of the hospital. I’m doing better.”

“What a relief. You need to take care of yourself, Skyler. You can’t worry me like that.”

“I know, Mom,” I say. “That’s what I want to talk to you about, actually.”

Before I chicken out, I tell her I’ll always do what I can for her, but I need to think of myself, too.

“I think you should sell the farm,” I say. “The land is worth a mint. You could get a nice apartment near Scotty, help with the girls.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. I feel her disappointment beaming across the miles at me, but at least she doesn’t reject the idea outright.

“You don’t want me out there?” she asks, finally.

“I don’t think either of us wants that, Mom. Not really.”

“And you’re not coming home?”

“I’ll come for a visit soon,” I tell her. “But I’m staying in LA. It’s where I need to be.”

I look up at Grey, and he tightens his arms around me and nods. His expression is so adorable—enthusiastic and encouraging, but beyond that there’s a maturity, a look that tells me he understands what this means to me. And he truly does have my back.

I can get used to this, I think. Even if it’s only for five hundred years.