“Don’t play with it, babe,” I say abruptly. “Take it.”
I need to feel her tight and wet and hot around me. Beyond the horniness—which let the record show, is at an all-time high—I need that connection. The one we’ve forged through years, through pain, through unimagined highs and heart-crushing lows. So much in our lives is changing, but this never does. This scorching slide of her flesh on mine, of her taking me in so tightly, is a sweet chokehold on my cock that makes me hiss. I would know this pussy in the dark. I could be blind and half-dead, and you couldn’t fool me with another woman. Just this one. This fit. This perfect friction. The grooves of our souls fit as tightly as our bodies do.
Her forehead drops to mine, panting breaths misting my lips while she rides me, her arms hooked behind my neck. The pace grows more frantic as I thrust up aggressively, meeting her pussy halfway. I grab her ass cheeks, spreading them and taking over the rhythm so I can slam her body down onto mine over and over, deliberately. We’re grunting, rutting animals mindlessly taking our pleasure by force. Our guttural sounds bounce off the walls. Bristol’s head tips back and then down, tears sliding over her cheeks and onto her bouncing breasts. I lean forward, lapping at the mixture of her milk and her tears before sucking her nipple hard. Biting her breast hard.
“Grip!” Bristol comes like a rocket, flattening her hand against my chest for support.
The sound of her coming undone, the contraction of her body squeezing every ounce of pleasure from me, sends me over the edge. I swallow my shout, having just enough presence of mind not to wake the kids. It doesn’t matter if I own Bristol’s pussy. This woman owns my heart. She’s got my mind, my will, my soul, my emotions—all of it on lock. Happily trapped in the palm of her hand.
She’s still trembling against me when I pick her up and lay her against the pillows. Now that we fucked the edge off, there is room for other things. Like exhaustion. She’s already half asleep.
“Love you,” she murmurs, turning onto her side and tucking her pillow between her head and her shoulder.
I was exhausted, but now I’m wound up, unable to sleep. Mind-blowing sex opens the floodgates. Everything pours into my mind at once. Possible fixes for the song that wasn’t working tonight in the studio. The memory of my kids up the hall, snug and secure in their beds, and almost too beautiful for words. The sounds of Bristol coming, her whispers fueled by pleasure.
The shadows under her eyes.
As much as it feels like the planet shakes when we make love . . . that the very foundations of the earth shift, tectonic plates sliding to make a whole new world, it isn’t. Those dark circles under her eyes remind me that the things I was concerned about before we made love still need to be addressed.
First light filters in through tiny cracks where the drapes aren’t completely drawn tight. I hook a leg over Bristol’s hip and an arm around her waist, possessively anchoring her back to my front.
Tomorrow.
I’ll ask about the shadows under her eyes and work and the kids, and the question I asked her once before and have to ask her again.
Did she mean it when she said she would follow me anywhere?
* * *
BRISTOL - Chapter Two
I don’t think my boobs will ever be the same.
Seriously. Why are they so big? I alternate between fear that they will never return to their original size and dread that they will deflate and hang low and be saggy balloons with nipples. I was still breastfeeding Nina when I found out I was pregnant with Martin. Back-to-back babies meant very little recovery time for the rack.
And I know for a fact my feet will never return to pre-baby proportions. A half size up, and I can’t wear any of my Louboutins. Also, I am not above re-vagination if things start feeling loose down there. I need a tight-fit fuck. Though given the size of Grip’s cock, I don’t think that will be a problem anytime soon.
Damn, he fucked me into a coma last night.
Not complaining. I can attest to the fact that a good slumber fuck is waaaaaaay better than melatonin. With all that I have going on, you’d think sleep would come easily, but mine has been sporadic. No rest for the weary.
Or the busy.
I can’t seem to turn my brain off even when my body is ready to tap out. Between feeding Martin in the middle of the night, trying to keep up with the warp speed of Prodigy’s expansion and growth, and keeping Nina’s little adventurous self alive, I’m half-zombie. I’m just really good at covering it. Lots of concealer. Lots of yoga. Lots of juicing.
What’s LA without juicing?
I’m doing everything I can to keep all the balls in the air, and I think it’s working. Sure, I’m exhausted and smell faintly bovine most of the time, but the kids are healthy, happy, and spend more time with me than anyone else, which is important to me. My clients are all flourishing, climbing and succeeding. Prodigy is a force. I set up the New York office before Martin was born, but I really wanted to be in LA for the birth, surrounded by my family. Now the New York office needs some TLC, so it may be time to head back. I have to talk with Grip about camping out on the East Coast for a while, and I’m dreading it. I’m thinking, though, if the kids and I stay in New York when he goes on tour in a few weeks, it should be fine.
I’m feeling especially good today. Frieda, our nanny, came early because I have a meeting this morning. So she has the kids for a few hours. After Martin’s first feeding, a nice long shower has me relaxed. I’m wearing my favorite knee-length cardigan, and I actually fit into a pair of pre-Martin jeans. The sex last night has my blood singing hallelujah as it flows through my veins. I didn’t realize it has been over a week since we had sex. That’s a long time for Grip.
Hell, I guess it’s a long time for me, too.
I tiptoe through our bedroom, trying to be quiet and keep the room dark so Grip can sleep. Between working on the new album, and prepping for the tour, he’s been stretched as thin as I have.
I walk into our closet to study the shelves of shoes, half of which I’m not sure I can wear anymore. I’m considering a pair of Gucci stilettos when Grip walks in.
“Morning,” I say over my shoulder with a smile. “I hope I didn’t wake you.