Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sierra
I let out a soft breath once I’m in my room. It was awkward to pretend that nothing was wrong the entire time Griffin and I were eating dinner. I should’ve remembered to save a bra, but I spaced out and put all my bras through the hand-wash cycle while he went home to grab his things. He didn’t come back until I left them almost all hanging in the laundry room to dry. One I took to dry in my bedroom so I wouldn’t have to go downstairs to grab a bra in the morning.
I was careful, so I don’t think he noticed I was braless. But that didn’t help the way the cotton brushed against my bare nipples, which were very…interested. I’m divorced, not dead, and Griffin is divine. I checked him out during the evening—subtly, of course—hoping to find something I wouldn’t like.
What a spectacular failure that was.
His eyes are gorgeous, his nose is perfect and his mouth is yummy. Even his eyelashes are stunning. Eyelashes!
Maybe I’ve discovered a new fetish.
I’m certain when he was in high school, he was one of those boys who still looked hot even when he had acne, assuming acne would have dared to show its ugly self on his pristine skin.
It’s unfair how he looks so effortlessly amazing. If I want to look that good, I have to calm my curls—thank God for the dry climate in SoCal—and spend time and energy on makeup and so on.
But now that I’m in bed alone, in the dark, my nipples are like stone. And I’m slick between my legs.
My God. I’m turned on after that dinner…and taking Griffin to his room. It’s that scent of his—some kind of hot, sexy male pheromone that makes my whole being clench with need.
My body refused to calm down even when he told me his room smelled bad—although why he said that is beyond me. That room smells fine. I know because I put the sheets on the bed while he was gone. I would’ve noticed if anything was off.
I toss and turn for a few minutes, unable to settle down. The ache between my legs is growing unbearable, throbbing and sucking up all my attention. I’m not going to be able to sleep unless I do something about it.
A quick O or two will scratch the itch. I reach into the drawer next to my bed and pull out a vibrator. It’s small, but packs a powerful action. One of my favorites from Silicone Dream’s Love Yourself line.
I slip a hand underneath the shirt to touch my breast, then slide the other one into my underwear so the bullet can go between my legs. Closing my eyes, I picture the Midnight God. My mind says I can do Griffin, but I refuse. That’s going to be too weird with my having to face him every day for the next several weeks.
I imagine how lush and hot the kiss with the Midnight God was in New Orleans, his mouth commanding and controlled.
Yes.
The pleasure unwinds, spreading through me like luxurious silk. I fall into a blissful sensation as I tug at my nipple like he did that night, a soft sigh escaping my lips.
The bullet vibrates against me, sending a hot, pulsing delight that starts in my clit and travels throughout, until my fingers and toes tingle.
I cup my breast, imaging it’s the Midnight God’s large hand on me. His hot breath on my neck where I’m sensitive. His lips trailing endless kisses that drive me wild.
Oh my God.
I move, rocking against the vibrator. Fantasize it’s his finger there, touching me, toying with me, tormenting my senses until I’m begging for more.
I imagine him whispering, Good girl. The pleasure swells and swells…about to reach the breaking point. My breath skitters, air shuddering in my chest.
He notices I’m about to come. His dark, gratified laughter brushes over me. He lifts his head. The mask is gone from his face, and I see…
Griffin…?
My heart doesn’t stutter with shock. It races faster, full of exhilaration, and the orgasm I’ve been reaching for crashes through—
“Griffin,” I sob, my back arching and my pelvis tilting like I can somehow get more of him by doing so.
The vibrator slips from my folds. I turn it off and, still breathing hard, stare into the dark. Wow. I just came—hard—while just picturing Griffin. That’s a first—I generally never come from fantasizing about a guy’s face.
I think I said his name out loud, too.
I turn to look at the door. It’s closed. I closed his door, too, and I didn’t speak that loudly—I’m sure of it—so Griffin probably didn’t hear me moan his name like a porn star.