“Mrs. O’Malley got stuck in some traffic, but should be here soon.” Bridget stops abruptly when her phone rings. “Oh, this is her now. Let me take it.”
She steps out into the hall and starts a rapid-fire one-sided conversation.
“I’ll be right back, too.” Charm holds up her phone. “I should check in with the office. I hadn’t planned to be gone this long.”
As soon as she steps into the hall, Grip drags me by the wrist into the small powder room just off the entrance. I don’t get the chance to ask him what he’s doing before he shows me, lifting me onto the sink and slotting his lean hips between my thighs. One hand shoves into my hair and the other wraps around the side of my neck. His tongue goes deep sea diving down my throat, and who cares about breathing? Endless days and interminable nights missing him make me desperate, make my hands shake when I touch him. I scoot forward to feel him through my wet panties, my tulle skirt rasping over my thighs as he pushes it up. I roll my hips into him, seeking friction in my neediest place.
“I heard the things you said about me,” he mutters against my jaw.
“Oh, God.” I squeeze my eyes shut, embarrassed not because he didn’t know I felt those things, but because I got caught gushing.
“Did you mean them?” His whisper over my lips makes them throb.
Forget embarrassment—he’s hard between my legs, and I realize my declaration turned him on. I’ve been too long without him to be reticent.
“Every fucking word.” I reach between us to rub him through his jeans. His breath rushes out against the skin of my neck, where his head is buried.
“Baby, I missed you.” He sucks my earlobe and runs his tongue along my neck. “God, so much.”
He drops to his knees, his wide palms on the sensitive skin inside my thighs, spreading me open. He tugs my panties aside and presses his nose to me, inhaling sharply.
“Grip, stop.” I halfheartedly try to bring my legs back together. “We can’t.”
“I woke up like eighteen hours ago in Paris and couldn’t remember how your pussy smelled.” Lava-level heat darkens his eyes. “That’s been driving me crazy.”
Holy shit. We may not make it out of this bathroom alive.
Before I can even voice that fear, he’s tugging my panties down my legs and lapping at me like he’s parched and I’m the last glass of water for miles. He’s French kissing my pussy, tunneling his tongue into my depths. I want to be discreet, want to do the decent thing and drag him up and back out into the living room so we can pretend to be upstanding, well-adjusted human beings, but I can’t because, love- starved animal that I am, my fingers are digging into his scalp and pressing his head deeper into the starving center of my body. If he bites my clit . . .
“Ahhh. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Griiiiiiip.” In the midst of what borders on an out-of-body experience, I slam my palm into the wall for support. “Oh, please don’t stop. Yes! Dammit, yes.”
His mouth, right at the nexus of my pleasure, dips my inhibitions into boiling water, and they dissolve. Discretion takes a flying leap off Orga
sm Falls, and I’m coming loudly and with unladylike enthusiasm when there’s a startled gasp from the other side of the heavy wooden door and then an awkward cough.
Grip freezes and reaches up to cover my mouth with his hand. His eyes are laughing and his lips are shiny. “Why are you so loud?”
I jerk away from his hand and narrow my eyes still teary from my cataclysmic orgasm.
“You bit my clit,” I hiss. “What did you expect?”
“Um, Bristol?” Charm taps the door, her voice sounding awkward. “We’re, uhhhh . . . out here when you’re ready to come—I mean, um, come out . . . here.”
“We’ll be right out,” I reply with false brightness before lowering my voice to a whisper. “You think they heard me?”
“Seriously?” He stands, a smug grin on his face. “They heard you in the Bronx, Bris.”
This isn’t happening. If I pretend long enough that they did not just hear me screaming my brains out mid-orgasm, maybe it will become reality, replacing this disaster where I’m still shuddering from coming hard as fuck on a stranger’s porcelain sink.
“We should get out there.” Grip grabs the knob.
“Wait.” I clutch his arm and hiss. I can’t stop hissing because they’ve heard enough and anything above a hiss would only tell them more. “You’ve got . . . you need to . . .”
I pantomime rinsing my face off, furious when he tilts his head in confusion.
“You are not going out there wearing . . . me . . . all over your face,” I whisper fiercely. “I’ll go first. You . . .”
I motion between the faucet and his amused expression. I reach for my panties, but he holds them over his head, out of my reach, and then shoves them into a pocket of the jeans resting low on his hips.