Page 47 of The Wrong Sister
He gulps loudly and I burst out laughing. Dear God, I think it might qualify as cackling. I sound like a cartoon witch. Griffin’s jaw is clenched so hard it could cut glass and he’s almost robotically putting his clothes on their hangers. I let him finish putting them away while I struggle to get myself back under control. When the last hanger is in the closet, I reach for his hand, pulling him onto his mattress so I can climb onto his lap. I don’t want him to wear that dejected expression any longer. Slowly, softly, I press my lips to his forehead, to his temples, to his cheekbones, to his nose, and finally his lips. His hands rest on my back lightly, barely there.
“That is, without a doubt, the dorkiest and most genius thing I have ever heard!” One corner of his mouth lifts, and I kiss the little crook. “You’re telling me that you’ve made it so you never wear your work clothes in a noticeable patternandyou don’t have to think about it in the morning?” Now the other corner lifts and I press my lips to it too.
“It’s the most efficient system. I don’t have to spend any time thinking about clothes, which I hate. And the time I save allows me to enjoy pour-over coffee instead of french press.” He emphasizes the last word by sliding his hands under my ass and squeezing just below, where I’m most ticklish. I screech like a harpy and he flips us over so I’m pressed into his fresh-smelling sheets and he’s pressed into me.
“Asshole,” I whisper, grinning. He kisses me this time, the feeling like savoring a favorite treat.
“Wanna flip the record while I steam clean all the floors?”
I giggle and damned if we don’t do exactly that! By lunchtime, his apartment smells fresh, everything is sparkling clean, and our stomachs are growling louder than Lous’ beats. Searching through his fridge, I find the options are quite limited.
“Griff?” I call with my head poked inside the fridge. “If we made sandwiches for lunch, I don’t think you’ll have anything left to take for lunch tomorrow! Maybe we should go…oh!” I turn and he’s right behind me, unexpectedly. “Hi. I was saying…”
“I heard. It’s fine. I always eat out on Mondays because I don’t shop until after work.”
“So…this is right on schedule?”
“Exactly.”
I shake my head, unable to keep the grin off of my face. “Such. A. Dork.”
“I’m starting to get the feeling you like that.” He raises his eyebrows and I kick the fridge door shut with my foot, tackling him.
I trust that he’ll catch me and he doesn’t disappoint me. Lips pressed to his, messily, I drag us back towards the small table in his eat-in kitchen. It really is impressive how quickly he discards my clothes and plants himself between my legs. The first lick makes me shudder and there’s nothing delicate about his sampling.
“Fuck, Griffin. Your stubble…” I can’t even get the full thought out. I drop my head back and it bangs loudly against the table. His eyes pop up over my mons, tongue still moving.
“I can shave.”
“NO! It’s so good. Please more.”
His eyes have an evil glint as he lowers his face again. I don’t know what he’s doing. All I know is there is delicious scratching and pressure and his tongue is probing deep and more scratching and sucking and somehow he’s using his chin and I’m thrusting my hips off the table and he responds by pressing even harder into me until I feel like I literally explode. My whole body is seizing, back arched, and everything underneath me is wet. I’m gasping for air and Griffin stands with a smug expression on his face. I’m putty in his hands, unable to move, unable to talk, my entire body just a mass of exquisitely firing nerve-endings. Griffin never breaks eye contact as he removes his clothes. He arranges a couple of chairs, calmly and methodically. I’m still pulsing and moaning when he lifts me up and puts me back on the table on my stomach, my waist on the edge.
His hands caress my ass warmly and then I feel his lips join, kissing and licking. He bites, hard, and I cry out, then he licks over the spot, making me shake again. Big hands smooth over me again in solid, circular strokes. His cockhead is right there, running up and down my lips, teasing me. And then his hands spread me wide and he thrusts in, deep and hard.
“FUCK!”
Everything is so sensitive. He drives forward again and it’s all perfect heat and stroking. He’s still spreading me but now one hand is rhythmically smacking my ass, going from cheek to cheek. I drop my forehead to the table, moaning with every impossibly deep push. My feet scrabble for purchase against the two chairs and he responds by pulling my legs out wider. “OhGriffinohGriffinohGriffin” I’m mumbling with my face pressed into the table. The record has ended and the only sound is his grunting, my moaning, and his balls slapping into me with every thrust. He leans down, holding my legs out and pressing his chest into my back. Now the angle is even deeper and I feel like fires are building in multiple places.
His face is down close to me, stubble scratching my delicate skin, words heating me from the inside out.
“You’ve already squirted all over me, Mina.” Words punctuated by almost guttural, sexy groaning. “And we’re not fucking done until you do it again. Do you hear me?”
Every muscle in my legs quiver and the edge of the table is pounding into my clit when Griffin does. “Fuck. Please?” I don’t even know what I’m asking for. For him to stop? For him to never stop?
“You’re going to take every inch, squeezing me just like you are, pushing into me just like that, until you cum all over my cock, aren’t you?”
“YES.” Whimper. “YES!”
He stands back up, roughly gripping my hips, spreading me as wide as I’ll go, and ramming into me so hard the table scratches across the floor with every thrust. I’m a thunderstorm, moments from breaking. I’m a wave, ready to crest. And then I’m a supernova.
I scream. Actually scream. I rush of liquid splashes underneath me and my body convulses as Griffin rides out my orgasm, chasing his own. I can’t relax, I’m not coming down. I can feel my inner muscles squeezing him with every jerking thrust, every part of me pulsing around him, and then he presses hard, holding himself there and my entire being becomes a million pinpricks of light. I’m filled with jets of warmth. My whole body is melting. I’m not sure I remember how to breathe. Steely grey eyes come into focus—Griffin is leaning over me on the table.
“Mina? Are you dead? I am. 100% deceased. How do you feel about sitting in the shower indefinitely? And then maybe naked tv? I don’t even care about the upholstery. I think getting us to the shower is all I will be able to manage, for the rest of the day.”
Do I mumble an affirmative? Is my mouth working? I hope Griffin is cool with me moving in with him because I think this table is my home now.
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