Total pages in book: 46
Estimated words: 43879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43879 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 176(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
I lean down and kiss her long and hard. Then I tear myself away, standing and striding to the kitchen, taking a Sharpie out of the drawer and returning to where she now sits up on the couch, all mussed up and horny. “What is that for?”
“Write on me. Write all over me.” I lay down on my back, slapping a hand to my stomach and chest. “Sign your name on everything you own—and beauty, that’s every square inch. That marker won’t wash off. Not for days. And you can trace over it, make it dark again the next time I see you.”
“Really? A-are you sure?”
“Dead sure. Let everyone know.”
She’s already straddling my hips, the warmth of her pussy snuggling down on my cock. When she leans forward to start writing, a smile curling her lips, those tits are halfway out of her tank top, swaying with her every movement. And God, God, if she’s going to be the death of me, I’m going to go so fucking happy.
Before she puts the Sharpie to skin, I cup the back of her head and force her to meet my eyes. “Gracie. You will be the last female I ever touch. You’re the only girl who will ever exist for me. Done deal. Done. It was like that the second I saw you in the Hellmouth. I was yours and you were mine.”
“It was the same for me,” she breathes, writing the word Gracie across my abdomen, then moving to the cuts on my hips, writing mine, don’t touch. With every stroke of the pen, my cock grows harder until I’m stiffer than steel. “Do you want to sign me, too?”
I squeeze her hips, rocking her on my dick and watching her eyes glaze over. “I’m going to leave more than enough marks on you.”
She leans down and whispers against my lips. “Inside and out.”
“Gracie,” I groan, lifting her with a thrust. “It’s time to put it in.”
Her nod is frantic, her fingers clumsy on the fly of my jeans—
The front door of my apartment busts open, smacking off the wall. I go to spring forward to protect Grace, until my brain begins functioning again and I realize there’s no danger. So instead, I drag a hand down my face, cursing the gods of timing.
“Zip your pants up, please,” Tulip calls from the kitchen, plastic bags rustling as she sets them down on the counter. “I don’t need to be scarred for life.”
Grace dives off of me, scurrying to the far end of the couch.
I watch her go like a man who just had his lottery winnings snatched away.
“Oh my God,” she mouths at me, fixing her hair.
“Sorry,” I whisper back, my heart booming over the fact that she obviously wants to make a good impression on my sister.
A moment later, in walks Tulip, sizing up Grace with a sniff. “Are you going to help me get an A on my science project or spend the whole day making out with my brother?”
Grace shoots to her feet, nervously smoothing her skirt. “Science. Let’s, um…” She sticks out her hand for a formal shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Grace.”
Tulip stares at the offered hand like it’s a freshly fallen moon rock, shaking it slowly, peering at Grace a little more closely than before. “You were right. She is beautiful.” She lets go of Grace’s hand and clomps back toward the kitchen. “Let’s hope she can make a homemade battery, too.”
And right there before my eyes, my sex kitten girlfriend goes full nerd, gasping with excitement, smiling at me as she follows me sister into the kitchen, both of them rifling through the supplies and already chatting happily. “I know the exact variables to use,” I hear her say.
Christ, this girl. She’s a goddamn wonder.
I’ll be in love with Grace Foster until the day I die.
Seven
Grace
Tulip’s face lights up when the lightbulb blinks on and off in a glowing pattern.
“Holy hell, North,” laughs the girl. “Your girlfriend’s a genius.”
I’m still flushing from her use of the word girlfriend when he leans down and gives my neck a quick kiss. “Among other things.”
Tulip is asking me questions about battery life and electrical conduits, but I can’t help watching North move around the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, this rough and tumble fighter who is in the act of making dinner. Cooking an actual meal. His shirt is back on, a tragedy, but I console myself by cataloguing his other parts. His forearms flex as he grinds pepper into a bowl of ground meat. His brow furrows in concentration when measuring out the right amount of pasta, snapping it over the bubbling water.
I’ve never been more comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.
I’m relaxed in this apartment. Doing a science project while the scent of tomato and meat and oregano teases my senses. It’s warm here. Welcoming. It’s nothing like my sterile and oftentimes hostile home in Beacon Hill. It’s the people that make a home, obviously. And North has turned this into a functional, happy space for his sister. I feel lucky to be here. Happy. Like I’ve stepped into a bear hug.