Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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I don't know how long we stand there in the middle of the living room, wrapped up in each other while the music drifts quietly through the house.
For the first time in years, there isn't anything left for us to say.
Greyson studies my face with an almost disbelieving smile, his eyes wandering over me as though he's trying to convince himself I'm really here. His gaze stays on the tears still clinging to my lashes before he quietly brushes one away with the pad of his thumb.
"What?" I ask.
He lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head. "I'm just looking at you."
The simplicity of the answer steals my breath more effectively than anything else he's said all night.
I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together, giving them a gentle squeeze. He looks down for the briefest moment before his eyes return to mine, and something passes between us that doesn't need words.
He bends his head, and I meet him halfway.
His mouth claims mine in a tender, yet searing kiss, his hands gripping the backs of my thighs as he lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist as he takes us upstairs. A low moan rumbles in his throat, vibrating against my lips, and I can feel him hardening as I grind my hips, pressing my wet, aching center against him.
The bedroom is dark when we step inside, illuminated only by the soft glow spilling in from the hallway. Greyson eases me back onto my feet without breaking our embrace, and for a moment we just stand there, looking at each other as though we're both trying to absorb the reality of this night.
My hands drift slowly down his sides until my fingertips disappear beneath the hem of his shirt. Warm skin meets my palms, and I trace the firm lines of his back, feeling the muscles tighten beneath my touch. His breath catches almost imperceptibly, and his eyes slip closed as I explore him with thorough curiosity, my nails grazing lightly across his skin before they settle between his shoulder blades.
The quiet reaction draws a satisfied smile from me, and I realize with a rush of affection, that for all his confidence, he still responds to me as though every touch is something worth savoring.
I rest my palms against his chest before leaning in to press a soft kiss just above his heart. He inhales sharply, and I glance up to find his head tipped back.
"Does that feel good?"
"Mmhmm," he hums, the answer barely more than a whisper.
When he finally opens his eyes, they're dark with longing, his gaze following every movement as though he doesn't want to miss a single second of this. I rise onto my toes and brush my lips lightly across his, relishing the brief contact before I begin to pull away.
He follows without thinking, closing the distance between us in search of another kiss, and a playful smile tugs at my mouth.
I slip my arms around his neck, my fingers disappearing into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and when our lips meet again, I tilt my head and gently catch his lower lip between my teeth before releasing it just as slowly.
