God.
Tonight, I’m determined to give him every bit of paradise right back.
I definitely focus on one thing, dropping to my knees and taking him deep in my mouth. His loud growl is all the reward I need, using my tongue to play with the head of his dick while pumping the steel it crowns.
He’s a man who can’t stand keeping his hands idle.
I love it when he eases me up, pushing me onto the bed.
His fingers find me soaked and so wanting it hurts. And fine, so maybe I’m the one who finally has to give in.
I throw myself back, thighs pinching his fingers that know me better than I know myself. “Grady McKnight...I need you. Now.”
My legs open.
“You ever heard of patience?” he teases, pushing his fingers against my walls, his thumb still working my clit to sweet insanity. “Good things come to those who—”
“Grady!” I spit. “Right now.”
Laughing, he removes his hand, this dark heat entering his russet eyes as he positions himself above me with his cock pulsing in his hand.
“You know how many days I’ve dreamed of this and nothing else? Sliding into my wife for the first time?” he whispers, rubbing his swollen head against my entrance, so close yet so flipping far.
Oh. My. God.
“No? Then let me show you,” he rumbles.
Then those piston hips plow forward, and I take every inch of him in one steady, beautiful stroke.
Holy yes.
Yes.
It’s a miracle my eyes stay open, but I’m so thankful they do.
I fall in love in a brand-new way with the stricken look on his face, brown honey napalm in his eyes, the way his groan mauls the air.
There might never be a sexier sight than my husband claiming me for the first time.
At least, that’s what I think before feeling every inch of him as he goes hard, delving deep, his hips stroking me to an ecstasy so pure it scares me.
Grady damn McKnight is a hammer, and he forces our future with every lightning stroke between my legs, every smoking kiss, every sharp, guttural cry drifting out of him as his pleasure builds.
“Willow. Darlin’. Yeah. Fuck,” he growls, and even though I’m screaming my lungs out, I smile.
You know it’s something special for a man when he’s down to one-word caveman talk.
Folding my legs around him, I run my ankles up his strong ass and push, adding a plea when I say, “Come in me, Grady. I want to be full of my husband tonight.”
The seething hot rush of air against my throat and the scrape of his beard tells me he’s happy to oblige.
His pace quickens, his body coming down like a whip.
Yes, yes, a trillion times yes.
I love him so much, this sexy, amazing man who makes love to me every single time with more passion and life than he showed me our very first time.
His warrior-like friction curls my toes as I feel myself tighten, hugging his magnificent cock, greedy for his release and mine.
His climax hits first, triggering mine. The second I see his head snap back and his teeth bared, fully in rapture, perfectly synced to the swelling heat inside me and then the molten flood, I’m gone.
We come together, I cling to him harder, and we both reach a level of delicious madness I never thought was possible before worshiping this man and receiving his love in return.
“Holy shit,” he growls later, flopped down on his back, pulling me into his arms. “Can we make love like that in a tent all over the ends of the earth?”
Straddling him, I wiggle my hips, loving how hard he’s getting again, if he ever went soft. Whatever it is, I’m hooked.
“As often as you want. Try not to break me,” I promise, bringing my lips to his and my soul to those eyes far stronger than the finest bourbon.
His smile happens in slow motion, this perfect imperfection.
Will our kids have his adorably messy bed hair? I wonder.
And I also wonder what I did to have Grady sent to me, a fallen angel who found his way as he led me to salvation.
How did I get so lucky?
How could I ever wish for more?
I shudder, overflowing with this gratitude on the razor edge of insanity as his thumb traces my cheek, and his gaze captures me forever.
“Remind me when we leave again?” he asks, an eternity of mischief beckoning in his eyes.
Thanks for reading The Hero I Need! Look for more Knights of Dallas coming soon.
Curious what's in store for the McKnights and Bruce?
See what the good life looks like for human and tiger alike years after the wedding in this special flash forward short story. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/ds2iti7fz8
Then read on for a preview of another Dallas romance whirlwind, The Best Friend Zone with Faulk and Tory!
The Best Friend Zone Preview
Here We Goat Again (Tory)
When I look back at my seventeen-year-old self, there are exactly seven minutes and twenty seconds forever burned into my brain.
That’s how long it takes to get out of Granny’s little red Nova I’d driven over to Farmer Faulkner’s place, carrying a freshly baked peach pie smelling like heaven.
How long I bite my lip on their doorstep, unsure if Quinn would even be home, much less receptive to a decadent dessert at ten o’clock in the morning. But Granny did give it her ringing endorsement, swearing it’s the best I’ve ever made from her recipe.
How long I exhale in relief as a tall, handsome boy who looks a thousand times better than this pie smells opens the door with his trademark grin.
How long I stand there speechless, staring up at him, and forget how to form words.
Thankfully, Quinn remembers for me, holding the door open and waving me inside with a bewildered look. Even though we’ve been friends for years, I still get clogged full of butterflies when he shoots me that smile.
“Don’t just stand there teasing me. Get in here,” he says with a laugh like a song.
“Okay! I just baked it this morning,” I mumble, shocked I can speak with my cheeks in flames. “Granny’s recipe. We thought maybe you’d be in the mood for—”
Record screech.
Stop.
We’re not quite halfway through my seven minutes of heaven. This is when it takes a detour through hell.
Because a second later, the toe of my shoe catches on Grandpa Faulkner’s unseen pile of boots by the door. For another second, there’s just panic, a faint hope I might get lucky and avoid making a total fool of myself.
Nope.
Not today.
The jarring sensation of my body spinning and hitting the floor proves one thing.
I just ruined any hope the hottest boy in town ever had of eating this delicious pie by planting myself in it face-first.
At least it isn’t so piping hot it hurts. Not physically.
Emotionally? I’m dead.
I think the only reason I’m not bawling when his strong arms lift me up is because I’m too freaking sticky, plastered in peach filling.
“Tory, holy shit. Take my hand,” he growls, slipping his big fingers through mine. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
For the next minute, I’m just silent as a grave, counting how many times I must’ve dreamed of this moment, holding Quinn Faulkner’s hand.