Free Grace (The Family Simon Book 5) by Juliana Stone Page A

getting some shut eye. Damn Jack. His buddy never failed to knock him on his ass.
    He kicked off his boots, not caring that he’d just tracked snow all over the place, and then tossed his jeans, plaid shirt, and his boxers. The cold felt good against his heated skin and Matt stumbled in the dark to his bed, managing to stub his toe on the bedpost.
    “Fuck,” he whispered hoarsely and yanked the covers back. He slid between them, immediately turning on his side and reaching for the other pillow.
    But it wasn’t his pillow he found. His large hands slid across something soft—there was no denying that—and it sure as hell wasn’t cotton.
    Grace?
    Matt didn’t think. His brain had shut off a long time ago and he was on auto-pilot. He moved toward the warmth, and sank his nose into soft, silky hair that smelled like the honeysuckle his grandmother used to grow along her back porch.
    He groaned and moved his hands around to the front of her body, but the very things he sought were covered. And impatient, he pushed aside clothing, fingers eagerly inching toward soft breasts and smooth, taut skin. Matt moved so that he pressed into her, his groin settled against her butt.
    “Damn, but you feel good.” His brain was jumbled, his veins full of Jack, and at the moment Matt was content with the weight and warmth of another body in the night. He relaxed, snuggled into the curve of her back and as he listened to her even breathing, he eventually fell asleep.
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    I T WASN’T EXACTLY DARK out when Matt woke, but it wasn’t bright either. He was in that place somewhere between dawn and full-on morning. He’d never bothered with blinds and could see the faintest traces of light coming through the window into his room. Normally he’d jump straight out of bed as soon as he could, but at the moment he wasn’t that guy.
    At the moment he was content to stay right where he was. In bed—no, in his bed—with Grace Simon. His eyes adjusted and he had no problems seeing her.
    She’d turned in her sleep, and her face was inches from his, that cute little nose scrunched a bit, her forehead furrowed. Maybe she was dreaming, or maybe her mind was already racing ahead, but whatever it was, with her hair a wild halo, and her mouth slightly parted, she was without a doubt, the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
    And she was fully clothed. Imagine that.
    He eased himself back an inch or two for a couple of reasons. One, he could see her better. And two, he had a hard-on that wouldn’t quit and any relief he could garner was welcome. It was torture being this close to her—being this horny—and not being inside her.
    She inhaled sharply and he froze, smiling a bit as she began to mumble. Again. The girl talked in her sleep. Constantly. And though he tried, he couldn’t understand a word, or at least anything that made sense. What the hell did an appendix have to do with anything?
    So for the next twenty minutes or so Grace mumbled, moving restlessly against the pillows—occasionally getting too close and making him shudder at her touch. He watched her, tracing the lines of her cheek, the dip at her neck, and the shape of her mouth, with his eyes.
    Damn, that mouth.
    He leaned a little closer, thought maybe he’d steal a kiss, but her eyes fluttered open and he froze as her gaze settled on him. Luminous and still full of sleep, he felt those eyes like a physical touch and as she slowly became aware, he saw the questions that lingered in their depths.
    Yet he didn’t speak. He couldn’t. And long moments ticked by—long moments filled with nothing but their breathing, and the pounding of their hearts.
    Her lids lowered a bit and she whispered, voice a little hoarse, “Hey.”
    “Hey yourself,” he managed to say.
    She blew out a soft breath and glanced back up at him. Were her eyes always this shade of blue? They reminded him of the deepest end of the swimming hole out near the lake he used to visit when he was a kid.
    What was it