by Pippa Grant
He presses a kiss to my forehead, and even though it’s a simple, friendly gesture, I feel it in my clit. “Don’t change.”
“My personality, or my clothes?”
“Yes.”
Hello, warm tinglies in my chest. “Are you this nice to everyone?”
“Kind-nice? Yes. Pretzel-nice? No. That’s only for my favorite people.”
“Did you stop and give your mom one first?”
His eyes widen, and the tips of his ears go pink. “I—yeah.”
“You did.”
“Just making sure she remembers who her favorite is.”
I grab him by the cheeks and press a kiss to those perfect lips. “That is the sweetest thing ever.”
“I missed your lips.”
He’s staring at them like they’re the best erotic art he’s ever seen. Like he’s not at all turned off by the way my hands smell like cleaners, or the way my hair’s in knots, or even the way my boobs are sagging under my T-shirt.
That surge, that connection, the spark—it wasn’t in my imagination while he was gone.
He thinks I’m attractive.
No.
He thinks I’m sexy.
Have I shown him that I think he’s sexy too?
Not because he’s Levi Wilson, pop god. Not because he brings me pretzels. Not because he’s always in well-tailored clothes with perfect haircuts.
But because he smiles at me in a way that makes me feel like I’m everything that’s missing in his life. Because he asks how my kids are doing and doesn’t seem to mind when they act like themselves. Because he offers to find me a babysitter on top of offering to cook me dinner, like he gets that dinner is never just dinner.
Because he does crazy things like flies home early and comes here, to see me, after stopping in to see his mom.
He’s such a great guy.
“I have a confession,” I whisper.
His eyes are sapphire at midnight as they lift back to meet mine, his hand sliding down my ass. “Has someone been a bad girl?”
“I can’t stop fantasizing about taking your clothes off.”
“And where do these fantasies happen?”
“Everywhere.”
Oh, god, his smile. His hands. His I want to spread you out on the kitchen table and eat you bedroom eyes. My panties are officially soaked.
He’s pulling me tighter to him, and that bulge against my belly is making me even wetter. “So I know I understand you right…are you fantasizing everywhere about me, or are you fantasizing that I’m making you come everywhere?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
His hard length twitches against me.
I arch into him. “But I want to make you come too.”
“Fuck, Ingrid.”
“Yes. You definitely need to fuck Ingrid. But first…” I flick open the top button on his silky smooth shirt. “You.”
His chest rises unsteadily as I free the next button. “Is this my reward for pretzels?”
“You don’t have to bring me presents for me to want to strip you. You are the present.”
I press a kiss to his chest, the dark hair tickling my face, the hard muscle beneath warm against my lips, his breath making his sternum rise up to meet my mouth, and I work my way down.
I haven’t done this in ages either.
It’s possible I don’t remember how.
But he flew home early to see me. He’s kept me entertained with text messages for the past week. He made me see stars in my hallway, then didn’t ask for anything in return when I was having another family crisis.
The man deserves a reward.
His fingers curl into my disaster of a ponytail as I press a kiss to his belly button and reach for the snap on his jeans. “Ingrid—you don’t have to—”
“Shush and let a woman see if she still remembers how.”
“You—”
I drop to my knees and cut him a look. “Levi Wilson, I will use the mom voice. So unless you’re telling me no-no, and not just being a gentleman…”
“No more gentleman. Cross my—fuck, that feels good.” His head drops back as my knuckles graze him through his boxers while I pull down his zipper.
He’s in emoji boxers. Oh my god.
He’s perfect. Silly and serious and sexy and everything.
I rub his hard-on through the cotton. “I like the way you say fuck.”
“I like the way you do everything.”
Just a few little words, and he makes me feel more.
And does he get this hard for every woman he passes on the street?
Somehow, I don’t think so. If he did, he wouldn’t keep coming back.
You are out of your ever-loving mind, a level-headed, logical, Portia-like voice whispers in my ear.
It’s not wrong.
But peeling Levi’s cargo pants down his hips, taking his boxers with them, and seeing his proud cock spring free?
That’s not wrong either.
He’s lovely.
Thick and long without being terrifying, his head bulging, and a prominent vein running jaggedly from root to tip. I stroke him once, and he hisses out a slow breath. “Jesus, Ingrid…”
“You don’t touch yourself?”
“I can’t stop touching myself when I think about you, but you touching me—this is—”
I lick his tip, tasting his salty pre-cum, and he cuts himself off with a guttural moan as his fingers tighten in my hair.
I’m driving Levi wild.
Me.
He could’ve gone anywhere tonight. Seen anyone. And he wanted to bring me a pretzel.
I cup his balls, swirl my tongue around his head, his raspy oh, god, yes all the encouragement I need to suck him into my mouth, my breasts tingling and my clit pulsing.
How did I forget how much of a turn-on it is to make a man lose his mind?
It takes me a minute to find a rhythm, squeezing him at his base while I take him deeper and deeper, rubbing the flat of my tongue against his smooth, silky underside, one hand moving to brace on his tense thigh for balance, because yeah.
Not enough core work lately.
Too much ice cream.
But he’s gasping my name like I’m the sexiest, smartest, most talented woman on the planet.
Are guys picky about blow jobs?
I honestly don’t know.
But I want to touch myself. I’m aching so hard between my thighs right now. The things I want to do to this man.
The things I want this man to do to me.
He hits the back of my throat, his thigh trembling under my fingers. “Fuck, Ingrid, I’m gonna come.”
Good.
That’s the whole point.
I squeeze his thigh, rub my thumb along it, and suck him deeper, lifting my eyes to watch as he throws his head back and groans, spilling himself down my throat, my name on his lips like a song, like a prayer, like poetry.
It’s the first time in my life that I’ve liked my name.
His body sags against the shelves as I pull off his still semi-hard cock.
“Jesus, Ingrid. That was—” He cuts himself off with a surprised grunt as I’m pulling his boxers back up, and then something thumps and falls on my head.
I shriek and tumble back in time to see a second box teetering on the top shelf, while yodels explode behind me.
Yodels?
“Box!” I point, smacking Levi in the arm as he reaches for me, a throbbing pain taking up residence on top of my head.
He’s still hanging out of his pants, open over his thighs, and when he turns, he trips and goes head-first toward another box.
I shriek again as he catches himself, but the motion sends the second box toppling.
More yodels behind me.
Levi and I both dive out of the way of the second box, which lands with a thud, followed by a bunch of chicken screams.
Yo-da-lay-dee-hoo!
BAGOCK!
Yodalay yodalay yodalay!
BOCKADOODL
EDOO!
“Oh my god, the chickles! The pickens! The yodeling pickles and the screaming chickens!”
Levi snorts with laughter while I lunge for the two boxes.
And suddenly I’m snickering too.
“Are you okay?” I manage to ask between gasps of laughter.
He sinks to the floor next to me, pants back on, bent double while the boxes continue to squawk and yodel. “What—the hell—do you—sell?”
He’s clearly trying to stop laughing but can’t.
“Oh my god, my kids. Tell me my kids can’t hear this.”
“How’s your head?”
“Been through worse.”
The box of yodeling pickles goes quiet, then yodels once more.
Levi and I lock eyes, and I swear we’re both thinking it.
That’s not how a blow job usually ends.
We both double over again.
Until I realize what I’ve done. “My fridge!”
He wipes his eyes, his smile so bright, I almost don’t care if the milk is all spoiled, except for the part where I’ll have to run to the drugstore to get more because Hudson will have a total shit fit if he can’t have milk on his Cheerios in the morning.
“C’mon, Superwoman.” Levi offers me a hand. “Let’s go fix your fridge.”
We pull each other up, and I almost get lost in those happy blue eyes again, but I force myself up the stairs, knowing he’s right behind me—oh my god, and with pretzels.
I almost forgot about the pretzels.
And I have every intention of asking him to help me work out this lingering arousal.
That hand he has on the small of my back?
It’s also turning me on.
Get in. Fix the fridge. Take the pretzels to bed.
That’s the plan.
Except my doorknob is locked.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper.
I yank it again.
Twist harder.
And then I drop my head to the thick wood.
For the record, this wood isn’t nearly as nice as the wood I had in my mouth five minutes ago.
“Spare key?” Levi asks.
“Cash register. Except I’m pretty sure I used it last week and forgot to put it back.”
I’m locked out of my apartment, where my four-year-old could get up at any minute and crawl out the balcony window if he decides it’s time to set the squirrel free, with my fridge hanging wide open, and oh my god, what if he decides to play hide and seek in the fridge like Skippy did last week?
Deep breaths.
Deep breaths.
“I don’t suppose you know how to pick a lock?” I ask Levi.
His gaze meets mine, and there’s something in his that I can’t interpret.
It’s not a no.
But it’s not a yes, either.
It’s more of a wince.
He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket. “I might know someone.”
“It’s okay. I can call Griff. Portia’s husband. Firefighter. They’ll knock the door down for me. They know Hudson. I mean if I can’t get a locksmith.” I’m not getting laid tonight. “You don’t have to wait. If you don’t want—”
“Ingrid.” He squeezes my forearm, which is one of those gestures I had no idea I was missing. Everything in my arm warms, and then it spreads to my chest, and it’s suddenly easier to breathe. “My way’s more fun. Possibly more dangerous, but definitely more fun.”
“More dangerous than boxes of yodeling chickens?”
“Only for me.”
He looks up from his phone, winks, then hands me the pretzel bag. “Sit. Dig in. Help’s on the way.”
Twenty-One
Levi
It’s not unusual for me to wake up and not know where I am, but it is unusual to wake up, not know where I am, have a crick in my neck, and still be utterly and completely relaxed and happy.
Must’ve been the dream.
I let myself smile, because I can still hear it. It sounds like Ingrid. “Levi. Hey, sexy pants. Sun’s coming up. Gotta move.”
Wait.
That’s not a dream.
Dammit.
I pry one eyelid open and decide I’m good with this not being a dream.
Ingrid’s bending over me. Her hair’s down and damp, leaving wet marks where it falls on her shoulders. Her lips are full and rosy, her eyes dark, her cheeks smooth where my fingers drift to touch them.
“Morning.”
Her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “Good morning, sleepyhead. My kids are awake and both of my girls know exactly who you are, so if you don’t want them telling their friends that I know you and that you crashed overnight in the bookstore’s loft, you need to hurry.”
“I like your loft. It has music.”
“There isn’t a single minute of the day when you’re not attractive, is there?”
“Nope.” I snag her at the waist and pull her to the couch with me. I don’t remember falling asleep last night. I remember Davis coming over and working his magic. Ingrid asking him if he finally found a new book on wave theory, or if Dog Man really is more his speed. Davis smirking at me, then texting that I owe him a cover story for next Tuesday night in payment. I’d be mad, except I like the game, and he knows it. He asks me for favors from time to time too.
I remember Ingrid sitting with me on the couch, with four different house keys and her baby monitor in hand, moaning over the pretzel.
Laughing over stupid shit we both did in our younger years.
Every time I thought I’d one-upped her, she came back with a story of her own from her time in the Army, or before, with her grandmother.
She really did see the world before she settled here to raise her kids.
And the number of things she does and sees with them on any given day is amazing too.
I curl a lock of her damp hair around my finger. “What are you doing Friday night?”
“Soaking my feet and using the back stretcher thingie that Piper got for me at last year’s holiday fair at school. Assuming I manage to get upstairs before midnight, that is. And I don’t actually know if it’s a back stretcher or if it’s a missing part of a cat-sized hamster wheel or something, I just know it feels really good to stretch when I remember and have the energy to use it.”
Oh. Right.
Dammit.
Holiday shopping season. Retail store.
She’s probably even less available than I am for the next month.
Should be comforting, but that gut-level disappointment tells me this isn’t the casual fling it’s supposed to be.
Neither was flying home early because I missed her.
I have it bad. “Tell me more about this back stretcher thing.”
She kisses my cheek, and my morning wood tries to sprout an extra branch. “Later. C’mon, you big sack of potatoes. Don’t make me nag you like I nag my kids to get moving in the morning.”
“Can I come back tonight?”
A thousand thoughts flit over her face, and I swear I can read at least four or five of them. She’s probably thinking about which kid has which activity tonight, when she can get out to have a few more spare keys made, if I want to just hang out in her loft and write songs after the store’s closed, or if I want to help her tuck the kids into bed.
I like her kids.
They’re funny. At least, they seem funny, based on all the stories she’s told me. Zoe’s apparently wicked smart, which is no surprise for an oldest kid. Piper sounds unstoppable on ice skates. And I’m pretty sure Hudson and I could be life-long friends.
He’s definitely the type to dare someone to lick a metal lamppost on a snowy day. And also the kind to probably take the dare.
Thirty years ago, he would’ve fit right in back in my neighborhood.
Which I won’t be telling Ingrid.
“After the store closes,” I say to her perplexed expression. “I’ll bring Giselle. She’ll make sure I stay up here and out of trouble. And if you get a fre
e minute, maybe I can find more cheesecake.”
“You are seriously cutting into my reading time.” She smiles like she doesn’t mind, though. “Text me later. We’ve been picking up traffic, and restocking is taking longer than it usually does, plus Hudson’s class is doing a Thanksgiving pageant and I’m worried he’s going to try to take Skippy to play the part of the turkey.”
Like I said, Hudson and I could be total bro-mates.
She pokes me in the ribs, and I twitch and squirm. “Tickle spot!”
“Up and out, or I’ll really make you regret dilly-dallying.”
I shift to bring my face to hers, and I brush a kiss to her lips. “I like you, Ingrid Scott.”
Her blush is immediate. “I like you too, Levi Wilson. Now scoot. I also have to find a last-minute babysitter.”
My ears perk up. “For today?”
“The girls are off school, Hudson only has half a day, and my usual sitter has the flu.” She pulls back, wagging her tickle finger at me. “No distractions this morning. No time.”
“I can do it.”
“Distract me?”
“Watch your kids.”
Her face screws up so hard in comic disbelief that her eyes actually cross.
It’s fucking adorable.
“I watch Tripp’s kids all the time. They’re just people with less life experience.”
“Just people with less life experience tells me you have no idea what you’d be getting into.”
I grin. “I know. That’s the best part.”
“Absolutely not.”
“On my honor as a grown-up whose lead protection agent will be there to supervise, I will not wreck your children or your home.”
Yes, I do know exactly how not normal that sounds to Ingrid. The security part, I mean. Not the wreck your home or your children part. I know her well enough to know that’s probably a standard question she asks babysitters.
I add my most irresistible smile.
She squeezes her eyes shut. “Why?”
“Why won’t I wreck your house?”
She’s good. That’s the exact same look my mother has given me time and time again for thirty-odd years. “Why would you want to watch all three of my children all day today, from basically now until probably six tonight, cooped up in an apartment because there’s no way you’re taking any of them out in public, and—”