by Pippa Grant
Another on my couch, hidden under a blanket, mostly dressed, and very, very quietly with one eye on the hallway the whole time in case any of the kids woke up.
Both well past my bedtime and after hours and hours of talking.
But we haven’t been alone.
Not like this.
My fingers drift between my thighs and I rub the cotton of my panties over my aching clit.
His fingers freeze on his pants button, and his dark eyes land on mine. “Fuck, Ingrid.”
“I want to be loud.”
His tight jeans hit the floor, and he stumbles kicking them the rest of the way off, and then he’s crawling onto the bed, hovering over me, kissing me between my breasts, dipping down my belly, swirling his tongue around my belly button, and then lower, to the waist of my panties. “You smell delicious.”
“You must seriously like disasters.”
“I love you.”
He peels my panties down, spreads my thighs, and buries his face in my pussy, his tongue magic as he starts slow and easy, licking my seam, then sucking my clit into his mouth.
“Oh my god,” I gasp.
“I missed this pussy.” He strokes a hand over my inner thigh, spreading my legs wider, licking me faster while my hips buck into his mouth.
“Levi.”
“That’s right, Superwoman. Scream my name.”
I do.
Oh my god, I do.
While he licks and sucks and teases, bringing me right to the edge, my body completely under his spell, I gasp his name, gripping his hair, my hips out of control and operating on pure instinct.
Oh my god, his tongue.
And his lips.
And then he slides two fingers inside me, then three, while he sucks hard on my swollen clit, and everything inside me comes completely undone.
I come so hard I see the other side of the universe. “Levi. Oh my god, yes, Levi, I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He crooks his fingers inside me, and everything goes blinding white.
I’m dancing naked in heaven, my body singing the Hallelujah chorus, my brain already plotting how to make Levi feel as transcendently euphoric as I do right now.
He’s seen me at my worst. At my lowest. At my most hectic.
And he’s still here.
Worshipping my imperfect, life-worn body as though I’m the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.
“I love you.” I’m still chanting it as the last of the spasms leave me boneless.
“Ah, Ingrid.” He presses a kiss to my belly. “I love you too. Every inch of you.”
I don’t know where I find the strength, but I roll him onto his back, then shimmy down his body. His legs are hanging off the bottom of my bed, which is so close to my dresser that he’ll probably kick it and knock an entire pile of pictures and art projects that my kids have given me onto the floor if he moves wrong.
I want my kids to make him art projects too.
I want him to know the joy of a pile of pictures made with love.
I should make him an art project of my own.
“Why are you so perfect?” I ask him as I straddle him.
He brushes his thumb over my cheek. “I’m so far from perfect, Ingrid. Especially next to you.”
“Are we both delusional?”
He smiles that gorgeous, confident, I’ve got this smile. “No. I think it means we fit.”
I rub myself over his thick hard-on. “Can we fit a little more?”
“Yes, please.”
We knock everything off my dresser trying to locate a condom. And then we lay in bed and make love slowly, laughing, talking, touching.
I introduce him to my horrible shower.
We fall out of it trying to have sex in there too.
And when his mom brings the kids home, we’re cuddling under a blanket, watching Christmas movies and eating the most delicious cinnamon rolls I’ve ever tasted in my life.
Pretty sure if Levi wasn’t a pop star, he’d be giving Cinnabon a run for their money.
But he is a pop star.
He’s my pop star.
And he doesn’t bat an eye when my babies demand to crawl up under the blanket with us, and then order us to turn on The Grinch.
I catch Donna’s eye as she’s trying to quietly sneak out.
Thank you, I mouth.
Her eyes go a little shiny, but she blinks quickly, and smiles right back at me. No, thank you.
I think this is what love is supposed to be.
When we all feel like we’re getting the best part of the bargain.
I know Levi will have to go away sometimes.
But I also know he’ll always come back home.
Epilogue
Levi
One year after I got lost in Copper Valley but found my way to Ingrid, I’m in my second-favorite spot in the entire city, content in knowing that I can come visit here any evening I want for as far out as my calendar goes.
Probably any day, at this point too.
Ingrid’s customers have gotten used to me popping through the store, which is happening more often now that the tour is over. I’m even getting to know a few of the regulars, and Giselle’s even more popular than I am around here.
But tonight, Piper’s in my lap, working on getting her finger positioning right for a C major chord on my guitar. My laptop’s closed on the end table next to us, because songwriting can wait. Below us, the store is closed for the evening, with the only light coming from a single lamp lit near the stairs.
Ingrid has three more staff starting tomorrow, since the store has continued growing by leaps and bounds this past year. She says it’s because of the Levi factor.
I remind her that I can get them in the door, but she and her staff are why customers come back.
And it’s true.
This is the best little bookstore in all of Copper Valley.
And the owner is buying herself some extra time off to be with her family. She started this summer, when she and the kids took a few trips to be with me when I was in the busier parts of the tour, and now, we’re making it more official.
Ingrid is officially a forty-hour-a-week employee at her own shop who has help getting the kids to all of their activities, instead of a workaholic running everything.
There’s a house down the street from Tripp that I bought a couple months back when it came on the market, ready for us to move into whenever we’re ready to move into it. I have a ring back in the condo I’m rarely at, waiting for our first date anniversary in a couple weeks.
And my love is upstairs in the apartment that’s too small for five of us, but still home because it’s where the people I love most are, helping Zoe with homework while Hudson takes a shower on his own.
Ah, correction.
Hudson was taking a shower on his own.
Now, he’s sneaking up the stairs into the loft with us, his hair dripping down on his axolotl pajamas.
It’s grown out since last year’s second round of lice went through his preschool. And since Mrs. Ryder mentioned some special oils she used to put in Ellie’s shampoo to deter the lice, we’ve gotten through the fall unscathed.
With Hudson, anyway.
Piper’s caught a few colds that have had Ingrid worried about her ears, but so far, she’s come through each of them without issue. And I survived the panic at being in Canada during the worst of it.
That. Fucking. Sucked.
It’s so damn good to be home. I’m looking forward to a year or two off.
And then?
We’ll figure it out when we need to.
“When I grow up, I’m gonna play the harpsichord and dance a booty dance for all the ladies,” Hudson informs us.
Oh, yeah.
He’s been spending a lot of time with my Bro Code buddies too.
And picking up all the good things that make Ingrid cringe when he says them.
She laughs herself silly over all of it once he’s tucked in bed
for the night though.
And there’s no music better than Ingrid laughing.
Except maybe Ingrid coming.
“Are you hiding from bedtime again?” I ask Hudson.
He climbs onto my lap too, knocking Piper off-balance, who glares at him. “Go away, Hudson.”
“I want a story.”
“You have to be in bed for a bedtime story.”
“I don’t want a bedtime story. I want a regular story.”
“Okay, enough, both of you.” I sound just like my mother, and I’m okay with that. “Hudson, Piper’s practicing. Gotta wait your turn, bud. And your turn’s tomorrow.”
“I got a stick.” He reaches into his pajama bottoms, and sure enough, there’s a stick.
“Hudson Andrew Scott, I told you to stay in the apartment.”
“Busted,” I whisper to him as Ingrid comes into view on the stairwell too.
She’s exasperated, but she’s nowhere near the level of wound tight she was a year ago. You can see it in the way there’s always a smile teasing the corner of her lips, and the way her shoulders aren’t bunched so tight, and the way she’s not constantly checking her phone anymore when Mom takes the kids for a night.
Considering how much publicity she’s had to adjust to, along with constant security, and explaining at the beginning of every new activity to the other parents that yes, I’m that Levi Wilson, but please just treat me like any other parent, it’s a testament to something that she’s not completely flipping her lid every day.
I like to think I’m a good enough boyfriend to make up for all the hassle, but I know it’s probably also the number of adopted grandmas who call and check her schedule every week and demand to know which one of the kids they can take to which activity.
Plus, I got pretty good at phone sex this year.
That definitely didn’t hurt.
She meets my eyes and gives me the I know what you’re thinking about and you have to wait until the kids are in bed smile, followed by the and they’re never going to bed tonight grimace.
Ah.
Zoe’s right behind her.
Makes sense now.
Once all three kids get out of the apartment at bedtime, it’s basically game over for the night.
And I mean for the two of us.
Not them.
Three on two.
The kids win.
Every time.
“And Piper, I’m sorry, but it’s shower time. You can practice more in the morning if you’re up early enough.”
Piper sets the guitar aside, but she doesn’t move to get off my lap.
Neither does Hudson.
Ingrid makes the you are all two seconds from seeing my head spin face at all three of us.
I pat Piper’s knee. “C’mon. Your mom’s right. Time to shower.”
She ignores me and signs something to Ingrid. I miss whatever it is, because I’m whispering to Hudson that he’s going to get both of us in trouble if he doesn’t scoot toward bed too.
But I look up when Ingrid sucks in a surprised breath.
She signs back, that’s up to him—I know that one pretty well—and then she blinks fast and wipes her eyes.
Zoe leans into Ingrid.
“I got a rock too.” Hudson reaches into his pants.
Piper huffs and climbs off my lap, then turns and faces me.
She doesn’t speak, but instead uses her hands.
And she asks me a question that makes my lungs malfunction and my eyes get hot too.
I look at Ingrid, verifying I understood what Piper just asked.
Then back to Piper.
I don’t know the signs for I’d be honored.
But I know nothing in the world has ever felt quite as amazing as being asked if she can call me dad.
I blink hard a couple times, and I nod. “Yes. If that’s what you want. Yes.”
She smiles, makes jazz hands, and then launches herself at me for a hug. “I love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, Piper.”
“Are you my dad now?” Hudson asks.
Fuck. Talking is hard. “If you want me to be.”
He frowns. “Can I have Beck instead?”
“Shut up, Hudson.” Zoe crawls onto the couch next to him and leans in for a hug too. She’s almost as tall as Ingrid, and she can reach all the way around me. “It was my idea.”
“You three are the best.”
“I remember my last dad.” Zoe snuggled closer. “You’re better.”
Fuck.
These kids.
“I’m the best!” Hudson crows.
“We all are, Hudson. Not just you.”
“No, Hudson’s second-best.”
Ingrid curls up on my other side and buries her face in my arm.
I kiss her head, because it’s all I can reach.
Biggest argument we’ve had this past year?
Which one of us is getting more out of our relationship. She thinks it’s her.
But she’s wrong.
She just got me.
I got all four of them.
She always counters with I got your whole family, but we don’t get them twenty-four hours a day.
Not the way I get her and her kids.
“Does this mean you all approve of me marrying your mom?” I ask the kids when I can talk again.
“Can I be a bridesmaid?”
“Can I be a flower girl?”
“Can I eat cake?”
Ingrid smiles at me, and once again, I lose my breath.
She’s my everything. She and her kids.
Our kids.
And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life making sure they know it.
Hey, awesome reader! Ingrid here to say thank you for reading my and Levi’s story! We hope you loved it. Also, I wanted to let you know that Ares Berger, Piper’s most favorite hockey player in the ENTIRE UNIVERSE, has his own story in the Copper Valley Thrusters series! But to really fully appreciate him, start with his twin brother Zeus’s story, The Pilot and the Puck-Up. Trust me. It’s the best way to enjoy Ares. Get The Pilot and the Puck-Up on Amazon HERE!
P.S. If you’d like to see the epic prank I helped pull on Levi during our wedding reception, CLICK HERE to grab a bonus epilogue! You’ll also get the opportunity to sign up for the Pipster Report, a weekly newsletter about all things in the Pippaverse that makes me snort out loud with laughter every time it lands in my inbox.
P.P.S. If you’re the awesome type of person who likes to leave reviews, here’s a quick link for you to Goodreads. I’ll update with Amazon and BookBub if I ever get five minutes to myself!
P.P.P.S. Team Pippa left a spelling error in this book on purpose, as a fun little game, after Pippa’s readers noticed she’d made a public-pubic error in Real Fake Love. If you spotted the spelling error, send us an email at [email protected] for a special reward!
Sneak Peek at The Pilot and the Puck-Up
If you love big, bad, spider-fearing hockey heroes, tough-as-nails heroines hiding her soft side, and one night stands gone sideways, read on for an excerpt of The Pilot and the Puck-Up…
Chapter One
Zeus Berger (aka the biggest, baddest, most spider-fearing mother pucker in the NHL, except for maybe his twin brother)
Coconuts are itchy. I should’ve gone for the watermelons.
But it was a bitch and a half getting that last-minute private fitting at Madame Cosette’s anyway, and the woman probably would’ve had to stitch three bras together and then nailed the damn contraption to my shoulders to get it to hold without losing a melon, so coconuts it is.
Besides, it’s the heels that are gonna be the bigger problem. Damn good thing I have ankles of fucking steel.
And my minidress is stretched to max capacity over the coconuts anyway. It’s also in danger of showing my other coconuts, if you catch my drift. And there’s definitely a drift—or is that a draft?—on my other coconuts.
A wolf whistle echoes through
the swanky private clubhouse where I’m strolling in with my twin brother on one side and my brother from another mother on the other. A passing server drops a tray of champagne. Conversation stops. And a bunch of stuffy golf pricks gape at us like we’re a mutant alien circus freak show crashing their million-dollar wedding reception.
We’re three dudes with more money than God, more muscles than all the Kardashians’ bodyguards combined, and more fun than cotton candy and roller coasters.
And this is no wedding reception. It’s a chance for pretentious rich asses to brag to each other about who gave more money to whatever foundation is sponsoring this Pro-Am golf tournament for charity.
Ares is scowling, squinting around the room like he’s looking for the dumbass prince who was stupid enough to bet me ten grand I wouldn’t show up tonight dressed like a chick. Chase is on his phone, snickering like he’s not half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than me and Ares are.
I swipe his phone from him and shove it between my coconuts. “Quit sexting my sister in public.”
“I was posting that picture of you getting dressed to Facebook,” he replies. “Ares, fetch the phone.”
Ares grunts. “Shut your face,” he tells Chase.
I slap my brother on the shoulder. “Lighten up, bro. I make this shit look good.”
“Hate to break it to you,” Chase says, “but your sister actually makes a better woman.”
“You saying you wouldn’t tap this?”
“Saying she gives a better blow job.”
He easily ducks my fist, because the fucker’s known me too long. Plus, my heart isn’t in taking him out. Chase is good for my sister, and he’s a damn good friend to boot. Not that I’ll ever tell him that to his face. Again.
Ares quits scowling enough to snicker too. “Girls don’t hit,” he tells me.
“You gonna let him talk about Ambrosia like that?”
“I know where he sleeps.”
People think Ares is dumb because he doesn’t talk in big words. But he’s one of the smartest fuckers I know, in his own way.
Only dude in the world as big as me too, but in these heels—special ordered Mablanoks something or others—I’ve got him by four inches.