by Ren Benton
He listened. No footsteps behind him. No taxi beeping at the curb, either.
He had never been less sure of a woman. He’d been wrong plenty of times, but confidently so. With Ivy, he never knew which side of her would win the power struggle, or how long that victory would last before the loser staged a coup. He couldn’t predict her, couldn’t know if his next step would bring him closer or send him plummeting off a ledge, putting her forever out of his reach.
She was an adventure, and he had never been able to refuse one of those.
He could fulfill the hell out of an obligation now, but his resistance to fun remained as weak as ever. If a sex goddess wanted to fuck him limp and also wanted to keep it impersonal by speaking entirely in fiction, he was incapable of resisting the temptation.
Or at least unmotivated to try. And frankly, he didn’t see why he should. They had both been on their best behavior — granted, hers better and of longer duration than his — and had earned a little bit of discreet, harmless fun.
As discreet as talking him into nearly coming in his pants in a crowded restaurant could be considered, anyway. He might have been eating fingernails and paint chips for all he knew once she started talking about wet, tongue-intensive blowjobs.
He opened the fridge to inspect its contents. After baiting Ivy with the promise of food, he hoped he had the means to follow through.
The connecting door clacked shut, and he grinned at the orange juice. “I’m in the kitchen.”
When he heard nothing more, he wondered if she’d gotten lost despite the trail of lights. He looked over his shoulder and found her standing at the edge of his kitchen in her bare feet, shoes dangling from one hand. His fingers had disarranged her hair. The fragile skin beneath her eyes was sooty with mascara. He must be wearing her lipstick on his neck because her lips were bare now.
She looked like a woman should after sex, except for the clothes and shoes. He’d like to see her without those. “Any particular reason for sneaking up on me?”
She jiggled her shoes. “Heels are rough on wood floors.”
“So are skateboards, but that didn’t stop me from scratching the hell out of my parents’ parquet until I crashed through a sliding glass door.”
She made that traumatized face again. “Do you have a scar to remember that by?”
He mentally kicked himself for preying on her sympathy again. “No residual damage. Just two months in a neck brace.”
She blanched, and the next mental kick was harder. “My god, Griff. How old were you?”
“Doesn’t matter.” A bedridden ten-year-old was not the image of him and a bed he wanted foremost in her mind. She definitely never needed to know what happened when he recovered from that mishap and transferred his affections to dirtbiking. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re comfortable barefoot, get in here and tell me how you feel about pizza grilled cheese.”
“What if I’m not comfortable barefoot?”
“Put on your shoes, pockmark my precious floor, and tell me how you feel about pizza grilled cheese.”
“If it’s what it sounds like, I feel very warmly.” She bent down to line up her shoes, heels to the wall.
He admired the sway of her breasts before returning his attention to feeding her. He smeared two slices of bread with butter and put one, buttered side down, in a skillet, followed by shredded mozzarella, a sprinkle of dried oregano and garlic powder, and the bread lid. He turned on the burner to start the melting and toasting process. “Make yourself useful and take a look at these sketches.”
He pulled the folded sheets of paper from the pocket where he’d stuffed them and held them out to her.
She grabbed a corner and pulled. When he didn’t let go, she tilted her head. “Do you want me to look, or do you want to play tug-of-war again?”
Considering the way the last game ended, of course he wanted to play, but he needed her opinion, too. “Both.”
He let go, and she took his sketches over to the island to examine them in the light. “These are Mom’s curios?”
“Someday. You know the space and how she uses it better than I do. Which style would suit her more?”
She studied the diagrams as if he’d asked her to make a life-or-death decision. “I have my own issues with counter space, so I’m biased toward the short ones, but they’ll be right in the path from the living room to the kitchen. How many times would we stub our toes or bang our hips on the corners before we unlearned decades of spatial awareness?” She rubbed at her hip and the bruise foretold. “And that’s face height on Lily. Both designs are beautiful, but the tall ones are less menacing.”
“Tall it is.” If the lady wanted safety, he’d give it to her. He snatched a pencil from a drawer and made a note on the sketch to install wall tethers to prevent tipping. As long as he was in the neighborhood, he dropped a kiss in the V of skin exposed by her broken zipper. “Who’s Lily?”
“My niece, who’s at a height where every table, counter, and drawer seems designed to bonk her on the head.”
He chuckled as he returned to the stove.
“Am I to assume you remember that height well?”
“If you find the dent in my forehead, I’ll give you a prize.” He lifted the edge of the sandwich with a spatula to check for doneness. The color indicated it was time to flip.
“Despite all your brain trauma, these are very good.” She continued to examine his drawings as if they were more than scribbles. “Is this what you do for a living?”
It might have been, if he’d had any focus when he was young. Since joining the family business six years ago, there had been no time for any other type of work. “It’s just a hobby.”
“Do you have any of your pieces here?”
“Dining room table and chairs. Couple of end tables. These cabinets.”
“Wow.” Her gaze roamed the kitchen. “I was struggling not to fondle your cabinets when I came in.”
“You’re welcome to fondle anything of mine that strikes your fancy.”
“Mm. I think I will.” She glided toward him... and then stepped around to trail her fingers over the pearl molding that bordered the center panel of an overhead cabinet.
“Tease.”
“Degenerate.” She apologized for her previous neglect by wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back. “This is a million-dollar showplace kitchen.”
He’d lived with it in shambles for four years while he worked on one door at a time. It was nice to hear it looked all right from someone who wasn’t simply grateful the dishwasher no longer sat in the middle of the floor and emptied into the sink through a garden hose. “Slightly less than that without the cost of labor.”
He turned off the burner and slid the sandwich onto a plate.
Her arms slid away. “Mom will love whatever you make for her.”
Something in his chest unraveled at her words, and he wanted to call her back to hold him together. It was one thing to impress Ivy. It was another entirely for her to declare his work good enough for someone she loved. With the former, his work was done; the latter damned him with the responsibility of measuring up to her expectations.
So many people could tell her that wasn’t one of his skills.
At least he made a hell of a grilled cheese. He cut the sandwich in half diagonally and delivered the plate to her at the island. “Sorry I can’t offer you fried ravioli.”
“Well, you can’t be perfect at every — oh my god.” She slumped over the counter, holding aloft a toast triangle with one bite taken off the tip.
Maybe she was allergic to oregano. “Are you okay?”
She looked up at him through a tangle of hair, eyes dark and hot. “Screw the ravioli. This tastes like mozzarella sticks. In your own home. Without a vat of grease and crumbs to clean up.”
He took a bite and agreed he was a culinary genius. “Yup.”
She had another nibble, circling her tongue to catch a string of cheese, and made a lit
tle whimper of joy. “Why didn’t I ever think of this?”
“Because you’re an adult with a sophisticated palate.”
Her nose scrunched. “There you go again, being extraordinarily bad at filling in blanks.”
“You have one blank I fill pretty well.” Half a sandwich appeared sufficiently invigorating for what he had in mind.
She looked at her last bite with fervor that made him jealous. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Add missing a sexual innuendo to the list of things he didn’t believe about her. “Come with me. I’ll show you where it is.”
He ushered her through the living room, turning on lights as he went.
“You did not make that.”
The entertainment center of which she spoke was a monstrosity left behind by the previous owner, probably more because of its ungainliness than its considerable unsightliness. Griff thought about replacing it every time he looked at it, but he didn’t have the hours to undertake a project of that magnitude. “I did not.”
“Oh, good. That would have been awkward if I was wrong.” She popped the last bit of fried bread in her mouth.
He herded her down the hallway, turning on that light, as well. If she was curious, let her look and damn the electric bill.
He turned on the bedroom light so he could look.
“Ooh, did you make the headboard?”
He wanted that rapt attention on him. He put his hands on her hips and twisted her to face him. “Ivy.”
She looked up at him with big, guileless eyes as she sucked traces of butter off her fingertips. “Shouldn’t we wait an hour after we eat before exerting ourselves?”
He flattened his hands against her back and pressed her against him. “We shouldn’t eat cookie dough, either, but rules aren’t for people like us, Duchess.”
Her expression grew serious. “Do you have cookie dough?”
He smiled against her neck before kissing the little hollow behind her ear.
“I’m not kidding, Griff. If you’re holding out on me...”
“I’m beginning to wonder if you only like me for my food and furniture.” He tried her zipper again. This time, the resistance lasted only a moment before surrendering with a sigh.
Her spine curved under his fingertips, bending toward him. “My three favorite things about you, in ascending order of admirability at this moment, are your food, your furniture, and your fucking.”
She lingered over the initial consonant only with the latter, as if savoring the feel of the word in her mouth.
He would never grow tired of the way she said it. “Say it again.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“Oh. You mean fff—”
The instant she released her lower lip from between her teeth, he took it in his. A soft huh was all the follow through she could manage, which wouldn’t do.
“Say it.” When she put her fingers over his lips to keep them away from hers, he nibbled at those instead. “Say it.”
“Fuck me.”
He hiked her up so her legs went around his waist — a mistake only because it put her in the position to flick off the light switch with her toes.
That was twice she’d enforced a lights-off policy. If Griff did nothing else for her, it would be curing her of the fear of being looked at that plagued too many women. They didn’t want to be seen unless everything was perfect and pretty and forfeited their chance to lay a man out by letting him see how he made them pink and wet and bouncy.
He wanted to see Ivy pink and wet and bouncy, but not enough to postpone getting her in his bed by arguing about it.
She would simply have to compensate for his visual impairment by appealing to his sense of hearing.
With minimal encouragement, she kept up a running commentary, list of demands, and increasingly breathless cries. When her limbs went loose and her fingers clenched and she finally fell speechless, he drove into her until her fingernails scraping the base of his spine made his balls empty into another condom and tore a curse from his lips.
He lowered himself to the bed beside her, feeling every minute of his age. Two rounds of sex in an hour was the purview of a college kid. He’d need an IV and a mobility scooter to get out of bed now.
Ivy had no respect for his infirmity. She slid her hand from beneath his neck and untangled her legs from his before sitting on the edge of the bed.
He hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her back toward the center of the mattress. She was warm and soft, comforting to his ancient bones. “Stay.”
She dragged the edge of the comforter over her body, as if even the gilded outline of sweet curves cast in shadow by the hall light was too much for his eyes. Her head resting on his chest softened the rejection only slightly. “I was under the impression the nature of this arrangement was you didn’t want to deal with me in the morning.”
“I don’t recall saying anything of the sort.”
“It was implied with the lack of flowers and teddy bears.” She rubbed the underside of his jaw with the backs of her fingers. “I found another scar.”
“That’s not difficult.”
“What’s this one’s story?”
He embellished the tale only slightly. “I fell out of the handsome tree and hit every branch on the way down.”
“Luckily, there was a pile of humility below to break your fall.” She shifted to kiss the old wound. “Don’t sacrifice your ignoble principles now because you’re too lazy to get out of bed once you’re in it. I’ll call a cab.”
She was fantastically accommodating. A smart man would allow her to be the perfect date and show herself the door.
He sat up despite his body’s protests. “No, you won’t. I’ll get my lazy ass out of bed and take you home.”
“It’s fine. I don’t—”
He put his hand over her perfect, pretty mouth. “This was fun. I believe my chances of doing it again sometime will be improved by not being that dickhead who made you call a cab to get home.”
She poked at his palm with her tongue until he removed his hand — eventually, when he was done marveling at how exquisitely sensitive that hardened skin was when plied with little wet swirls. “When you put it that way, grudging chivalry does seem a shrewd course of action.”
She rose, stepped into her discarded dress, and pulled it up while walking from his bedroom. She’d been wearing nothing else.
Damn, efficiency was sexy.
He followed her to the kitchen a minute later, settling a T-shirt over his belly to meet the sweatpants he’d thrown on.
She had zipped her dress only to the sticky part, leaving the top pleasantly unrestricted when she bent to put the plate in the empty dishwasher. “Thank you for the breaded cheese.”
“Any time.”
Her lipstick was still absent, but her lips had been kissed rosy and plump. She glanced at him and pinched them together to restrain a smile.
His bedhead must be epic. “What?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s forbidden to say these words to a man.”
“If calling me a lazy degenerate isn’t out of bounds, I’m dying to know what is.” He circled her waist with one arm and pulled her close. “Don’t make me Heimlich it out of you. I’ve had it done. It’s not pleasant.”
“I’m not surprised. What did you choke on?”
“A restaurant promised a free meal if you could eat their monster steak in an hour. It was tough, and I didn’t want to waste time chewing, which may have been a slight error in judgment.”
Her chest rose and fell with one of those polite sighs that tried not to call attention to itself. “Did you win, at least?”
“I was disqualified because they wouldn’t let me eat the piece on the floor because of ‘health code violations.’ It was obviously rigged, and stop trying to distract me.”
“I’m sorry you lost a stupid dare.” Gentle fingers combed unruly hair back from his forehead. “You’re adorable.”
“I know.” He made a halfhearted attempt to return the grooming favor, but his hand seemed more inclined to muss her hair than smooth it. “Tell me the forbidden words, woman.”
Her eyes widened. “That was it. Aren’t you offended?”
Was adorable supposed to make him feel like a child or something? A gorgeous woman petting him could use any words she wanted to tell him she liked his looks. “You were moaning my name ten minutes ago. You could put a bow in my hair and call me Suzie without threatening my manhood.”
She twirled a lock of his hair around her finger and gave a light tug. “If that’s what you’re into, Suze, I’m sure there’s a ribbon in the Bag of Infinite Holding.”
“I’m into you.” He put his hand on her ass and left it there while he pushed her toward the door. “Now get out of my house.”
She laughed as she abided by the eviction, and Griff nearly repeated the plea to stay. His fragile masculinity wasn’t supposed to be able to withstand being laughed at, either, but why the hell wouldn’t he want her to have fun with him? The last thing he wanted was to be taken seriously. That road ended in disappointment for all who traveled it.
He’d taken himself seriously once — more seriously than the woman had. It ended badly.
He took the safety of her little pink toes seriously, however. “Don’t go into the garage with bare feet. You’ll get splinters.”
She saluted, slipped on her shoes, and got out of his house with a brisk click-clack-click.
He locked up and got behind the wheel. As he backed the car out of the driveway, he asked, “Where to?”
Her mouth puckered to one side. “I suppose it’s more practical to go home,” she said, almost to herself.
Where else would—? Shit. Stranding her had been the last thing on his mind when he shoved her into his car, thoughtless sack of hormones that he was. “Your car is still at the restaurant.”
“At work, actually. Home is closer.”
“I’ll take you as far as you want to go.” When she seemed reluctant to elaborate, he prompted, “I need a bearing, Ivy.”