Stud in the Stacks

by Pippa Grant

  I can’t form words. They just won’t come.

  Instead, I kiss him. I kiss him like he’s my sun, moon, and stars, because he is.

  His hands are all over me, on my breasts, my ribs, my ass, firing my nerve endings through my thin cotton tank and jeans. I paw at his T-shirt and rub my hands up his hard, solid chest while he devours my mouth and I match him stroke for stroke with my tongue.

  When I snap the button on his jeans, he wrenches out of the kiss with a groan to take my face in his hands. “You’ll keep me?” he pants.

  His hair’s sticking up at odd angles, that perfect hard ridge pressing into my belly, but his eyes—oh, his eyes.

  Desperate and hopeful and searching, like I’m his sun, moon, and stars. As if all his light depends on having me by his side.

  “Yes.”

  His mouth crushes mine again, hard and needy, and then I’m on my back on the couch, and we’re pulling my jeans off, and then his mouth—ohmygod, that talented mouth—and his fingers—ooh, that’s new, and yes yes yes more more more—and my hooha’s throbbing and my nipples ache and I’m coiled so hard and tight deep in my core that every stroke of his tongue in my pussy and flick against my clit lifts me higher and higher until I’m coming all over the place, and he’s telling me I’m beautiful and sexy and fucking irresistible, and then he’s sliding into me with all of his long, hard, thick length, mine, filling me and stretching me and thrusting and rocking my already over-sensitive lady bits, and oh holy fuck I’m coming again, clenching hard and fast, over and over, while he groans out his own release, and I don’t want this to end because this—the two of us, together—is so much more than everything I thought I could ever hope for.

  He collapses on top of me. We’re both straining for air, and I want to hold him so tight he can never move again, except my arms are like wet noodles and it’s all I can do to fling one around his back.

  “I love you,” I whisper.

  “Fuck, Parker, I love you so much.”

  We lay there, panting for another minute, his weight solid and comforting, his hot breath tickling my skin. And slowly, he starts to chuckle.

  The vibrations light up my hooha, that lusty wench. I run my fingers through his thick hair. “What?”

  “We need to go ring shopping.”

  My belly flips inside out, and tears sting my eyes.

  “No rush.” He kisses my shoulder. “But I’m going to marry you, Parker Parker Elliott. One day, I’m going to marry you.”

  “We should probably go apartment shopping too. Your bed won’t fit in mine, and you know I don’t share.”

  Oh, fuck.

  I just said that out loud, didn’t I?

  But he’s laughing again, and I can’t help smiling.

  I think this man understands me.

  For that alone, I could love him forever.

  In fact, I think I will.

  Epilogue

  Knox

  Four weeks after Parker agreed—after much begging and supplication on my behalf—to be my for-real fiancée, we’re once again back in the land of screaming children, bouncy castles, tacos and ponycorn rides. Because Steph is Steph, she’s procured another unicorn blanket similar to the one that Parker and I refuse to return to her, and I’m on my eighty-billionth pass on my hands and knees over the Goldfish-and-crushed-gummies-dusted carpet, this time with mostly three-year-olds begging for rides since it’s my middle niece’s turn for the birthday party.

  I deliver one last kid safely back to her parents and declare it time for ponycorn to fuel up on unicorn poop.

  What I really want is to kiss my Parker.

  On my way into the food room, I pass my brother holding his youngest at arm’s length. Riley’s apparently laid a stink bomb in her diaper. “Hey, Uncle Knox—” Troy starts.

  “Ponycorn’s off duty,” I inform him with a suck it up, Buttercup grin.

  I find Parker helping Steph set out today’s taco bar. “Swear to God, I love Troy, but some days I wish I’d met Knox first,” Steph’s saying. “He would’ve just changed the damn diaper. Can the man not see that I’m trying to feed eighty people?”

  “They think women have sixteen hands,” Nana declares. “But the only sixteen-handed woman I know of is in that Buck Tick—”

  “Aaah!” Mom clamps a hand over Nana’s mouth and glares at me. “This is your fault.”

  “You were the one who got her a smart phone,” I counter.

  “And you’re the one who’s making her move in with me.”

  Nana grins. “She just doesn’t want to admit she loves B—mmph!”

  I slip behind Parker and wrap my arms around her waist, pressing a kiss to her crown. “Worth it for the tacos?” I ask.

  “And for all the good stories about the places you got your winkie stuck when you were a kid.”

  “It’s always been my most fascinating feature.”

  Mom and Nana both groan, Steph grunts, and Parker laughs. “I can totally see why,” she tells me, which prompts more groans and grunts and a few covered ears.

  Crazy to think this is the same woman who propositioned me outside a bachelor auction not even two months ago.

  “Tacos are on,” Steph announces.

  The natives smell the blood and move in, and chaos explodes around the room. I battle the masses for a chili lime mango taco for my beloved, and we sneak into one of the bouncy castles while the shrieking half-pints go Lord of the Tacos for the cheese and unseasoned beef in the party room.

  “Doing okay?” I ask Parker as we hide deep in the large—and now empty—room.

  She nods over her taco. “I’m becoming desensitized. And the mild hearing loss helps.”

  I grin and steal a bite.

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” she says suddenly.

  I lift a brow.

  “Change diapers,” she clarifies.

  “Would and have.”

  Two thoughtful lines crinkle between her brows. “And take time off for doctor visits and sick kid days?”

  There’s a warm ache starting behind my breastbone. “What’s on your mind, jungle Jane?”

  She squeezes my leg. “You have really good genes.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  That amused eye roll is followed by a sweet Parker kiss. She loves my bad lines, and I know it.

  “The storage closet is empty,” I tell her.

  “Stay out of the storage closet, and keep your clothes on in there.” Troy passes through outside the bouncy house with a less-loaded-down Riley. “We almost couldn’t come back here, Uncle Knox.”

  Parker goes red and gives me the shut up right now look, which, of course, I ignore. Because I like making things up to her later. “Research,” I call to my brother through the netting. “Official library duties.”

  He’s shaking his head as he wades into the preschool pandemonium. I move the taco plate off Parker’s lap and rub her leg. “You were saying?” I murmur in her ear.

  She sucks in a huge breath. I know that breath. She’s looking for her courage. Which makes her next words all that much sweeter. “That maybe one wouldn’t be so bad.”

  My entire body’s buzzing. I’d take her without babies—she’s my Parker Parker Elliott—but with babies, my heart just might burst. “One party?”

  “Don’t make fun. And I’m old, you know. It might not work. And even I know I can’t be fifty years old and still playing boy band songs at a juice bar every Saturday night. Some other younger, cuter girl band will come along and cover Ed Sheeran and poof, we’ll be washed up old hags, and—”

  I kiss her before she can finish that statement, and I’m giving serious consideration to taking her right here. I’ll quit work if I have to. Stay home and raise the babies. My blog’s gotten even bigger in the last month, and we’re expanding with advertising. Lila’s boss approved a Mr. Romance imprint with their new publishing house, and they’re paying me to comb through submissions and recommend acquisitions.

  And in t
he interest of balance, I cut down my hours at the library to just a few hours a week. Long enough to help out all the moms and nannies who come for baby and toddler story times.

  We can both have jobs we love, and hobbies, and kids too.

  “I love you,” I tell her.

  She runs her fingers through my hair. “I would only do this for you.”

  “We’re going to have so much fun, Parker Parker Elliott.”

  She smiles that big beautiful smile. “Oh, Tarzan. We already do.”

  Thanks for reading! Want some bonus epilogues, including an epic book club meeting and a horrifically embarrassing surprise Parker cooks up for Knox involving that loincloth? Click here to register for the Pipster Report, and I’ll send them to you!

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  Books by Pippa Grant

  Mister McHottie (Chase & Ambrosia)

  Stud in the Stacks (Parker & Knox)

  Exes and Ho Ho Hos (Jake and Kaitlyn)

  The Pilot and the Puck-Up (Zeus and Joey)

  And more…

  Excerpt from The Pilot and the Puck-Up by Pippa Grant…

  Chapter 1

  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.

  “Gentlemen.” A half-british, half-ice king voice intrudes on our private party before we reach the food table. Never met the dude in person before—all our shit-talking happened over the phone—but I’ve seen his picture and I know his stepsister. “And… I’m sorry, madam, it seems I’ve missed your name.”

  Like Chase, he’s tall and beefy enough for a regular dude—comes from some friggin’ cold northern Atlantic nation with enough sheep for his own harem—but Ares and I are towering over him too.

  “This is Ambrosia,” Chase offers. “I have terrible taste in women.”

  “Lick my tits,” I say to Chase before I grab the fucker and rub his face between my coconuts.

  Ares grins.

  Chase pinches my ass and I let him go. Two more servers do an about-face and scurry away with their trays of little vegetable appetizers that apparently pass as food at these things.

  “You can call me The Goddess,” I tell the prince.

  Manning Frey’s royal features split into a grin as he rocks back on his heels. Where I’m in a girdle, size 18 fuck-me pumps, and coconuts, he’s in some tan suit and white shirt getup that was probably picked for him by some royal ninny. “Overselling ourselves, are we?”

  I like the fucker already. Not because he owes me ten grand, but because I’ve got a feeling he’d be a good companion in his own coconut bra and minidress if we wanted to crash another snooty function tonight. “Not if a pansy-ass like you passes as a prince. I’m still taking home the hottest girl here tonight.”

  He juts his chin up, grin going wider. “You’re going to get a woman. While you’re dressed like that.”

  Yeah, I know what it looks like. Me and Ares, we’re the biggest mother puckers to ever strap on skates and wield sticks in the NHL. I’m sprouting a five o’clock shadow before I’m done shaving every morning. Each one of my thighs is the size of one of those European sissy cars. Solid muscle too. My ma calls us big-boned. My sister calls us overgrown apes. I make one ugly-ass woman.

  “Damn fucking right,” I tell Prince Manning anyway. Because you don’t get to be the biggest, hairiest, most feared badass on the ice by owning up to your shortcomings. No, I bear my teeth at those fuckers and take them down. If you ain’t got your balls, you ain’t got anything. “I’m gonna make her switch sides, then when we get back to my hotel room, I’m gonna make her switch back, and I’m gonna rock her fucking world.”

  “As completely wrong as that sounds, I’ve seen him do it before,” Chase says.

  Ares grunts an agreement, even though both of them know I’m full of shit and I know they’re each looking forward to watching me fail. I share a look with my twin.

  You’re such a fucking dumbass, his says, because he knows it’s biologically impossible for any woman in this stuffy, exclusive clubhouse to seriously be attracted to me like this. I flunked biology, and I still know it too.

  Two words, my look replies. Endorsement. Dollars.

  I don’t give two shits if I score a chick tonight. I score plenty, on and off the ice, and everyone knows it.

  The other thing everyone knows?

  Zeus Berger doesn’t back down from a challenge. And I smell a challenge coming on.

  “Care to put some money on that?” Manning says, right on time.

  “Double or nothing,” I reply. Win or lose, no man w
ill ever say I didn’t put my heart in it. And I’ve got my winning personality on my side. I might be ugly, but I’m not out.

  Ares snickers again.

  “Go on and pick the girl,” I tell Manning. “Wouldn’t want you to think I planned this.”

  He rubs a hand over his dark blond beard while he scans the room. “I’m beginning to see why Willow speaks so ambiguously of you.”

  “That means she only half-likes us,” I translate for Ares. “Probably intimidated by our awesomeness.”

  “Or the fact that you threatened her fiancé with a ten-pound wheel of moldy cheddar,” Chase muses.

  “Fucker needs to put his foot down with his mother.”

  “On that, we’re in complete agreement,” Manning says crisply. He stops and nods toward the wall of windows overlooking the golf course with the Blue Ridge Mountains to the west. “Her.”

  I squint, because that half of the room is backlit by the light glaring in. “The chick who just shoved her finger into Levi Wilson’s beer bottle?”

  Ares perks up. “Boy band Levi?”

  “Aw, shit, Bro’s gonna be pissed she missed this,” Chase mutters.

  That’s right—my sister is a boy band ho. Got a thing for Levi’s old band, Bro Code—which she swears is a total coincidence, considering Chase has called her Bro since we were kids, a nickname she claimed to hate until she realized how much she liked Chase.

  “Not the beer bottle-finger,” Manning says. “The woman with her.”

  I shift my attention from the woman trying to shake a beer bottle off her finger while obviously stuttering apologies to the world’s reigning pop rock god, and a familiar beat takes up residence in my pulse.

  Long, dark hair. Tall. She’s built—not heavy, but not turn-sideways-and-she’d-disappear slender either. She’s in pants that accentuate her curves and a no-nonsense blouse that can’t hide her rack. Even in the backlight, there’s a feline grace to her movements as she efficiently grabs her companion’s arm, neatly twists the stuck bottle off her friend’s finger, and hands it back to Levi Wilson.