Live and Let Grow

by Penny Reid

  He lifted my skirt, his fingers once more hooking into the waistband of my underwear before he tugged it down. I reached for him, wanting to touch him, feel his weight above me, but Milo retreated, watching the fabric slide along my legs, his expression dazed.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” he whispered, giving me the impression that he’d meant to think the words, not say them out loud. His eyes darted to mine, searching, the first flicker of uncertainty cutting through the haze of passion. “What are you thinking?”

  My tongue flicked out to lick my lips, nerves and anticipation twisting together. I told myself not to let my gaze stray to his body. I told myself not to be distracted by the dazzling display of manly perfection that was Milo Manganiello. He was . . . God. Damn. He was so hot. And faced with the reality of him, who he was, I could see now that I’d been ignoring his beauty for years in favor of his mind and his heart.

  I’d had his mind and his heart. He’d just confessed they’d been mine all along. I knew that now.

  But his body . . .

  “Alice,” he whispered on a hitching breath, climbing over me slowly, the full weight and intensity of his gaze on my face, searching. “What are you thinking?”

  My thoughts? I couldn’t give voice to them. They felt too sharp, too clumsy.

  I love you.

  I’m in love with you.

  I can’t believe this is happening either.

  Please, never leave me. Never hurt me.

  No, I couldn’t say any of that. Not yet.

  But I did ask, “Why?” choking on the word and my emotions. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Milo’s chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the emerald of his gaze growing darker. “You weren’t mine and I didn’t want to lose you,” he said, his eyes closing as his forehead fell to the mattress. “Fuck, Alice. I can’t lose you.”

  “You have me,” I said, turning my head to kiss his neck, draw his earlobe into my mouth, my hands shaking as they touched his sides, his back, then smoothed down to his bare hips.

  “Do I?” The question sounded strangled, and he lifted his head again. He supported his weight on one arm and his other hand moved between my legs. As soon as he touched me, as soon as his finger sought and found my center, we both sucked in a breath, the crown of my head pressing against the mattress. “Do I have you?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Always.” The words were more than a breath but less than a whisper. I couldn’t think because he was stroking me, his hot, heavy erection pressing against the inside of my thigh.

  Holding my stare, his lit with renewed hunger but also desperation. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” I managed, my hands kneading his body, grabbing as my hips rolled, seeking more of his touch. “Milo,” I whimpered, lifting my chin to take his mouth.

  He withheld it even as his stomach muscles flexed in a lithe movement, making me wild, removing his hand and positioning himself at my entrance. “Do you need me like I need you?”

  I tried to swallow but I couldn’t, my throat didn’t work, and I barely managed to croak out, “You know I do. I’m—I’m so in love with you.”

  Milo’s eyes widened, his lips parting in what looked like surprise, and then his mouth fastened to mine. He filled me with a forceful stroke. He groaned. I gasped, exposing my throat, my body arching, straining to meet his.

  God. It felt so good. He felt so good. So good. He felt like heaven. His body heavy, hot, strong, demanding. His eyes cherishing and greedy. Lifting himself, he tugged down the strap of my bra and my fumbling fingers helped, unhooking the clasp at the front. He cursed, looking almost angry as his eyes blazed over my lips, chin, neck, and breasts.

  “You are so fucking beautiful,” he said, sounding breathless.

  “So are you.” I tilted my hips, feeling as though I might go mad with the slow, measured friction.

  Something inside him seemed to settle at the mindless nature of my words and he lowered himself again, capturing my lips once more, the slide of his tongue an echo of his invasion. This time I shuddered as he plunged deeper, harder, his mouth voracious and skilled.

  I was so close, racing toward my crisis. My blood pumping hot and thick, heat pooling low in my abdomen, a heavy knot, my mind barely keeping up with the reality of what we were doing, what was happening.

  “I love you,” I whispered between his greedy kisses, the words cracking, arriving broken. So much feeling, so many hopes and wishes I’d been too afraid to share. I closed my eyes, again overwhelmed, and fighting tears I couldn’t name.

  “Oh God, Alice. I’m—” He spoke through gritted teeth, his hand moving from my hip to the front of my body, his thumb stroking in time with his thrusts, and I lost all ability to think or breathe. My body took over, my hips pivoting gracelessly as stars burst behind my eyes, a cry rang from my throat, and the pooling, twisting heat in my abdomen swelled and surged, a torrent of pleasure and pain and heaven and bliss.

  I knew he was also coming, his hands grasping, his mouth swallowing my cries as a feral-sounding groan tore out of him. I felt the riotous thrum and thump of Milo’s heart against my breast as he moved, his strokes rough and covetous, his thighs flexing as he pushed me up the bed until he slowed and stilled.

  Kissing me, he rolled to his side, bringing me with him, wrapping me in his strong arms and holding me as though I might escape or disappear. In truth, I felt so fucking awesome, happy and satisfied and used and replete, I might’ve been in danger of floating away had he not anchored my body to his.

  Separating our lips, he settled my cheek against his chest, and we took a moment to catch our breath. All at once I became aware his fingers were in my hair at my temple, sifting through it softly, reverently. His other hand stroked up and down my body in a languid movement, as though petting me, and it felt so good, so necessary. I stretched like a cat and sighed happily.

  But he was silent. And I couldn’t discern if he was content or troubled, and the not knowing plagued me.

  He said he loves you, he’s in love with you. Relax. I felt myself tense.

  You know him. He’s your best friend. Calm down. My mind was in chaos.

  Abruptly, I wondered if he regretted it, and I hated the thought. But it wouldn’t go away. He’d left me, ignored me, gave away all his plants—all our plants—and what if—

  “Alice. What are you thinking?” Milo’s voice sounded gravelly, rough, maybe a little stern.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Slowly, I felt him draw back, push me away just a little. “Look at me.”

  By force of will alone, I opened my eyes, but I couldn’t lift them higher than the perfection of his tanned neck. “I want—” I started, stopped, sucked in a breath for courage around my heart lodged in my throat, and tried again. “I want you to get those plants back.”

  Milo held perfectly still, and I felt the weight of his stare. Inhaling another deep breath, I lifted my eyes to his, bracing myself. But when our gazes met, his was so warm, so loving.

  The side of his mouth hitched, and he nodded, threading his fingers through mine and bringing them to his lips. “I will buy you a whole greenhouse of houseplants. I will buy you a whole damn farm if you want. If you agree to marry me.”

  Tears stung my eyes, my heart swelling in my chest, and I returned his slow spreading smile, nodding before I was fully aware what I was doing. “A whole damn farm?” I asked, laughing a little.

  “That’s right. A whole damn farm,” he confirmed, his eyes liquid with emotion, open and earnest. “In exchange for promising me forever and never letting me go.”

  Instead of answering with words, and because now he was mine—mind, heart, and body—I kissed him. And I never let him go.

  *THE END*

  About the Author

  Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days
writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.

  Come find me -

  Mailing List: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/

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  Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/smartypantsromance

  Email: pennreid@gmail.com …hey, you! Email me ;-)

  * * *

  Read on for:

  1. A Sneak Peek of Penny’s upcoming release Homecoming King, Book #1 in the Three Kings series

  2. Penny’s Booklist

  Sneak Peek: Homecoming King, Three Kings Book #1

  Chapter 1

  *Abby*

  “To bang, or not to bang? That is the question.”

  Frowning at the empty highball glass I’d just set down, I debated how to best respond to my friend’s noteworthy dilemma. “Are we talking about a guy? If so, I recommend making a pro / con list.”

  “No. My hair.” She tugged on the tips of her tresses, tossing her bag to the stool at her left but not removing her jacket. “I love your bangs—love love love them.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” I set a second highball glass next to the first and shoveled ice into both, checking my watch.

  Kaylee was an hour early, not that I minded. She usually shuffled in ten minutes before closing on the nights she had custody of our car, already wearing her pajamas and a silk bonnet on her head. By then Walker, my boss, would be playing Never Gonna Give You Up by Rick Astley over the bar’s speakers. He had this automated to happen every night, four times in a row, even when he wasn’t here. It was his way of driving out the stragglers.

  Currently, a herald of the season, Run Run Rudolph by Luke Bryan, reverberated from overhead even though Thanksgiving wasn’t for another week. But it was cold enough outside to see my breath, and little clouds with every exhale always made it feel like the holidays to me.

  “I’m tired of this haircut.” Now Kaylee tossed her long hair over her shoulder, sliding into the stool adjacent to the one holding her bag.

  I gave Kaylee’s hair a quick once-over. I liked her hair just fine, so I said, “I like your haircut.”

  “Thank you. I like it, too.”

  Closing my right eye, I peered at her through just the left. “If you like your hair, then why change it? Why change something if you like it?”

  “Because I’ve had this haircut since law school.”

  “You just graduated.” Giving the liquor my full attention, I poured two ounces of gin in one glass, then the other.

  “No I didn’t.” Her tone told me she thought I was a nut. “I graduated three years ago.”

  “Has it been that long?” That can’t be right. Three years? Had it already been three years?

  “Yes. And just because something is working, doesn’t mean something else might not work better. How will I know what or who the best version of myself is if I never change? If I never try something new?”

  “Or—and just hear me out—you could keep a haircut you already like and use this restless energy to try something extra. Enrich yo-self.” I reached for the tonic tap.

  “Says the woman who has no concept of the passage of time and lives like a mole.”

  “Hey, moles are blind. My vision?” I pointed to my eyes using my index and middle finger. “I have twenty-ten vision, baby.” I topped off the highball glasses with tonic from the spout.

  Kaylee tapped her fingernails on the surface of the bar. “When was the last time you were up before two in the afternoon?”

  “So, you’re saying I’m nocturnal? Moles aren’t nocturnal. If you’re going to compare me to a nocturnal animal, then use an owl.” I mimicked talons with my fingers. “One of those big, badass owls, who see everything because they can turn their head around in a circle like that nice, misunderstood girl from The Exorcist. I am a third person narrator in a novel. I am—”

  “You are not omniscient.” She giggled, reaching over the bar for the cherries.

  I smacked her hand before she could touch the condiment dish. “Don’t do that. It’s unsanitary.”

  Sitting back and sulking at my successful defense of the cherries, Kaylee crossed her arms. “So what should I do? Take an art class?” Her tone sounded crisp with disdain. “Next thing you’ll suggest is yoga. Why does everyone always suggest art and yoga?”

  “Well, I’m not going to suggest freebasing if that’s what you were hoping for.” Spearing lime wedges with toothpicks, I tossed them in the glasses and carried the drinks to the server pickup just a few feet away. I caught Ingrid’s eye across the room to let her know the gin and tonics were ready for table six.

  All current customers had been served, the gin and tonics were the last orders of the late-night rush. None of our regulars were in the habit of popping by in the middle of the week after midnight. Basically, unless an unexpected crowd ventured in from the cold for a night cap, I was more or less done for the evening.

  “At least the suggestion of freebasing would’ve been unexpected.” Kaylee tapped her long nails against the top of the bar, glancing towards the office. “Is Mr. Sexy Bossman here? Wearing those real nice bootcut jeans and erotic flannel shirts?”

  I squinted in warning and meandered back to her. “Walker is not here tonight, and you know he’s married.”

  More than once, I’d had to pretend to be Walker’s daughter when customers became aggressively amorous. Technically, he wasn’t old enough to be my dad, but they always bought the ruse. There was just something about him that made folks tip big and lose their morals. Maybe it was his crooked smile. Maybe it was his authentic Texas drawl. Even his big, fat wedding ring didn’t seem to discourage them. It was like they took the platinum band as a challenge.

  “Still married?” Her mouth dropped open. “To that scientist lady? How did that even happen? They make no sense. Forget it, maybe I will try freebasing.”

  Noting that table four and seven were in the midst of packing up their things, I admitted, “I’ll be honest, I’m not even sure what freebasing is.”

  “You wouldn’t. But I submit for your consideration: art, yoga, journaling, turmeric, veganism, and green tea—the sum total of suggestions for ‘trying something new’ that are socially acceptable because everyone has to be enlightened in order to pass the bar for self-actualization.” She lifted her eyes heavenward. “What if I don’t want to be self-actualized? If I wanted to yoga, I would’ve yogaed already.”

  I smiled at my friend’s haughty rant and studied her. Kaylee’s dark eyebrows were pulled together such that two deep wrinkles appeared between them, and her mouth slanted with a frown, but I thought she still looked amazing. Her long, light brown hair was down and styled in waves, makeup painted the contours of her face, and she wore a tight, white shirt beneath her jacket that showcased the confidence she had in the shape of her body.

  Distracted by her attire, I asked, “Where did you come from? Work?”

  “No. Home.” She reached over the bar, lightning fast this time, and plucked a cherry out of the condiment tray.

  I narrowed my eyes on her. “I said, don’t do that. It’s unsanitary.”

  “Whatever happened to going out for a beer? Watching a football game? You are my only normal friend,” Kaylee fretted, ignoring my scolding and popping the cherry into her mouth. She reserved the stem to twist between her fingers.

  “Nash likes football.”

  “Ex-boyfriends don’t count. Why must everyone insist that I live their version of my best life? Why, in this entire world, are you the only one of my female friends who isn’t suggesting quinoa and meditation? What if my best life is pulled pork and video games?”

  “This is not true. You have plenty of femal
e friends who are not of this opinion. Plus, you don’t like video games and I thought I was a mole-woman.” I loved Kaylee, but she had a tendency to get carried away by the emotion an idea inspired—like, say, rage—rather than look at all the facts. In short, she loved to react.

  “It’s like they enjoy being miserable,” she continued raving like I hadn’t spoken, “and then being smug about the depths of their enlightened misery.”

  Laughing, I leaned against the counter behind me. “Maybe these people are not miserable. Maybe they do sincerely love quinoa and meditation.”

  “Impossible.” She dismissed my statement with a flick of her wrist.

  “And maybe you should stop judging other people’s life choices.”

  “You always say that. But one day, I’ll be a judge, and then it’ll be my job. I need to practice being judgmental now so I’ll be ready when the time comes.” Kaylee grinned.

  “Okay, your honor, smug enlightened misery aside, I just don’t understand wanting to change something about yourself you already like. If you like your hair, don’t change it. If you don’t like your hair, have at it.”

  The song switched to Frank Sinatra’s version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas just as the bell over the front door jingled, announcing one or more new customers.

  “Be with you in a sec.” I called without looking toward the sound, keeping my eyes on Kaylee as I reached for a few drink menus and cocktail napkins.

  “See, I knew you’d say that, too.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Your statements are unsurprising, and I am unsurprised by your unsurprisingness.”