Page 136 of Tempting Wyatt
Her fingers claw at my shirt, yanking me closer, and I groan against her lips, grinding my hips into hers.
“Say it, Ivy.”
She shakes her head, breathless.
I nip at her jaw, her throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “Say there are strings. Admit it to yourself at least. I have.”
She shudders, arching into me. “Fine. We have strings. So many damn strings.”
I grip her ass tightly, pulling her against my hard cock. “There you go, angel. Doesn’t that feel better to admit?”
She shakes her head. “It feels. . . scary.”
“No need to be scared. You’re safe with me.”
“You promise?” The vulnerable girl in her stares openly into my eyes. She wants to believe me but she’s not sure yet.
I kiss her more gently than before. “I promise, angel.”
I vow, in that moment, to do my best to make her a believer. Slowly, I strip her down, unbuttoning the shirt of mine she’s wearing while kissing every inch of her bare skin as I go. After lowering her jeans to the floor, I kneel and lift her left leg onto my shoulder, tasting her until she’s writhing and begging, until her nails bite into my shoulders and my name is a broken cry on her lips. Over and over, along with a symphony of, “Yes, please,” and, “Wyatt.”
When I finally lay her out on my bed and sink into her, when she gasps and clenches around me, it’s not just sex. Not just a way to work through the frustration and tension.
It’s not temporary.
There’s no more expiration date.
It’s a promise.
That she’smine.
If I have to live part of my life in California, I’ll be damned if I ever have to be the sad, sorry motherfucker who has to see what her ex did today. Another man claiming what I lost.
Our hands clasp above her head as I drive my body purposely in and out of hers. I don’t speak the words with my lips because they’re busy worshipping hers.
So I tell her how I feel with every part of me.
IVY IS STILL SLEEPING peacefullybeside me when I blink myself awake hours later. The alarm clock on the dresser and my growling stomach let me know it’s past dinner time. The setting sun casts a golden glow across the bed. Ivy’s wild curls are splayed on the pillow beside me.She’s so damn gorgeous that she steals my breath, even in her sleep. Her warm, feminine, honeyed scent perfumes the sheets between us.
I lost count of how many times we made love and how many times she cried out my name while coming on my cock. And my tongue.
Doing my best not to disturb her, I slide out of the bed and head to the bathroom. Once I’ve handled the necessities and washed up a bit, I make my way to the kitchen.
Deciding to make her breakfast for dinner, mostly because that’s what I have the ingredients for, I start the coffee and dig out the fixings for pancakes. I don’t cook often, but pancakes and sausage patties I can manage.
I check the pantry to make sure I have maple syrup for her. I only put peanut butter on mine, but I know that’s not typical. I place the syrup, some real butter, and the peanut butter on the table.
I’d exist primarily on peanut butter if I could. Growing up, we always had the ten-pound jar, and my parents were always shocked at how fast my brothers and I could go through it.
I’ve just finished the batter when I remember a trick Mom taught me as a kid. A splash of beer or clear soda in the batter makes pancakes extra fluffy. She’d let me pour it in, along with a splash of vanilla and a sprinkle of cinnamon, calling it our secret recipe. Instead of the image of me as a kid making pancakes with my mom, what appears in my mind is Ivy in the kitchen with a little guy who looks a lot like five-year-old me at her side.
What the hell?I blink the image away just before I accidentally dump a full bottle of beer into the batter.
All the sex is confusing me. Must be it.
Makes sense. Sex is meant for procreation. Even thoughIvy and I are currently focused on sex of the recreational variety, the built-in programming of my male DNA can’t help itself.
The idea of putting a baby in her, of seeing her carry my baby in her body, does things to me I can’t comprehend.
