The Knocked Up Plan(26)

When I’m done, I turn to see the most gorgeous man leaning in the doorway of my kitchen.

Dear Lord, he’s beautiful, and I’m so not in the mood.

From the dog to the neighbor to the plunger. But I need to get it up, so to speak.

“Hey there,” he says, softly. Maybe he senses the shift. Duh. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.

“Do you want a beer?” I ask.

“A beer sounds great.”

I open the fridge and grab one for him. I spin around to yank open the drawer with the bottle opener and I whack my elbow on the edge of the counter. “Ouch.”

It stings.

It radiates though my entire body. Gingerly, I cup my elbow with my other hand. In no time at all Ryder slides past me, opens the freezer, and finds an ice pack.

“It’s not that bad,” I say, like the tough girl I am. “I swear.”

But he doesn’t listen. He shushes me and presses the ice to my elbow. Great. Now I’m cold, annoyed, hurting, and still not turned on. Fuck my life. I lower my eyes because I just can’t even stand myself right now.

“My elbow’s fine now. Thanks.”

He sets the ice pack on the counter, tucks a finger under my chin, and raises my face. I meet his blue-eyed gaze. His eyes are so kind and so sexy at the same time. How is it possible? I’m going to need to gather all the scientists of the world to study this man. He drips sex appeal and goodness simultaneously. But then, there’s a distance to him, too. His armor never seems far away.

“You okay?”

I nod.

He runs a hand over my hair. His touch is gentle. He looks back into my living room. It’s lush and pretty with a cranberry-red couch strewn with gold and silver pillows. Framed photos line the end tables. On the wall is a photograph of a rain-slicked street in Paris. Candles adorn the coffee table. I even have mood music ready to go on my playlist.

“I wanted tonight to be sexy,” I say, gesturing hopelessly to the living room. “I had a whole playlist of Sade songs on my phone.”

His lips quirk in a grin. “We don’t need that to be sexy.”

His words should send a spark through me.

But they don’t.

My heart beats too fast. It’s a nervous rhythm. “I don’t feel sexy. I feel clinical and weird,” I admit.

He nods. “It’s okay to feel a little awkward.”

A new fear digs in. “Do you, too? I mean, it’s fine for me to feel weird. My pleasure doesn’t matter. I need you to feel good.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant I understand. This whole thing is . . . unusual,” he says.

“I don’t want you to feel weird. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

“Funny,” he says, running the backs of his fingers over my cheek, a soft, but wholly possessive move. “Because I want you to enjoy yourself just as much.”

He grabs his beer, takes my hand, and leads me to the living room. Ruby trots by his side and plops down on the carpet as we sink into the red couch. He takes a drink of his beer. I take off my light jacket.

It all feels so formal.

“Ugh,” I say, then drop my face to my hands.

I should punch myself for how I’m behaving. I’m a take-charge woman. For fuck’s sake, I asked this man to knock me up, and he’s willing to do it. I don’t get to behave like a brat.

In an instant, I know what to do.

I lean into him, inhaling his cedar scent as I dust a sexy kiss against his neck, since I’ve already learned this spot drives him crazy. I’m rewarded with a rush of air from his lips. Straddling him, I plant my hands on his shoulders.

He wiggles his eyebrows. “So this is how it’s going to be?”

“Yes, this is how it’s going to be.” I tell myself to erase the last awkward minutes, and I crush his lips to mine. He groans against my mouth, a low, dirty rumble of desire.

I’m going to kiss my way out of the weirdness. I’m going to devour his gorgeous lips and rub my cheeks all over that sandpaper stubble. I’m going to trace the outlines of his sculpted cheekbones, and I’ll grind against his lap until he’s hot and bothered.

I kiss him hard, turning the volume to high. I slide my fingers into hair that’s so damn soft, and I curl my hands around his head.

I crush his lips.

I own this kiss.

I want this man turned on.

I want him hard.

I want him ready.

And I need his swimmers to be in a good mood.

Judging from the heavy press of his erection against my thigh, his dick is whistling a happy tune. But that’s not enough. I want his mind blown, and his cock nearly there, too.

I scoot off him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his breath uneven from our kiss.

“I’m doing this.” I get down on my knees and tug at his workout pants. “I want these off. I want to kiss your cock.”

“Fuck,” he groans as he drags a hand down his face and lifts his hips. “You dirty girl.”

I tug down his pants, then his boxer briefs, and then I die. I die a million wonderful deaths. His dick is beautiful. It’s so fucking gorgeous my mouth waters. It’s long and thick and curved a tiny bit to the right. It’s veiny and proud, and I must taste him.

I bend my face to him and lick the head.