The One Who Loves You (Tickled Pink #1)(81)

He’s still just a man. And I’m starting to suspect my grandmother is slipping his kid bribes to stay with him all summer.

And the ghost is knocking on my door.

I frown.

Elmo meows and looks at the window.

Tickled Pink Floyd moans, then mutters something about spilled cafeteria food.

And someone raps at my window.

Not my door.

My window.

“Are you ready to scratch their face off if it’s a tourist?” I whisper to my kitten.

He gives me puppy dog eyes. Swear he does.

I set him on my bed. “Stay. Let Mommy handle this.”

I kill the lights and pull back a corner of the curtain as the rapping at my window comes a third time.

And as soon as I realize who’s out there, I almost squeal with joy.

Teague’s outside my window.

I throw the curtains the rest of the way back, fumble with opening the creaky old thing, and finally shove it open. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, even though I hope I know.

“I really didn’t want to like you.”

I smile despite the grumpy scowl on his face. “You don’t say.”

“But you, Phoebe Lightly, are a new surprise every day, and I think I’m addicted.”

He pushes up into the window frame, and then Teague Miller, my first enemy in Tickled Pink, my partner in crime for figuring out how to convince my grandmother this hell was a bad idea, the man who saves me from lakes, thunderstorms, and punctured tires and who introduced me to cheese curds and the simplest ways to be a better human being, is suddenly devouring my mouth while climbing into my bedroom through a window.

“Shuh winnow,” I gasp in the midst of kissing him back.

He interprets perfectly, slamming my window shut behind him.

I yank the curtains closed again.

And then there’s no more thinking.

No more worrying.

No more frustration.

It’s just me and this bear of a man touching, kissing, tearing each other’s clothes off, and tumbling into bed.

But not before he sets my kitten gently on the floor. “Close your eyes,” he orders Elmo. “You’re too young for this.”

I start to laugh, but then his mouth is on my breast, sucking my nipple and sending the most intense jolt of pleasure from my chest to my pussy and making me gasp instead.

“I’ve been dreaming about this,” he murmurs as he shifts to my other nipple.

“Why?” Oh my God, I need to shut up. I need to shut up right now.

“Why? Because you’re annoyingly sexy and I want to see you come again.” His hands roam over my body. “Jesus. Your skin is so damn soft. And gorgeous.”

Oh my God.

I don’t think I can do this.

I don’t think I can have sex with him unless there’s a chance he actually likes me.

Who the fuck am I, and what have I done with my badass self?

I tense, and he lifts his head. “Phoebe?”

“Do you like me, or am I just a passing novelty?” Why can I not shut up?

Why?

Those soft lips of his turn down, and his eyes narrow again. It’s like I can see him cursing to himself about the crazy chick who wants to talk about if I like him like we’re in high school.

“I like you.”

It should be enough. It should really be enough. “Why?”

“Because you’re trying. You’re bullheaded and stubborn and not all that great at small-town life, but you’re trying. And that—that says more about who you are here”—he taps my heart—“than anything you wear or where you work or what your name is.”

“Oh.”

He swirls his tongue around my nipple, then blows on it, making me squirm in the best way.

“Your turn,” he murmurs. “Do you like me, or am I a way to blow off steam?”

I lick my lips.

This is harder on this side.

Didn’t expect that.

“I like you,” I whisper.

“Why?”

“Because you push and you don’t make it any easier on me than I make it on you. Because you don’t give me a free pass just because this is hard, but you’re not actually a total dick. Because you care about everyone around here, and even knowing you want us to leave, you do things to make us more comfortable while we’re here. Because—because it’s like I know you. And can you please make me shut up now? I’m feeling very naked.”

“You are very naked.”

“But I don’t often feel—ooh.”

The man’s fingers—and his mouth—and his tongue—and he’s sliding down my body, which is not something my lovers normally do.

But Teague—Teague is dipping his tongue into my belly button and lifting my leg over his shoulder and oh my holy sweet Oprah, he is going there.

He sticks his nose between my thighs, licks my seam, and I’m singing.

Maybe not singing, but that isn’t a sound that’s ever come out of my mouth before.

And when he swirls his tongue around my clit, my hips come up off the bed. “Again,” I order.

He chuckles against my sensitive flesh. “Bossy.”

“You knew who you were coming to see. Do it again.”

My hands are tangled in his hair, and his beard is tickling my inner thighs, and Teague Miller, the stubborn lumberjack who probably would’ve rather let me go the way of my Louboutins in that lake the first day I met him, gets down to business with his mouth on my pussy until coherent thought is impossible.