The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(59)
He’s lovely.
Thick and long without being terrifying, his head bulging, and a prominent vein running jaggedly from root to tip. I stroke him once, and he hisses out a slow breath. “Jesus, Ingrid…”
“You don’t touch yourself?”
“I can’t stop touching myself when I think about you, but you touching me—this is—”
I lick his tip, tasting his salty pre-cum, and he cuts himself off with a guttural moan as his fingers tighten in my hair.
I’m driving Levi wild.
Me.
He could’ve gone anywhere tonight. Seen anyone. And he wanted to bring me a pretzel.
I cup his balls, swirl my tongue around his head, his raspy oh, god, yes all the encouragement I need to suck him into my mouth, my breasts tingling and my clit pulsing.
How did I forget how much of a turn-on it is to make a man lose his mind?
It takes me a minute to find a rhythm, squeezing him at his base while I take him deeper and deeper, rubbing the flat of my tongue against his smooth, silky underside, one hand moving to brace on his tense thigh for balance, because yeah.
Not enough core work lately.
Too much ice cream.
But he’s gasping my name like I’m the sexiest, smartest, most talented woman on the planet.
Are guys picky about blow jobs?
I honestly don’t know.
But I want to touch myself. I’m aching so hard between my thighs right now. The things I want to do to this man.
The things I want this man to do to me.
He hits the back of my throat, his thigh trembling under my fingers. “Fuck, Ingrid, I’m gonna come.”
Good.
That’s the whole point.
I squeeze his thigh, rub my thumb along it, and suck him deeper, lifting my eyes to watch as he throws his head back and groans, spilling himself down my throat, my name on his lips like a song, like a prayer, like poetry.
It’s the first time in my life that I’ve liked my name.
His body sags against the shelves as I pull off his still semi-hard cock.
“Jesus, Ingrid. That was—” He cuts himself off with a surprised grunt as I’m pulling his boxers back up, and then something thumps and falls on my head.
I shriek and tumble back in time to see a second box teetering on the top shelf, while yodels explode behind me.
Yodels?
“Box!” I point, smacking Levi in the arm as he reaches for me, a throbbing pain taking up residence on top of my head.
He’s still hanging out of his pants, open over his thighs, and when he turns, he trips and goes head-first toward another box.
I shriek again as he catches himself, but the motion sends the second box toppling.
More yodels behind me.
Levi and I both dive out of the way of the second box, which lands with a thud, followed by a bunch of chicken screams.
Yo-da-lay-dee-hoo!
BAGOCK!
Yodalay yodalay yodalay!
BOCKADOODLEDOO!
“Oh my god, the chickles! The pickens! The yodeling pickles and the screaming chickens!”
Levi snorts with laughter while I lunge for the two boxes.
And suddenly I’m snickering too.
“Are you okay?” I manage to ask between gasps of laughter.
He sinks to the floor next to me, pants back on, bent double while the boxes continue to squawk and yodel. “What—the hell—do you—sell?”
He’s clearly trying to stop laughing but can’t.
“Oh my god, my kids. Tell me my kids can’t hear this.”
“How’s your head?”
“Been through worse.”
The box of yodeling pickles goes quiet, then yodels once more.
Levi and I lock eyes, and I swear we’re both thinking it.
That’s not how a blow job usually ends.
We both double over again.
Until I realize what I’ve done. “My fridge!”
He wipes his eyes, his smile so bright, I almost don’t care if the milk is all spoiled, except for the part where I’ll have to run to the drugstore to get more because Hudson will have a total shit fit if he can’t have milk on his Cheerios in the morning.
“C’mon, Superwoman.” Levi offers me a hand. “Let’s go fix your fridge.”
We pull each other up, and I almost get lost in those happy blue eyes again, but I force myself up the stairs, knowing he’s right behind me—oh my god, and with pretzels.
I almost forgot about the pretzels.
And I have every intention of asking him to help me work out this lingering arousal.
That hand he has on the small of my back?
It’s also turning me on.
Get in. Fix the fridge. Take the pretzels to bed.
That’s the plan.
Except my doorknob is locked.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper.
I yank it again.
Twist harder.
And then I drop my head to the thick wood.
For the record, this wood isn’t nearly as nice as the wood I had in my mouth five minutes ago.
“Spare key?” Levi asks.
“Cash register. Except I’m pretty sure I used it last week and forgot to put it back.”
I’m locked out of my apartment, where my four-year-old could get up at any minute and crawl out the balcony window if he decides it’s time to set the squirrel free, with my fridge hanging wide open, and oh my god, what if he decides to play hide and seek in the fridge like Skippy did last week?