The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(68)

It’s Wednesday night. I was late getting out of the store. Late getting my kids to Portia’s. Stuck in traffic on my way downtown. And now I’m punching the button to Levi’s floor in an elevator that only goes to the top six floors, because those are the floors reserved for Copper Valley residents who can afford the most privacy.

But I shouldn’t be here.

This Levi?

He’s not the Levi on stage that I was obsessed with seeing in concert every chance I got.

He’s the Levi who keeps coming back despite physical danger, weird pets, and the utter chaos that goes with my life.

He babysat my kids.

And left me with a clean apartment—the girls insisted he did most of the cooking and wiping and scrubbing himself between playing games and beauty parlor and arts and crafts with them.

And now I have a sleepover. At his place. Where I’m very, very likely to fall completely, madly, helplessly in love with him, which is the last thing my family needs.

No, Zoe, Levi can’t be at your gymnastics meet because he’s in Arizona for a concert. No, Piper, Levi’s shooting a commercial in Austria. He can’t be at your game. No, Hudson, Levi’s in New York, at very important meetings, and he can’t take you to little ninjas tonight.

And who’s to say he’d even want that?

Which is exactly why I shouldn’t be here.

I’m falling head-over-heels for a man who offered me a friends-with-benefits secret fling, and then did me a favor that I never should’ve let him do.

Tonight won’t make that better.

But I’m helpless to resist the idea of a full night of grown-up time with the man who makes me feel like more than a frazzled mom and busy shop owner.

The elevator dings on Levi’s floor, and the doors slide open.

It’s not too late.

I could hop back in, text him that I don’t feel good, and go home for a night of ice cream and vodka and leftover cookie pie, all by myself.

Read books.

Go to bed early.

Toss and turn because it’s so weird that my apartment is empty.

Watch grown-up TV.

Oops. I’m leaving the elevator and knocking on the door to my left.

Too late to back out now.

And when Levi opens the door and smiles at me, scruffy-faced and crinkly-eyed, I forget every reason I have for not wanting to be here.

No, that’s not right.

I forget every reason I shouldn’t want to be here as badly as I absolutely, unquestioningly, desperately desire to the pit of my soul to be here.

“Hi,” I breathe as I step into his foyer. “Oh my god, your glitter hair.”

He closes the door, his smile growing three sizes. He’s in cargo pants and a black T-shirt, with nails that are short and cleaned of all polish now, and when he leans in to kiss my cheek, I smell cinnamon and yeasty bread again.

“Hi,” he whispers.

That’s it.

One tiny syllable. Barely a syllable, even.

I drop my bag, throw my arms around him, and suddenly we’re making out like teenagers who only have fifteen minutes before Mom gets back from the grocery store.

My hands go everywhere, from the sandpaper of his cheeks to the strained cords in his neck to the soft silkiness of his shirt to the hot sinew of his arms. I slide my fingers under the hem of his shirt and up his taut abs and broad pecs, then around to scrape my nails down his back until I’m grabbing his ass.

He’s devouring my mouth, walking me back against the wall. Something thunks to the ground beside me, and I almost pull out of the kiss, but Levi growls, “Leave it,” against my lips, and then he’s pushing my own loose blouse up and over my head while I tackle the button on his pants.

My shirt gets caught on my ponytail, but I bat his hands away. “Leave it,” I repeat back to him while I dive into kissing him again.

His stubble is rough against my lips, stirring long-neglected nerve endings back to life with the delicious sting.

He pinches my nipples through my new lace bra, and I hook one leg around his hips and try to grind my clit against his leg.

“Naked,” he gasps.

“Now,” I agree.

His shirt goes flying while I rip open his zipper and yank his pants down, revealing that glorious hard-on again.

It still amazes me that I do this to him, and I smile as I wrap a fist around him and stroke.

“No, ma’am.” He grabs me by the wrist, then snags my other hand too, when I try to reach for him again, and holds both arms over my head, pinned to the wall, while he works my pants one-handed. “I want inside you this time.”

“I just want you.”

He lifts his dark, hooded gaze to mine, dips his hand into my silk panties, and strokes my seam, thumb to my clit while he slips a finger inside me. “Like this?”

“More.”

Two fingers. My hips jerk against him, and he circles my clit with his thumb while he fucks me with his fingers. “Christ, Ingrid, I love your pussy.”

“She’s pretty—oh god, just like that—enamored—Oooh, yes, more—with you—Levi, oh my god oh my god oh my god, I’m coming.”

I am.

He’s jerking his fingers inside me while he nips at my breasts through the lace and does that magic with his thumb, and I’m coming like I have a hair-trigger release.

My entire body is unraveling under his touch. My shirt’s still hanging off my ponytail, my hands are pinned to the wall over my head, his hard cock is bobbing against my leg, and I’m clenching so hard against his fingers that I’m suddenly worried he’ll never be able to strum a guitar again.