The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(70)

“Aaaah!”

“Oof.”

“Ohmygod, I’m so sorry. Are you—”

“Still horny as hell? Yes.” He snags me by the waist, takes control of the rolling-onto-each-other game, and suddenly I’m beneath him, his tip probing my opening while he hovers on his elbow. “Are you okay?”

I arch my hips and feel him dip inside me, and everything swims into focus.

Levi.

Me.

The thick, soft rug under my back.

His head breaching my entrance.

Cinnamon and sweat and man teasing my nose.

The cool air and his gaze lingering on my chest making my nipples tighten in that delicious way that I can feel all the way down between my legs.

“Never better,” I whisper.

He holds my gaze while he pushes into me, every inch utter heaven, my clit pulsing and my breasts aching, my already swollen, satisfied vajayjay rejoicing at more attention.

“Fucking exquisite,” he breathes.

I tilt my hips and take him deeper while my fingers skim his cheeks and down his neck. I want more. All. Everything. “Kiss me.”

He groans as my hands go lower, my thumbs brushing his nipples, and then he’s kissing me, his tongue clashing with mine while he pulls almost all the way out and thrusts back into me again.

There’s no time to worry about remembering what to do.

My body knows.

He’s brand new and exciting, but familiar and right. And he’s making me remember what it feels like to be alive.

Not just in my satisfied-but-still-desperate nerve endings, but in the part of me that used to take a train to Paris, or hop a flight for a long weekend of hiking in Iceland, or drive six hours for a clandestine getaway with a guy for no reason other than that I wanted to.

“God, Ingrid, you’re so tight.” His voice is strained, sexy, desperate.

“I want to feel every bit of you.”

I want him.

I want him so much that even being this close to him, having him rocking inside me, kissing me, whispering that I’m beautiful, that I turn him on—it’s not enough.

I want him more.

Deeper.

Harder.

Forever.

I gasp as the word sneaks into my conscious thoughts at the same moment that he hits a magic spot deep inside me and sends my body coiling tight, pleasure building on exquisite pleasure, anticipation and glory and champagne fizzles, skin on skin, our eyes locked, his dark and hot and heavy-lidded, mine suddenly feeling unexpectedly wet even as everything inside me is spiraling fast and furious toward taking flight to the stars again.

“Levi.”

“You drive me fucking wild, Ingrid.” He’s slamming into me, every thrust magic, making me see glitter and confetti and sequins in the candlelight.

“Oh god, oh god, right there, I’m—right there, Levi.”

He pumps his hips to mine once more, and my body shatters into a billion sparkly iridescent snowflakes, the spasms in my core squeezing him tight while he groans and drops his head to my shoulder, his cock pulsing in time with my orgasm.

His skin is slick with sweat, his breath ragged, my name whispered reverently on his lips, and in this moment, I’m a fucking goddess.

Floating in the heavens, all billion bits of me, centered around a core of sheer, blissful, luxurious, pulsating ecstasy.

I’m one with the world, and my world is Levi, and nothing else exists or matters.

He kisses my forehead, then the tear that slipped down my face and into my ear. “Ingrid?”

“That was—wow.” I wipe it away, blink my eyes open, and dig deep to not let the hotness build more behind my eyeballs as he strokes my cheek and gazes at me like he felt it too.

Like in this moment, I’m his world.

His touch—his kindness—his voice—I could love this man.

I could so easily love this man.

But that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?

I could so easily love any man. And I have. I’ve loved any man, which is why I don’t let myself get close, or go on dates, or fall in love.

I can’t afford to lose one again.

I’d survive. But I wouldn’t want to.

Levi drops his face until our noses are touching. “I want to kiss you more,” he whispers.

“You’re in luck, because I’m here all night.”

When he smiles at me, I feel that same overwhelming brightness flood my chest that I felt the moment I held Zoe for the first time. Hello, my love. We’re going to have a beautiful life together.

It’s like I’m seeing a smile for the first time.

Hearing waves rolling on the beach and smelling the ocean air after a decade in the desert.

Tasting cheesecake after nothing but rice cakes for weeks.

Knowing every hoodie I’ll ever toss on again will be dewy-soft felt on the inside and never get pilly or hard or snag on my rough elbow skin.

“Penny for your thoughts,” he murmurs into my hair. He’s still trailing his free hand over my arm, down my hip, and back again, like he, too, is afraid if we stop touching, all of this will disappear.

I get it. I can’t stop touching him either. “What about my bookstore?”

“I like it. It’s nice. What are you thinking about?”

You.

My fingers connect with the raised edge of his button scar, and I smile. “I’m still wearing socks. And they might not match.”