The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(72)

And having Ingrid’s eyes on me is making me tent my sweatpants.

“Do you have any idea how much I appreciate not having to worry about the little things for a night?” she asks quietly.

I pull her hand to my lips. “I can try to imagine, but honestly, probably not.”

“It’s incredibly special. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” I stroke my free hand down her arm and watch goosebumps race across her skin. “And I might have ulterior motives.”

“Mr. Wilson, are you saying you’re taking good care of me so I’ll let you have your way with me in the bedroom?”

“I was thinking against those windows right there.”

Her golden eyes go black as night and her chest rises quickly. “I’m about to ask a stupid question,” she whispers.

“Reflective glass,” I whisper back.

She leans into the table, closer to me, giving me an excellent view down the gap in her robe. “I was going to ask if it’s cold.”

My hard-on is working on setting a world record, and I have to swallow hard before I can talk. “You’d be okay if someone watched us?”

“Oh my god, no.” Her words are in direct contrast with the ever-darkening of her lovely eyes and her quickening breath. “My kids—I did research once. On glass. And apartments in cities. And—wait. Are you turned on at the idea of someone watching us?”

“Ingrid?”

“Yes?”

“I’m turned on by you.”

“I’ve started to pick up on that.”

Her plump lips are a breath from mine, and I can’t resist kissing her for another second.

I’ve dated women who would’ve been upset that I didn’t order in gelato from Italy for dessert, or that I didn’t take the hint to fly them across the country to eat at their favorite restaurant. I’ve dated women who would’ve spent the meal intentionally tugging that robe open to tease me. I’ve dated women who needed the compliments piled on thick and heavy.

But it’s been a long time since I’ve dated someone who feels as real and honest and comfortable-in-her-own-skin as Ingrid.

Who’s so grateful for the smallest kindnesses.

Who’s so easy to please.

Who can talk about her kids being total goofballs in one breath and then say something that makes me want to push that robe off her shoulders the next.

I know she’d be the first to say she’s a disaster.

And I know she’s wrong.

She’s not a disaster. She’s not a mess. She’s a woman who has too much asked of her every day, with too little help, which is exactly why something as simple as a homemade meal without having to do the dishes is the easy part.

But I don’t want it to be easy.

I want to be worth the woman who does so much for everyone else.

“Best date ever,” she sighs against my lips.

I rise and tug her out of her seat too. “Just getting started.”

“I hope you realize you’ve already set the bar pretty high.” She threads her fingers through my hair, goes up on tiptoe, and rubs her soft belly against my hard-on, the robe falling open but still hiding the rosy tips of her nipples from me.

“I love a good challenge.”

“You do seem up for it.”

That twinkle in her eyes. That seductive smile. That spark that seems to glow from inside her.

She’s so fucking intoxicating.

I reach into the pocket of her robe and pull out protection, then shuck my pants and walk her back until she’s against the window. “Do you like the cold?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Then let’s lose this.”

She doesn’t object when I push the robe off her shoulders, leaving her completely naked in the soft light. All curves and softness, with silvery marks on her lower belly that I assume are left over from pregnancy.

I trace one, and she holds her breath.

“Does it hurt?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing but my memory of my pre-baby body.”

“Your body has done amazing things. It tells your story. And that’s beautiful.”

“Levi?”

“Hm?”

“I’d like your body to do amazing things to my body now, please.”

She kisses me again, and nothing else in the world matters.

Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.

Only making love with Ingrid. Her legs wrapping around mine while I hold her against the cool window. Sliding inside her. Losing my mind at the feel of her tight pussy wrapped around my aching hard-on. Holding her gaze while I take my time stroking in and out, watching every nuance of her expression when I’m buried deep inside her, her parted lips and tilted head telling me when I’ve found the right rhythm, the right angle to make her pant harder and grip my shoulders tighter, chanting my name faster and faster until she’s coming all over my cock again, squeezing me so tight and spasming so hard around me that I couldn’t hold back from joining her in falling over the edge if the world depended on it.

I don’t want to let her go.

I want to hold her. Kiss her. Whisper total and utter nonsense with her. Right here. All night long.

It’s her.

I’ve found her.

Not a short-term fling. Not just a friend-with-benefits.