The Hot Mess and the Heartthrob(92)

“Oh my god, I’m not wearing pants.”

He coughs.

Then he chuckles.

And then he’s on his feet, taking away the warm mug, tugging me up too, wrapping his arms around me again, kissing me, walking me backward, back down the hall and into my bedroom.

“You like me not in pants?” I whisper when the backs of my knees collide with my bed.

“I like you every way.” His hands slide under the hem of my T-shirt, and then it’s flying across the room while his knuckles graze my nipples and he kisses me again.

Every nerve ending in my body flares to life, and my cranky stomach settles into a low grumble that might be nothing more than hunger now.

“Why are you so good at kissing?”

“Why are you so good at kissing?” he counters.

“It’s not practice.”

“Then it must be that we’re supposed to be kissing.” He presses his lips to my jaw. “And look at this. More Ingrid skin to kiss.”

“Levi?”

“Hm?”

“Will you strip for me?”

He guides me back onto the bed. “Only if you touch yourself while I do.”

“Like this?” I lift my breast and circle my nipple.

“Any way that makes you feel good.” He straightens and pulls off his simple black T-shirt, and the sight of his bare chest gives me a surge of longing between my legs.

We made love one night in the loft.

Another on my couch, hidden under a blanket, mostly dressed, and very, very quietly with one eye on the hallway the whole time in case any of the kids woke up.

Both well past my bedtime and after hours and hours of talking.

But we haven’t been alone.

Not like this.

My fingers drift between my thighs and I rub the cotton of my panties over my aching clit.

His fingers freeze on his pants button, and his dark eyes land on mine. “Fuck, Ingrid.”

“I want to be loud.”

His tight jeans hit the floor, and he stumbles kicking them the rest of the way off, and then he’s crawling onto the bed, hovering over me, kissing me between my breasts, dipping down my belly, swirling his tongue around my belly button, and then lower, to the waist of my panties. “You smell delicious.”

“You must seriously like disasters.”

“I love you.”

He peels my panties down, spreads my thighs, and buries his face in my pussy, his tongue magic as he starts slow and easy, licking my seam, then sucking my clit into his mouth.

“Oh my god,” I gasp.

“I missed this pussy.” He strokes a hand over my inner thigh, spreading my legs wider, licking me faster while my hips buck into his mouth.

“Levi.”

“That’s right, Superwoman. Scream my name.”

I do.

Oh my god, I do.

While he licks and sucks and teases, bringing me right to the edge, my body completely under his spell, I gasp his name, gripping his hair, my hips out of control and operating on pure instinct.

Oh my god, his tongue.

And his lips.

And then he slides two fingers inside me, then three, while he sucks hard on my swollen clit, and everything inside me comes completely undone.

I come so hard I see the other side of the universe. “Levi. Oh my god, yes, Levi, I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He crooks his fingers inside me, and everything goes blinding white.

I’m dancing naked in heaven, my body singing the Hallelujah chorus, my brain already plotting how to make Levi feel as transcendently euphoric as I do right now.

He’s seen me at my worst. At my lowest. At my most hectic.

And he’s still here.

Worshipping my imperfect, life-worn body as though I’m the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.

“I love you.” I’m still chanting it as the last of the spasms leave me boneless.

“Ah, Ingrid.” He presses a kiss to my belly. “I love you too. Every inch of you.”

I don’t know where I find the strength, but I roll him onto his back, then shimmy down his body. His legs are hanging off the bottom of my bed, which is so close to my dresser that he’ll probably kick it and knock an entire pile of pictures and art projects that my kids have given me onto the floor if he moves wrong.

I want my kids to make him art projects too.

I want him to know the joy of a pile of pictures made with love.

I should make him an art project of my own.

“Why are you so perfect?” I ask him as I straddle him.

He brushes his thumb over my cheek. “I’m so far from perfect, Ingrid. Especially next to you.”

“Are we both delusional?”

He smiles that gorgeous, confident, I’ve got this smile. “No. I think it means we fit.”

I rub myself over his thick hard-on. “Can we fit a little more?”

“Yes, please.”

We knock everything off my dresser trying to locate a condom. And then we lay in bed and make love slowly, laughing, talking, touching.

I introduce him to my horrible shower.

We fall out of it trying to have sex in there too.

And when his mom brings the kids home, we’re cuddling under a blanket, watching Christmas movies and eating the most delicious cinnamon rolls I’ve ever tasted in my life.