Ivy utters a little whimper, like she’s as impatient and needy as I am. She cups my cheeks, finds my mouth. Wet lips, soft tongue. She kisses me as if I’m the best thing she’s ever tasted. And, fuck, it screws with my head. I want to cry, or laugh, or both. I don’t understand it, but I don’t want this to end. It’s agony and perfection all at once.

I angle my head, opening my mouth wider for her, thrust my tongue into her warm mouth. I kiss her until I can’t breathe, get fucking dizzy on her taste. And Ivy makes that hot, feminine whimper again.

It’s too much. I’m losing my mind.

I pump into Ivy. Harder. Harder. I should be gentle. Slow. I can’t. I want to pound myself into her until I’m a part of her. Our lips slide apart, our movements too frantic now for kissing. My face burrows into the crook of her neck, my mouth open on her soft skin.

“Ivy.” I’m saying it over and over, with each thrust. Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. I don’t even know why. I want to tell her better things. That she’s everything to me. The best part of me. That I’ll take care of her, protect her—from what I don’t know. But I will. I’ll keep her safe and happy. Because it’s my job. The most important job I’ll ever have.

But all I can say is her name, fuck her like I’m about to die.

She’s panting now, her slim arms sliding over the wet tiles, as if she’s trying to get away from the pleasure and reach for it all at once. Her thighs clamp down on my waist as she arches her hips into mine. And those sweet-as-fuck tits lift high. I haven’t even gotten a taste of them.

I duck my head, capture a pink nipple, and suck it in deep, lick the stiff little nub, flick it with my tongue. And she loves it, her pussy milking my dick as she cups my head and writhes.

Fuck yeah. Heat washes down my back, up my thighs. My balls draw tight, my dick pulsing.

I grind against her, feel her clench as she comes, her cries echoing throughout the shower. And then I’m the one crying out. I don’t even recognize the sounds I make. They’re desperate, loud and disjointed. I lose sight of Ivy, of myself. It feels so fucking good that, for a moment, I truly wonder if I am going to die. But I won’t, because nothing, nothing, is going to keep me from doing this again. And again. Because I’m Ivy’s. Forever.

Twenty-One

Gray

There is something utterly satisfying about taking Mac out as her guy. This time when she dances in her crazy way, I can hold her close, run my hands over her curves, duck my head and breathe in her luscious scent. And when we sit with the guys, I can pull her in my lap and kiss my way across her neck, taste her smiling mouth. And she cuddles me back, pets my hair, touches me as though I’m her own personal plaything. Which I am. In short: Best. Night. Out. Ever.

Mac is happy-buzzing by the time we leave Palmers and is singing Prince’s Raspberry Beret. Only it comes out as a throaty but off-key, “Raspberry bidet. I’m trying to find the helping hands floor.”

I don’t even bother to hide my laugh as she side-dances toward my truck. Alcohol does not improve her technique. If anything, her long limbs are even more uncoordinated, moving to a rhythm apparently only she hears. I can’t help but drink her in as she flails about, until she bangs into an unsuspecting trashcan, nearly knocking it, and herself, over.

“Who put that there?” she says in outrage before leaning against it and snickering in little bursts of sloppy glee. In the yellow brightness of the streetlight, her eyes shine like onyx as she looks at me. “Get over here, Cupcake.”

My back hurts from purposely dancing badly to help her again, and I’ve got an early wakeup, but I don’t want the night to end. “So now I’m your beck-and-call boy?” I ask, as I head over to her.

Mac snickers again. “Call boy. Get it?”

Rolling my eyes, I stop in front of her, close enough to catch her should she fall. “Yeah, I get it, Mac. You’re hilarious.”

She’s so damn cute at this moment that I’m tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear and running my thumb along the edge of her jaw.

“Mmmm…” It’s a near-purr of sound, way too throaty. Her warm hands clasp my waist, holding me steady as if I’m the one who’s about to fall. Dark eyes, peer up at me. “I totally am.”

“Am what?” I’m drawing a blank, distracted by the sweet curve of her lower lip and the way it’s jutting out in a little pout. I lean down to claim as soft kiss. God, she is delicious—the sweet tartness of margaritas mixed with pure Ivy Mac.”

“Hilarious,” she says with exasperation against my mouth. But she’s kissing me back, exploring a little deeper each time.

Her warm tongue licks a path along the sensitive edge of my inner lip—exactly one second before the tip of her left index finger steals under my shirt and runs lightly along the edge of my jeans. I feel the action like a stroke behind my balls. My breath hitches, and my gut clenches. It takes everything in me not to cant my hips and beg for her to explore lower.

If I start fooling around with her, I’m not going to want to stop. The things I want to do to her require space and privacy.

I draw in another deep breath of cold air, then gently take hold of her wrists and place her hands in front of us where I can see them. Mac simply gives me a goofy smile and leans in until her chin rests on my ribs. Her head moves with the cadence of my breath, lifting and lowering. The motion and her proximity to my increasingly interested dick are weakening my resolve.