by Grant, Pippa
And he’s not pretending to be anyone he’s not either. I know this side of Wyatt. I’ve seen him with my brother. With the other guys we grew up with. With their sisters.
With Tucker.
Even with Lydia.
The difference is, he doesn’t hold back with me.
He lets me see his ugly sides too.
He’s barely turned the car off in the garage before I lean across and grab him by the shirt and pull him in for a kiss.
I’ve always hated that Wyatt always seems to know exactly how to do everything.
That hatred does not extend to how well he kisses.
No, I’m seriously enjoying that right now. From my roots to my toes. Every bit of me is lit up, turned on, and ready.
“Ellie,” he gasps, pulling back. “Inside.”
“Race you.”
“Okay, gimpy.”
“Oooh, you—”
I cut myself off, because he’s flinging open the car door, and there is no way I’m not even putting up a fight.
Or maybe I’ll fight dirty.
“Wyatt? I don’t think I can walk by myself.”
I bat my eyelashes.
He snorts with laughter.
I grin.
And he circles the car to pull me out. We stand toe-to-toe, belly-to—huh.
“That’s not your belly,” I whisper.
He looks down between us. “No, it’s not.”
“So it’s not some kind of intestinal protrusion either?”
“You are a pain in the ass,” he says with a laugh, and then I’m up in his arms—not over his shoulder, but cradled close to his chest while I loop my fingers together behind his neck.
I press a kiss to the pulsing vein under his rugged jawline.
“You don’t suck at that,” he says huskily, so I kiss him again. Except this time I graze my teeth over the throbbing vein and follow it with a quick swipe of my tongue.
He stumbles through the door and puts me on the ground. “Do you know what I need?” he growls.
I arch my belly into his hard length. “I have an idea.”
He nods. “That’s right. Strip darts.”
My eyes jerk wide, and he grins. “C’mon, Ellie. You’ve gotta earn this body.”
“Oh, those are fighting words,” I say, my own smile growing in direct proportion to the arousal pinging through my veins.
Strip darts.
This is going to be fun.
I take the lead, ignoring the twinge and fatigue in my leg to pull him down the hall and around the corner into the game room. I hit the lights, and he instantly turns the knob to dim them.
“Ah, a real challenge,” I say softly, drawing my fingertips down the corded muscles on his forearms. “Throwing pointy objects in the dark.”
“Guess you’ll have to trust me not to miss.”
I let him grab the darts out of the board while I lean against the pool table, and when he returns, he hands me the set. “Ladies first.”
“Oh, no, I’m much more motivated at seeing what I’m working toward. Gentlemen first.”
The challenge in his smile is pure Wyatt, but it’s also…more.
“Rules?” I ask.
“One of us gets a bullseye, the other takes something off.”
“And one of us misses, we take something off.”
“In a hurry?”
“With the way you play darts, I’d never get my shoes off if I had to wait for you to hit a bullseye.”
“Prepare to lose your socks, Ellie Ryder.”
He throws his first dart, and it impales the wall six inches to the left of the board. “Bullseye,” he declares.
I shriek with surprised laughter. He grins, and pulls off one shoe. “So close,” he declares, and now I’m almost bent double.
His second dart gets closer to the board. “You’re gonna be handing me those pantaloons next,” he says while he kicks off his second shoe.
“Pantaloons?”
He gasps a mock gasp. “You’re not wearing pantaloons? Ellie, did you go to your friend’s wedding commando?”
“You know I didn’t.” But the idea of being commando, of being able to push him to the ground, straddle him, and take him inside me in an instant, is doing exactly what he wants it to do, and my panties are getting soaked again.
He grins like he knows it, and takes aim again.
This time, his dart doesn’t even stick. It bounces off the Dogs Playing Poker poster two feet to the left of the board.
“Damn,” he says, but he doesn’t sound the least bit unhappy.
Nor does he look the least bit unhappy when he shucks his khaki shorts and stands there tenting his St. Patrick’s Day boxers.
I’d laugh at the boxers, but there’s nothing funny about how hard he is.
No, that’s just plain intriguing. And arousing.
“You’re up,” he tells me, handing me my three darts.
“I’d say you’re up.”
“Recurring problem around you.”
“My nipples are commiserating.”
His eyes go dark. I turn to take my first throw, and he brushes my hair off my neck and presses a kiss to my nape.
Oversensitive aftershocks from his touch ripple across my skin. The dart doesn’t even reach the wall.
“Do that again,” I whisper.
“Ah-ah. You need to take something off first.” His breath is hot on my ear, and he follows the chastising with a nip to my earlobe that has me whimpering in pleasure.
“Shoe,” I say, holding out my foot for him.
He bends and obliges, pulling off my boot. “Cheater,” I whisper when my sock comes off too.
“Just saving us some time when you miss again.”
I line up for my shot, and he lines his erection up with the top of my ass, then dips his head to nibble at the crook of my neck while I fire the dart.
“Bullseye,” I gasp.
“Bullshit,” he says with a chuckle.
“But I hit the board.”
“Barely. Gotta lose something, Ellie. It’s the rules.”
“Fine. You may remove my other shoe.”
God, this is fun.
He obliges again, and this time, he doesn’t let my foot go until he’s kissed a path from my ankle bone to my knee.
“Cheating,” I gasp.
“Well, yeah,” he replies with another smokin’ hot grin.
This is the side of Wyatt I’ve overlooked for years. The fun, playful side. He’s always been obnoxious and buttoned up and stiff, perfect for a military career, but that’s not all there is to him.
I could throw my last dart before he tries to distract me, but what’s the fun in that?
And sure enough, as soon as he’s straightened and behind me, his hands are on me again, this time high on my waist. “Need pointers?” he asks.
“I think you’re already giving me pointers.” I arch into the bulge against my lower back, and his breath hitches.
“I’ve been giving you pointers all day, but you haven’t noticed.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“You gonna throw that last dart?”
“Debating if I want to hit a bullseye and make you lose the shirt.” It’s so freaking right here in his arms.
“Not the boxers?”
“I’m a big fan of anticipation.”
“You’re a big fan of torture.”
“That too.”
He nuzzles my neck again. I toss my last dart, and I don’t even care where it landed, because now I can turn in Wyatt’s arms and kiss him.
I know this might be a mistake, but if I don’t have Wyatt, I’m going to die.
So I’ll either die because the universe is a dick and doesn’t like us together, or I’ll die because I can’t have him.
I’d rather go out happy, thank you very much.
“Want—you,” I whimper into Wyatt’s kiss.
“Never knew—needed you—so bad,” he gasps between kisses as he tugs at the
zipper on the back of my dress.
And I get a sudden chill, because this is where it started.
In a basement.
Without thought.
“Ellie?” Wyatt murmurs, his hand stilling.
“Can we really do this?”
“Yes.”
“But should we?”
He threads his fingers through my hair and presses that thick bulge into my belly. “What are you afraid of?”
He asks it like whatever it is, he’s going to leap onto his magical unicorn and ride it into battle and slay my fears. “That we’ll break,” I whisper.
“Or maybe we’ll finally get it right.”
“What if the house burns down?”
I feel his smile against my lips. “The house is not going to burn down.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Neither one of us were in the right headspace for this six months ago. But now? Today? You didn’t look at your ex once during the reception. I wasn’t there for him. I was there for you. Deny it.”
I open my lips to do just that, but I realize he’s right.
I forgot Patrick was even there.
“I just didn’t want you to feel self-conscious.”
He chuckle-snorts, and I giggle, because we both know I wouldn’t stroke his ego.
However, my fingers are trailing down his pecs and abs looking for something else to stroke.
“Do I need to get a bullseye to get this dress off you?” he asks.
“No, you need to pull the fucking zipper down.”
“Now?”
“Yes, please.”
“Look at you, using your manners and everything.” He tugs on the zipper once again, and cool air hits my back.
I push his shirt up, revealing that chest that I could spend days exploring, and my nipples pull so tight I feel it in my clit when he reaches behind himself with one hand to pull the shirt over his head and the rest of the way off.
He brushes my dress off my shoulders, and then I’m standing there, in just my panties, while he whispers my name in sheer reverence.
I step out of the puddle of fabric, and he snags it, tosses it on the pool table, then scoops me into his arms and lays me on it.
I tip my head back and laugh, because my brother would kill me if he knew what we were doing.
Wyatt hooks his thumbs in his boxers and pulls them off in one smooth motion, and all thoughts of anything except him flee my mind. He disappears, ducking beside the table, and I whimper.
“Condom,” he says, returning to crawl onto the pool table with a foil packet in his hand.
“This thing won’t break, will it? That would be awesome. Death by sex on a pool table.”
“I got a private Bro Code show with this as their stage once,” he replies. “It’s solid.”
“Ew. Maybe we should move to the foosball table. It’s clean, right? Bumpy, but clean?”
“Have you met your brother? He licks his players for luck.”
We both crack up.
But only until he dips his head to tease my nipple with his tongue.
Then nothing’s funny.
But everything’s perfect.
Right.
Glorious.
“My turn,” I gasp when he pinches my other nipple. “Roll over.”
“No.”
“Wyatt—”
“I love that irritated note in your voice. It makes me so fucking hard.”
I look down as he pushes up onto all fours, and whoa.
He’s definitely hard.
“C’mon, Calamity Ellie. Tease me.”
I push him onto his back and twist, and my stupid leg twinges. But before I can moan, Wyatt kisses me and gently caresses my leg and hip. “What’s more comfortable for you? A bed?”
I shake my head, because dammit, I still want to be the kind of crazy that has sex on pool tables. And it’s not the table. “I don’t know. Just—I don’t know how I bend best.”
He grins like that’s a challenge. “Then let’s start with what we know works.” He leans me back again and kisses me, and his long fingers trace a path over my hip to my panties.
I gasp as his knuckles graze the cotton over my clit.
“But you—haven’t—not—”
“I have a few years of taunting you to make up for,” he says as he moves to kiss a path down my jaw to that sweet, sensitive spot at the base of my throat.
“I was—you were—oh, god, Wyatt.”
“I’m going to take your panties off.”
My yes comes out garbled as he peels the waistband down over my hips, taking special care around my scars, kissing my breasts, my belly, all the way down until he’s nipping at my inner thigh.
My pussy’s aching. “Touch me,” I gasp, widening my right leg.
“Soon,” he says, still pressing soft kisses on my sensitive skin.
“Now.”
He kisses lower on my leg, heading for my knee. “If you’re in that much of a hurry, maybe you should touch yourself.”
He lifts hooded eyes to mine. Touch yourself, Ellie. Turn me on by touching yourself.
I hold his gaze while my fingers drift between my legs to stroke my slick folds. “Like this?” Oh, god, that feels good, but it’s not enough.
“More,” he rasps out.
I flick at my clit, and my legs open wider, because it’s not enough. “I want you,” I tell him.
“Say it again.”
“I want you.”
“Say my name.”
“Wyatt, I want you.”
Finally, finally, he crawls back up my body until his sheathed length is pressing at my entrance. “Here?”
“Yes.”
“What about tomorrow?” he’s teasing me, gliding his thick head along my seam. “Will you want me tomorrow?”
I grasp his cock and stroke him, and oh, so hard, like iron, and I can feel his pulse in the thick veins circling him. “Tomorrow—argue with you—at breakfast—over toast,” I gasp. “Next week—fighting—who pays for dinner.”
“And next month?” he asks, finally, finally inching inside me toward that needy emptiness that might be in my pussy or that might be in my soul, spreading me and teasing at how well he’ll fill me when he gives me everything.
“Next month—surprise you—on a Tuesday—on my knees.”
“Fuck, Ellie.” He shoves deep inside me, and I cry out in relief at being connected to him. “I don’t want to let you go.”
“Then don’t.”
“You feel so fucking perfect.”
He slowly pulls almost all the way out, then pushes back in again, hitting that oh so perfect sensitive spot deep inside me.
“Again,” I gasp.
“Want you every day,” he says as he thrusts into me again.
Every day. No one wants me every day. “You’re craz—aaaah, oh god, Wyatt, more.”
He thrusts again, not too gentle, not too hard, and the anticipation is building, the tension tightening, my pussy swelling and going hypersensitive with every stroke inside me.
“In my bed,” he says.
“On the kitchen table.”
“In the shower.”
“In the backseat of your car.”
“Under the stars.”
“On top of the Eiffel Tower.”
“In your parents’ linen closet.”
I laugh as he thrusts in again, and everything swirls out of focus while my climax hits hard. “Ellie,” he cries, his dick pulsing inside me in time with my pussy squeezing and spasming around him.
“Wyatt,” I gasp when he pumps once, twice more, pushing me higher and farther and deeper until— “Wy—ahh-ahh—”
He pushes up, his dick still straining deep inside me, and when I sneeze, he gasps. “Christ, Ellie, that feels amazing.”
I’m still twitching and spasming around him, and here I am, laughing. “My sneeze?”
“Fuck, yeah.” He drops his head into my shoulder, panting. “Was that it? I
could take another sneeze. Christ.”
I laugh, and another tingle of pleasure lights up my clit. “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy for you.” He kisses my shoulder, my neck, up to my lips, where he lingers, lazily kissing me and letting me trace his jaw and stroke his short, soft hair. “I think I’ve wanted you my entire life. I was just too blind to realize it.”
“Too scared,” I whisper.
“That too.”
“Are you still scared?”
He lifts his head, and serious Wyatt is back. “Depends. Were you serious about surprising me in Georgia with a blow job?”
I gape at him for half a second.
He cracks a grin.
“You—” I start, but he swallows my tirade with another kiss, and truly, kissing Wyatt is better than strawberry daiquiris on a beach.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
But I know one thing.
It will be the first day of the rest of my life with Wyatt.
Twenty-Six
Wyatt
Ellie and I are fooling around in the master bathtub when the text comes in that the Ryders are on their way back with Tucker. She goes pink in the cheeks. “My parents know what we’re doing,” she whispers.
I kiss her forehead before I reach for a towel. “And they approve, because I’m awesome.”
Her lips twitch. “Or maybe because they know I can keep you in line.”
“Nah.”
I’m smiling as I disentangle my legs from hers and climb out of the tub, and not just because her eyes go dark and smoky again as her gaze wanders down my dripping wet body.
No, it’s because of the peace.
The utter contentment.
I never wanted to get married because I didn’t think it was in my genes, in my bloodline, to be capable of being a good husband and father. Fate proved me wrong on fatherhood.
And this sensation that I’ve found a missing piece of myself, and that she’s sitting right there in the bubble bath, turning down the music and tucking her hair behind her ear. “Did you grab my dress from downstairs?”
“It’s on the bed.”
“I didn’t mean you had to. I could’ve gotten it. I just—”
I silence her with a kiss, which might be my new favorite hobby.
Kissing Ellie Ryder.
Who knew?
“I left your shoes for you to get yourself,” I tell her. “But I’ll probably go get them anyway because you’ll get mad and insist you’re perfectly capable, and then we’ll have some silly little fight that’ll end with me needing to stroke your pussy, so—”
