by Brit Benson
“Up,” she commands, and I lift my hips so she can drag my jeans and boxers down my thighs until I’m sitting stark naked in my desk chair with my hard as fuck dick saluting her like the good fucking soldier he is.
She flashes me a smile, then wraps her delicate hands around my cock and pumps twice. I reach down and gather her hair into my hands and watch as she licks me from base to tip.
“Fuck, baby,” I rasp. When she takes me into her mouth, sucking on my head then pulling me into her throat, my answering groan is primal, and I thrust once, making her gag. She continues her torture, alternating between licking and sucking, pumping and laving. And I’m a mess, lost in the sensations her talented mouth creates.
“Yes, Ivy. Fuck, baby, you’re so good. So sexy.”
She hums around my shaft, and I growl, thrusting once, twice, three more times until she gags again and has to come up for air, pumping my dick with her hands.
“You like that, baby?” she coos.
“Fuck yes.” I watch as she, again, puts my head between her plush lips. I can feel her tongue massaging the sensitive underside of my tip, and it’s so good.
Too good.
As if Ivy can sense how close I already am, she gives me one final lick, then stands up and reaches into the desk drawer next to me, pulling out a condom. She rolls the condom down my shaft, straddles me on the chair, then pulls her thong to the side with one hand while lining my dick up to her entrance with the other.
“Holy fuck,” I ground out. “How did I get so lucky? How are you so fucking sexy?” I pant the words, eyes jumping between her swollen pussy ready to swallow my dick and her blue eyes flashing hot with fire and lust. Ivy just smirks, then sinks down onto me with one long, low moan.
I swear I could spend the rest of my life between this woman’s thighs. Dick or tongue, I don’t care, so long as part of me is always buried inside her, drawing out those moans.
The velvet, hot feeling of her wrapped around me is euphoric, and I watch as she rocks, slowly at first, swiveling her hips. I run my hands up and down her torso, kiss her lips, suck on her neck and nipples, bite at the tender flesh of her breasts—everything I’ve learned that she loves. And when her hips start to speed up, I bring my thumb to her clit and massage it in the way that I know will make her detonate until her back is bowing and she’s clenching around me, murmuring her pleasure in my ears.
Fuuuuck. She’s perfection.
When she’s ridden out her orgasm, I stand and walk us to my bed, then pull out and drop her on it. Ivy giggles as she bounces a little, then lays back, her eyes eating me up.
I reach down and grip the condom, squeezing my dick once.
“On your knees,” I growl at her, and the excitement that sparks in her blue eyes is every damn thing I want.
Ivy gets up on all fours, then squeals when I grab her hips and pull her to the edge of the bed where I’m standing. When she looks at me over her shoulder, long blonde hair cascading over her back and pupils dilated wide, she is the erotic picture of fucking ecstasy. I run my hand over her spine, drag her thong down her thighs, then give her ass a playful smack, loving the way it jiggles and the needy whimper she releases.
“I’m going to fuck you like this now, Ivy.” I drag my fingers through her folds and push one into her. She hums and pushes against me, begging for more.
“Please, Kelley,” she begs. “Fuck me just like this.”
Those words on her lips? I can’t handle it.
I line my dick up and push into her until her ass is smashed up against my hips. Then I wrap my hands around her waist, pushing my thumbs into the dimples at the base of her spine, and fuck her just like she asked me to.
I’m entranced, watching how each thrust has her ass bouncing off my abdomen, rippling in the sexiest fucking way. The way she gasps and whimpers, chanting “yes, yes, yes” when I speed up, has my balls tightening, my stomach tingling, and my toes curling. I know I won’t last much longer.
“Touch yourself, baby,” I command, and she does. Ivy rubs her clit until she’s clenching tightly around my dick and I’m exploding my release into the condom, and we both fall onto the bed, sweaty, sated and fucking in love.
“Oh my gosh,” Ivy pushes out between panted breaths, “that was so hot.”
“Yeah?” I ask with a smirk, standing to dispose of the condom.
“Heck, yes. When you said ‘on your knees, baby’ I almost orgasmed right then. It was like Niagara Falls in my panties.” The pure joy in her voice twists up my heart and stomach in the best way, and her tinkling giggle is music to my ears.
“You liked that, huh?”
“Yes, yes, I definitely did. Obviously.”
“What about you with the thong, though? Pulling it to the side and riding me like that? Jesus Christ, Ivy. You’re trying to kill me.” I flop back on the bed and pull her on top of me.
“It’s Bailey’s books.” She giggles and hides her face in my chest. “They’re giving me ideas.”
“Praise Romance Novels!” I say dramatically, and she pinches my side. “I fucking love reading.”
I trail my fingertips up and down her arm, pleased at the goose bumps that pop up from my touch. It sounds corny as hell, but I didn’t know it was possible to be this happy.
I’m about to tell her this, to express for the millionth time just how fucking lucky I feel that she’s mine, when her phone pings with a notification, and she shoots straight up.
Ivy rushes over to the floor where her phone was discarded and swipes the screen, then flicks her eyes to me, wide with nervous excitement.
“What is it?” I sit up and she walks to me, handing me the phone.
“Email notification from Chicago.” She swallows and closes her eyes.
Ivy’s been waiting on tenterhooks to hear back from the Law School at the University of Chicago for two weeks. She’s already received an acceptance from the IU law school, which is right here in the city, but Chicago is one of the top law schools in the country.
“Do you want me to open it?” I ask when she doesn’t reach out to take her phone back. She blinks.
“If I don’t get in, I’m okay with it. Indiana University’s law school is good. Tuition is significantly less. It’s here in the city. It’s only forty-five minutes from Mom and Jacob, and closer to Dr. Joyner,” she adds, getting lost in listing her pros and cons.
“Dr. Joyner can meet with you from anywhere,” I remind her. She raises her eyes to me.
“And you’ll be here.”
My heart thuds. My plan is to stay and teach here. The principal at Morgan County High already told me I have a job if I want it. But if Ivy gets into Chicago...
“University of Chicago isn’t that far from here, Ives. Less than a four-hour drive.” I keep my voice strong and reassuring. I will support her no matter where she goes and what she does. Me and Ivy? We’re forever. “No matter what happens, you got this. We got this.”
She nods her head. “Okay, go ahead and open it.”
I click the notification and it takes me to her email app. I open the email and begin to read, and my heart races and a smile stretches over my face.
“You got in, Ives.”
“I got in?”
“You got in!”
“Oh my gosh! I got in!” Her entire body is alight with happiness and excited energy, and I’m just so damn proud of her. This girl is going to change the fucking world.
“Oh my gosh, I have to call Jacob! And Mom! And your mom! I have to call Dr. Joyner! I have to tell Bailey and Jesse!” Ivy makes for the door, but I wrap my arm around her waist and stop her.
“Baby, you can’t go out there yet. You’re naked.”
“Oh.” She stifles a laugh. “Whoops.”
The energy in the room is buzzing as we hurriedly throw on our clothes, and the smile hasn’t left Ivy’s face the whole time, but when she goes to open the door, her hand pauses on the knob.
“Kelley?”
“Ivy.” I ha
ve a feeling I know what she’s about to say, and my stomach erupts with fucking butterflies.
“What would you say if I asked you to come with me? To move to Chicago?” Her voice is quiet, hopeful but nervous.
“I’d say we’d need to get used to disappointment,” I state seriously and lean on the wall next to her. I wait just a breath—long enough for her to hear me, but too quick for her to jump to conclusions—before adding, “because I hear being a Bears fan is fucking brutal.”
Her eyes whip to mine and she takes in my stupid grin. “What?” she asks, a smile taking over her face, dimple popping back out in all its glory. “Does that mean you’ll come with me?”
I grab her hips and pull her to me, lowering my forehead so it rests on hers. “I’ll go anywhere and everywhere with you, Ivy Jean Rivenbark. As long as you’ll have me, I’ll be there.”
She kisses me with a fierceness I used to be too scared to even dream about. She kisses me with passion and reverence and promise. She kisses me like a woman in love, and fuck if I don’t try to give it back just like she deserves.
“I love you so, so much, Kelley,” she whispers against my lips, and I smile.
“I love you back, Ivy Bean.”
“We’re moving to Chicago together,” she says excitedly.
“Together,” I repeat, and I press another kiss to her lips.
Because I’m proud of her, and because she’s mine, and because I can. The reality still sends chills of elation through me—Ivy Rivenbark is mine. She loves me. She chose me.
I meant it when I said I’m going to love her better than anyone else can. Every day, for the rest of my life, and I’m fucking lucky to do it.
Thank you so much for picking up Love You Better. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
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Want a sneak peek of what’s to come? Flip a few more pages for a look at Bailey’s book, Better With You, out Fall 2021!
Prologue
Betrayal. Hatred. Despair. Guilt.
I’m seeing red. I want to scream. On the inside, I’m a mess.
I keep my face neutral, fight to keep my breathing steady, but all I can see is the date on the calendar. All I can think of is the deadline I won’t reach, and the promise I’m going to have to break.
I let my guard down. I let someone in. And in doing so, I let him down. The only person worthy of everything good, and I’ve let him down. Again.
Tears burn the backs of my eyelids, welling up and threatening to spill, but I won’t let them fall. I’ve had years of practice turning my outside to stone.
The man beside me shifts, and I can feel his gaze on me. His pleading gaze with his dark, chocolate brown eyes. I see his hands moving in my peripheral, his big fingers fidget, and despite his size, the movement is delicate. I know how those hands feel on my skin. I know how soft his touch can be.
I try to fight it, the way my heart clenches and aches. I try to focus on my anger, on the betrayal. I try to keep my sadness for the boy I’ve failed.
But deep down, I know the truth.
Underneath the fury, buried under the new-found hatred, is loss.
Loss and longing.
Mourning for the man beside me, the man I thought I knew. The man who is not at all who he lead me to believe he was.
* * *
Chapter One
Four Weeks Earlier
I smell like stale beer and French fries.
It’s disgusting. I’ll never let myself get used to it.
My shoes stick to the floor as I walk back and forth, wiping things down and replenishing what needs replenished. Limes, lemons, oranges, green olives, and my favorite, maraschino cherries. I snag one before putting the garnish tray back in the ice chest.
“I’m about finished here,” I call to my manager, wiping my hands on my bar towel.
“You’re good, B. Thanks for coming in tonight. I know you’ve got a lot going on.”
“It’s cool,” I shrug. “I can always use the money. Even if it is a slow Wednesday, cash is cash.”
I grab a toothpick from the jar on the bar and steal another cherry from the tray. Popping it in my mouth, I wink at the guy two bar stools down. He left me a decent tip earlier. The least I can do is pay him one last bit of attention since he’s likely to be back.
“Alright, girl, well head out and I’ll see you on Saturday night. You’re closing.”
Jada pulls a draft for another guy and slides him the pint. A group of them came in to watch some sporting something or other earlier and then stayed. I couldn’t care less about it, but it’s the only reason I made any money tonight.
I say goodbye to Jada and head to the back of the bar to get my stuff. Switching out my hideous non-slips for my boots, I drop the shoes in my locker and grab my helmet and crossbody purse.
I should change my shirt, I know I stink like a bar, but I’m just too damn exhausted. I’ve been working more since Jada promoted me to lead bartender at Bar 31, my classes have been kicking my ass, and I’ve been spending all my free time trying to concoct the perfect cookie for the Bakery on Main cookie contest next month. My body is pissed at me and letting me know it, but if I can win that contest? The two-grand in prize money would make it worth it, and having my name and cookie displayed on their menu would be pretty great too.
I duck out the back exit and walk to my bike. She’s my Baby. A black 2012 Honda Rebel 250. I bought it used from the guy who owns the auto garage back home for 1,500 bucks. It was a fucking steal, but I think he felt sorry for me and cut me a deal.
Sometimes there are advantages to being the girl everyone pities.
Putting my purse in the saddle bag, I swing my leg over the bike, put my helmet on my head, and start her up. No matter how tired I am, the rumble of her engine always gives me a jolt of excitement. Something about the freedom and the danger, maybe. I rev her twice, just for fun, and then cruise out onto the street.
It’s already 12:15 a.m. when I pull into the parking lot of the convince store. It’s late, I’m beat, and I only need one thing, so I’m braving it.
I hate having to shop so close to campus. I don’t like running into people I know.
Working at one of the popular campus bars means a lot of people recognize me. Occupational hazard, and definitely not ideal. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of jobs where I can make 500 bucks on a weekend fully clothed, so when I’m on the clock, I fake it. Makes me quite a damn peach when I clock out.
After locking my helmet onto the backrest and grabbing my purse, I pop in my earbuds—a whole other level of antisocial. I spent the last three hours being on. Any more human interaction and I might develop a twitch.
My 2000’s pop punk playlist is blaring in my ears, and I head to aisle six where they keep the baking stuff. I scan the shelf, find what I need and go to grab for it, then stop.
Shit.
This store actually has pure vanilla extract. I drop my hand. I was gonna get the imitation stuff—it’s what I’ve been using—but if I want to win this contest, I need quality ingredients.
Shit. Eight freaking bucks for two ounces? I can get eight ounces of the imitation for $1.99.
I groan. This hurts. Like actually flipping hurts. It’s that poor kid mentality.
I sigh, resigned, and reach for the bottle, just as another hand snatches it from the shelf. I whip around keeping my eyes on the precious bottle—the only one this stupid convenience store has—and huff.
I’m about to pop off, put this snatchy thief in their place, but my attention is stolen by the hand that’s holding the bottle.
A big hand.
A strong hand.
A sexy hand.
Hmm.
I scan my eyes upward. A few woven bracelets are tied loosely around the thick wrist, and a dusting of hair covers the muscular, rigid, golden forearm.
That’s a nice f
orearm, right there.
I move my gaze farther up, over a defined bicep and broad chest covered in a blue and white baseball-style t-shirt. A silver necklace of some sort hides beneath the collar of the shirt, the defined jaw is sporting a bit of light brown scruff, and soft, chestnut hair feathers just above the shoulders.
I bring my focus out, enough to study the whole hairstyle, to find it loose, kinda messy, with a bit of a wave to it.
Prince haired Harry hair.
When the mouth moves, I flick my eyes down to it to find plump lips quirked in a bit of a smile, and they move again.
The hulking man is speaking.
“Huh?” All I can hear is Patrick Stump in my ears.
His mouth moves a third time, the tiny smile turning into a full-blown grin showing off straight, white teeth.
Then I watch in slow motion as the other hand, the one not holding my bottle of pure vanilla hostage, raises up and tugs one of my earbuds out of my ear.
“You said Prince Harry,” he says with a laugh.
“No, I said prince haired Harry,” I correct. “And I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.” He pops a brow in question, and I roll my eyes. “Google it.”
“Okay,” he continues, voice low and playful. “Are you okay?”
I bristle. “I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t sure. You’re kinda just standing there staring.”
“I was sizing up my new enemy.” I tug out my other earbud.
“Enemy?” He laughs again. It’s a good laugh.
“You just stole that vanilla from me. I don’t make it a habit to befriend thieves.”
“I didn’t steal it. I just got it before you.” He’s still smiling.
It’s an attractive smile, damn it.
“I was clearly here first. I was clearly reaching for that bottle when you jumped out of nowhere and snatched it.” I put my hand on my hip and pop it out. My roommate Ivy calls it my power pose. She says it’s how she knows when I’m in a take-no-prisoners mode.
