by RC Boldt
“I can’t believe that traitor.” Becket’s remark bears no heat, merely amusement.
“Maybe next time you’ll up the ante and throw in some fresh produce or something.”
“Ha-ha. Poke fun all you want, but that protein shake mix doesn’t come cheap.”
We laugh softly, and I realize how much I’ve missed this. Missed talking to him. On the ride home, I contemplated this situation with Becket.
He’s a gorgeous guy—no doubt about it—but he’s also funny and kind, and he makes me laugh. It really can’t hurt to spend time with him, especially since I know it’ll eventually lead to the bedroom. He’s admitted he finds me attractive, so I know that’s an option.
“Hey.” He startles me, dragging me from my inner thoughts. “I’m planning to grab some frozen yogurt after dinner tomorrow. Want to join me?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” I tease playfully.
“Oh, there’s just one thing.” His odd tone sets me at unease. “You’re good with sharing me with other women, right?”
What kind of question is that?
I can’t help but frown in confusion. “Uh, yes. Of course.” My answer comes out cautiously.
“Perfect.”
We make plans to meet at six thirty at the place only a mile from my place. But when we say goodbye, my mind is still reeling with his question. You’re good with sharing me with other women, right?
Even worse, it’s swirling with what was my initial unspoken answer.
No.
THE NEXT NIGHT
I arrive at the frozen yogurt place early and wait inside to escape the lingering humidity. Busying myself by checking emails on my phone, I nearly miss Becket when he enters. When I glance up and catch sight of him, my jaw drops.
Then I burst out laughing because he totally had me going.
“Sharing you with other women, huh?”
He merely offers me that show-stopping smile of his. It’s immediately clear why it’s garnered him ads galore because he still possesses a unique quality about him. Aside from his good looks, something deeper shines through. The evidence is in his eyes and his smile; an inherent kindness that’s undeniable.
Becket has a baby girl who can’t be much more than eighteen months old in the soft carrier strapped to his back. One of his hands is clutched by a girl who appears to be about six or seven years old. When he tosses a glance back at the baby and offers an affectionate smile, something stirs within me. An odd sort of yearning.
My laughing eyes collide with his. I wave a hand, gesturing to the little one in the carrier. “I love how you accessorize.”
He grins. “It makes me look slimmer, right?” He turns to the side as if modeling. “What do you think?”
“Totally,” I agree with a laugh.
“Ladies, this is Miss Ivy.” He shifts to allow the baby snuggling his back to see me. “This is Emilia.” He peers down at the young girl at his side. “And this is Violet.”
“Hi there,” I greet the girls. Emilia offers me a shy smile, nuzzling Becket’s cotton T-shirt with her cheek.
Violet says a quick, “Hi,” before she looks up at Becket with a concerned frown.
“Uncle Becket? What do you think about adding Heath bar pieces to my yogurt?”
He feigns a look of deep thought. “I’ll be honest. I’m personally not a huge fan of stuff that sticks in my teeth.”
Violet nods seriously. “Good point. I’ll stick with sprinkles.”
Becket’s gaze meets mine. “Ready to do this?”
“Absolutely.”
Moments later, we’re all seated in a booth and getting the girls situated. I watch with amazement as Becket flawlessly withdraws Emilia from the carrier and places her on the inside of the booth. She automatically rests on her knees and folds her hands on the table.
I glance over at Becket, and he winks.
“Emilia likes to lead us in grace before we eat.” Then he bows his head and links his fingers together, Violet following suit.
I’m so surprised that I’m scrambling to follow suit as soon as Emilia begins to sing a little rhyme of blessing. Once she finishes and we all chorus Amen, each of us reaches for our spoons and digs in.
I’ve just taken my first spoonful of frozen yogurt when Violet casually tosses out, “So tell me about yourself, Miss Ivy.”
13
Becket
“That was certainly…interesting. Fun but interesting, for sure.”
At Ivy’s recap of the night, I can’t resist the laugh that breaks free. “It’s never a dull moment with these two.” Especially with Violet’s interrogation of sorts. I never expected her to ask Ivy whether she’s a fan of Taylor Swift or Katy Perry.
“They really love you.” It’s not so much her words that give me pause as the way she says them.
“Well, I love them.” My voice is husky with emotion because it’s the truth. “I’m lucky to be in their lives.”
Speaking of my two favorite ladies, I’ve buckled them safely in my vehicle, running the air-conditioning to combat some of the August humidity. Emilia’s already asleep, and Violet looks like she’s not far behind.
“I’d better get these girls back home and put them to bed before it gets much later.”
“Uncle Becket? Can we have your special sunflower butter-granola wrap for breakfast?” Violet’s groggy voice calls out.
I duck inside my open driver’s side door. “Of course.”
I turn to Ivy and flash an apologetic look. “I have to call it a night. It’s slumber party weekend, and I have to get them back to my place.”
Ivy raises her eyebrows. “Oh, really? A slumber party weekend at Uncle Becket’s place sounds like a blast.”
“It is!” Violet pipes up suddenly from her seat. “Sometimes we paint each other’s nails and do hair, and we usually watch a movie, too.”
“Wow, that must be fun!” Ivy grins up at me.
“Well, good night, Ivy.” I hesitate. “Let me know you got home safe, will you?”
“I will,” she murmurs softly.
Just as she turns away to walk over to her bike, I snag her wrist. Ever so gently, I draw her closer and reach to tuck her hair behind her ear. Then I duck my head and bring my lips close.
“Thanks for tonight.” With each word, my lips dust against the shell of her ear. She shivers when my hot breath washes over her skin.
“It was my pleasure.” Her voice sounds husky with arousal, yet she still retreats a small step. “Good night, Becket.”
I’m collapsing into bed after finally getting the girls settled for the night when my phone vibrates with another text message. Earlier, she’d let me know she’d made it home safely.
Ivy: I feel like I need to give you effusive thanks for letting me join you tonight.
There’s no way to restrain my wide smile at her message.
Me: Nice usage of our Word of the Day. Thanks for your fervid enthusiasm tonight.
Ivy: I’m also under no impression that I’m using that word in proper context.
I chuckle softly, and my thumb hovers over the keys as I waver with indecision. I loved having her with us tonight, and the girls immediately took to her, even with Violet’s usual curious interrogation. Ivy hadn’t batted an eye, though. She’d been exactly how I’d imagined she’d be.
Perfect.
“Except she’s anti-relationship,” I mutter to myself. These are the moments when it’s a curse to be a guy who doesn’t just want to get laid. Who wants more.
I stare down at my phone for a beat. Then I text her back.
Me: Want to come over for breakfast and experience my famous granola wraps?
A few seconds later, Ivy calls.
“Hey.”
“Tell me more about these granola wraps you speak of.” Ivy’s voice has a faint raspy quality, and when I detect the sound of covers shifting, my brain goes directly to the gutter.
Dammit. Sometimes being a gentleman is a curse.
/> I exhale slowly. “Well, I have this thick whole wheat tortilla—gluten-free since Emilia has a sensitivity—and I spread on some organic sunflower butter, drizzle a little honey over it, and then sprinkle it with granola. Fold it in half and voilà!”
She groans, and it sends a surge of arousal directly to my dick. “That sounds delicious.”
“Does that mean you’ll join us?” Damn, I hate the hopeful inflection in my voice. Pathetic.
“I don’t know.” I can hear the smile in her tone. “Promise you won’t lock me in your underground bunker?”
“Let’s not get too crazy here, woman. Gotta let me have some excitement.”
Her soft laugh warms me, and I find myself grinning like a crazy person.
“Well, you’ll have to give me directions.”
I barely resist the urge to pump my fist in the air and attempt to maintain a casual tone. “I’ll text you my address and gate code.”
“Gate code, huh?” There’s a teasing lilt to her tone. “Ah, I forgot you’re the famous baseball player.”
“Ivy,” I warn playfully, knowing she’s pushing my buttons. “Football. I play football.”
She laughs in response before quieting, and there’s a hint of worry in her words. “You realize I know nothing about sports, right?”
“Not a problem. I can teach you. That’s what friends are for.”
Just so happens this “friend” fantasizes about doing even friendlier things to you.
“Okay, what time should I be there?”
“Eight sharp.”
“Ooh, demanding already.”
“Ivy?” I change gears abruptly because I can’t hold back anymore.
“Becket?” she answers, amusement lining her tone.
I blow out a long breath. “I’ve got to be honest with you.” I glance down at my boxer briefs, at the unmistakable evidence of what merely speaking to Ivy does to me. “I like you.”
“I…like you, too.” Her response is cautious.
“I like you a lot.” Jesus. I sound like a ten-year-old kid. Rushing on, I say, “And I apologize in advance if this offends you.” I slide a hand behind my head and stare up at the ceiling. “But hell”—I break off with a short laugh—“I think of you as more than just a…friend.”
Specifically, of her here in my bed. Of her here in the morning—not while the girls are around, of course—and how hot it could be if I licked some of that honey and sunflower butter off her.
Shit. I’m such a damn perv.
When she doesn’t respond, a tinge of panic courses through me, and I press on. “Although, I have to also mention I like talking to you, and I’d—”
“Becket.” God, the way she says my name nearly has me coming undone. Because the sensual huskiness has me imagining her saying my name over and over again while I make her come.
“Ivy,” I parrot back softly.
“I think about you, too.”
“Do you?” The biggest damn grin spreads across my face.
“Oh, yes.”
“Do tell, Miss Hayes.”
“I think of you when I’m in bed.” There’s a slight hitch in her breathing.
Fucking hell. She’s just opened Pandora’s box. “I’m thinking of you right now. Wishing you were in bed with me.”
There’s a rustling again like she’s shifting beneath the covers. “What would you do if I were there with you?”
“First, I’d kiss you, like I’ve been dying to.”
“And where would you kiss me?” There’s a hint of mischief in her tone.
A subdued laugh spills from my lips, and I admonish playfully, “Ivy Hayes. You naughty woman, you.” After a beat, I add, “On your lips, for starters.”
“Are you a good kisser?”
“You’ll find out how good I am tomorrow.”
“Ah, promises, promises.” She pauses. “What happens after you kiss me?”
“According to the girls, we’d live happily ever after.”
The laugh she lets loose is one I haven’t yet heard. It has a different quality to it; it’s more unpolished and happier.
I internally vow to do everything in my power to make her laugh like this again.
“Hey, Becket?” Her voice is softer, barely more than a whisper.
“Yes?”
“I like you, too. And I’ll let you in on a secret.” Her tone is hushed.
“What’s that?”
“I’m touching myself right now.” This time, her breath audibly hitches.
Fuck me. “Jesus, Ivy.” I shove my boxer briefs down and kick them off. With my hand wrapped around the thick shaft of my cock, I let my eyes fall closed at the thought of her doing this to me. “You’ve got me hard as hell right now.”
“I wish I were there, so I could touch you.”
“Are you wet, Ivy?” My own voice is gravelly, hoarse as I work my cock in long, sure strokes.
“Yes,” she answers breathlessly.
“I’d give anything to feel how wet you are right now. To taste you.” Fuck. I run the pad of my thumb over the moisture that’s gathering at the head of my cock.
“God, yes,” she breathes. “I want to come on your tongue.”
At her hypnotically arousing words, I fist my length. “You’ll work your clit while I fuck you with my tongue.” The image is so vivid in my mind that it drags a groan from the back of my throat. “Your thighs clench around me, and you thrust against my mouth when you come.”
Ivy’s breathing is labored now. “Becket…”
“Fuck,” I groan. “Then I’d push deep inside you, feel how slick you are. And I’d make you come all over again.”
“I’m so close,” she whispers raggedly.
“Me, too.” I’m working my cock in rapid, thorough strokes.
“Becket.” Hearing her cry out my name sends me over the edge, and my own release spills over my fist and onto my stomach.
Our harsh breathing is the only sound for a few moments as we get ourselves under control.
“Becket Jones.” Ivy exhales my name. “All I’ve got to say is those granola wraps of yours better measure up tomorrow. I’d hate to leave disappointed.”
I smile and huff out a little laugh. “Trust me. You won’t be leaving here disappointed.” I grab some tissues and wipe myself clean.
“Promises, promises,” she teases.
“Go pray for forgiveness for taking advantage of an innocent man and I’ll see you in the morning.”
She snickers. Her voice carries a hint of tenderness as she says, “Good night, Becket.”
“Night, Ivy.”
14
Ivy
“You’re seriously going to his house for breakfast?” Darcy repeats for the tenth time.
With an exasperated eye roll, I answer her. “Yes, Darce. And I’m going to be late if I don’t get going.”
“But,” she sputters, “you don’t do that.”
“It’s only breakfast. And the girls will be there. It’s not a big deal.”
“Right.” Her dubious tone sets me on edge. “It’s not at all what a couple does. They never have breakfast together in the morning.”
I set my bag on my motorcycle and place her on speakerphone while I pull on my helmet. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’m taking my bike.”
“Be careful.” It sounds like she wants to say more, but she leaves it at that.
“Safe as in church.”
“Call me when you’re done. I want to hear all about this breakfast.”
“Darcy,” I warn.
“What?” she protests. “I’m curious about these granola wraps, too.”
Right.
“Talk to you later.”
“Bye.”
Navigating my way along Atlantic Boulevard, I’m grateful for the light early morning traffic. It’s mostly overcast with the sun barely peeking through the clouds. It’s still humid, of course, even though it’s seven thirty. Typical for Florida in August. But the slight breeze
as I maneuver the road helps to alleviate the heat.
When I stop and idle my bike at the gated entrance to Becket’s home, I’m suddenly overwhelmed with uncertainty. The ornate walls and wrought iron gates enclosing the neighborhood make me realize just how much I don’t fit in—not with this level of wealth. I hesitate and consider turning around when an older gentleman emerges from the small square building in the center of the gated entrance and exit lanes leading into the neighborhood.
I flip up my helmet visor as he approaches and offers me a friendly smile. “You must be Miss Hayes. Mr. Jones is expecting you.” He draws to a stop a few feet away from me and offers me his hand. “I’m Pete.”
We exchange a brief handshake. “Nice to meet you, Pete. And please call me Ivy.”
He nods and takes a small step back, dropping his gaze to my motorcycle. “She’s a beauty.”
“Thank you.” I beam with pride because I happen to cherish this bike.
“Well, don’t let me keep you.” He smiles and walks over to the gate’s keypad, punching in a code. The large iron gates open, and he waves me on. “Have a wonderful day.”
“Thank you, Pete.” I flip my visor down and drive through slowly, adhering to the strict ten miles per hour speed limit sign. When I arrive at the address Becket gave me, an uneasy feeling unfurls in the pit of my stomach. I fight it back and pull into the driveway.
I slide the kickstand in place, slip off my bike, and unfasten my helmet. Running a hand over my hair, I try to ensure it’s not terribly mussed. Then I take a moment to stare up at the beautiful home. Painted a soft shade of gray, the stucco beach home has a large curving set of stairs leading to the front doors. The doors of the triple garage are closed, and I wonder how many vehicles Becket owns.
The sound of the front door opening draws my attention, and I’m faced with the sight of Becket. In a plain white T-shirt, he’s wearing simple nylon workout shorts that peek out from beneath an apron that says, “This uncle has a way with balls.” Embroidered beneath the words is a large football.
I grin up at him. “Nice apron.”
