by RC Boldt
Dax draws back with a casual shrug. “Your momma will thank me for not letting you go around lookin’ like a fool.”
Tank holds Dax’s gaze, eyeing him hard, before his face cracks, transforming into a huge grin. “Man, I ain’t never had a spit bath from anyone but my momma.” He holds out a hand to Dax. “It’s confirmed. We’re friends for life.”
Dax accepts his hand, and the two do their little handshake-slap routine. “Not confirmed until we make it FBO, man.”
Our lineman frowns. “FBO?”
“Facebook official,” we all say in unison.
I laugh and press the button to change the camera for our video to selfie mode. “Thanks to the city of New Orleans for hosting us. As you can see, we’re having a blast. Look forward to seeing everyone this Sunday for the game.” I hesitate before quickly adding, “And to a certain someone, thanks for the all-you-can-eat crawfish tip.” I end the video and ensure it’s posted to my account before pocketing my phone.
“I can’t believe you sent me that.” Ivy’s laughter is evident in her voice while we talk on her way home from work.
“Thought it might help a little.” I shift the large ice pack that’s Velcroed around my shoulder and attempt to hold back a groan.
I tweaked my shoulder during the game, and a part of me knows it’s a sign I’m nearing my time to hang up my jersey. It’s not that I haven’t planned for retirement—I have—but it still breaks my heart a little to think about leaving this part of my life behind.
“How did you get it delivered so fast?” Ivy’s question drags me from my thoughts.
“My manager. He’s kind of a jack of all trades and even helps with Daisy when I’m away. I asked him to grab the book for you.”
“I appreciate the way you had him correct the title.”
I grin because I had Chris correct the title of the Football for Dummies book so it read Football Basics for Becket’s Girlfriend.
“You don’t mind the new title?” I can’t help it. This is the same woman who’s been tentatively tiptoeing along this…relationship? Hell, we haven’t really defined anything. But I sure as hell think of her as my girlfriend, as juvenile as it sounds. I don’t want to spook her, but at the same time, I want her to know where I stand.
“It’s...” She trails off before finishing stronger with, “I don’t mind.”
Well, that’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, but she’s still on the phone with me, so I’ll take it as a good sign.
“I like the little bit at the end of your video in New Orleans.” Her voice softens. “That was sweet.”
“Ah, well, Tank probably would’ve made out with you to show his appreciation after eating so much crawfish at that place.”
She laughs, and it warms me deep within. “I imagine they lost money on you guys.”
“Nah.” I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “We thanked the owner and gave both him and the waitresses extra cash for putting up with us practically eating them out of crawfish.”
She falls silent for a moment. “That’s really sweet of you guys.”
I shrug and instantly regret the action. “It’s just the right thing.”
Ivy releases a slow sigh. “Becket Jones.” There’s a hint of a smile in her voice. “You seem too good to be true.”
I shift, and this time, I can’t restrain the groan at the discomfort radiating from my shoulder. “If I were better off, I’d be over to visit you.” I twist my lips in regret. “Sorry, I’m being a wuss, but, man. This damn shoulder—” I break off when my doorbell rings, and I frown in confusion because I’m not expecting anyone.
“Did I hear your doorbell ring?” Ivy asks before offering, “I can let you go so you can get it.”
“I’m not expecting anyone,” I say slowly before I gingerly lift myself from my spot on the couch, attempting not to jar my shoulder. “And I’m not really in the mood for visitors right now.” I glance down at myself, clad only in low-slung workout shorts and the ice pack strapped to my injured shoulder.
“Maybe it’s someone bringing you extra ice packs and anti-inflammatory enzymes for your shoulder as well as some dinner.”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. Ivy’s suggestion strikes me as odd with her mention of what Presley, my chiropractor, supplies me with. She turned me on to some naturopathic stuff because it helps to knock out pain and decrease inflammation without pumping my body full of unnecessary ingredients most over-the-counter pain medications contain.
When I tug my front door open, I can’t believe my eyes.
Ivy stands before me, her car parked in my driveway, and she’s holding a large brown paper bag that smells delicious.
Her expression is tinged with nervousness, as if wary of my response. “I come bearing gifts and”—she holds out her other hand, a plastic bag hanging from her fingers—“extra-large icepacks.”
I step forward, ignoring the way my shoulder protests my jerky movements, and tuck my fingers inside the front waistband of Ivy’s shorts. A swift tug is all it takes to bring her lower body close to mine. I lower my head and whisper against her lips while our eyes are locked. “Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome,” she whispers back.
Our lips meet, and I kiss her, pouring everything into it, trying to communicate how much I’ve missed her and how much I appreciate her doing this for me.
How hard I’m falling for her.
I attempt to drive my emotions into this kiss, everything I know she’s not ready to hear quite yet.
Once I tear my mouth from hers to gaze down at her, I revel in the way her eyes flutter open, dazed. The rosy slickness of her lips from my kiss stirs my cock, but I will it to settle.
I take the bags from her grip, back away, and tip my head toward the open door. “Come on in.”
When I close the door behind us, as crazy as it sounds, I swear my shoulder hurts a little less.
It’s as though Ivy Hayes is a soothing balm to not only my heart but to the rest of me, too.
22
Ivy
Becket Jones has a way of making me experience a lot of firsts.
He’s the first man to incite that feeling within me—like he’s the magnet and I’m the polarized metal. Every single ounce of my body gravitates to him. I’m compelled to get to know this man on more than a surface level, overwhelmed with a yearning to be near him, and bombarded with a longing to comfort him when he’s not feeling well.
He makes me wish I didn’t have a past that haunts me and so many secrets. He makes me wish I wasn’t so…afraid.
The look on his face when he opened the door to find me standing there and the way his eyes lit up a split second before the corners crinkled with grateful appreciation spoke volumes. But it was his kiss that truly said it all.
His kiss left me feeling off-kilter, causing my stomach to lurch with nervousness and uncertainty. Even though I’ve avoided all forms of emotional attachment with men—aside from Leif, who’s more of a brother—I know the signs.
I’m sinking further, falling under his magical spell. He’s trying to revive something I’ve been convinced died long ago.
My heart.
Now that I’ve ensured he’s eaten the dinner I brought, and I’ve replaced his ice pack with a fresh, cold one, I busy myself cleaning up and disposing of the takeout containers. And that’s when it happens.
Becket’s relaxed on one end of the massive sectional while he watches some highlights on SportsCenter, one arm propped up on pillows, the large cloth sleeve housing the ice pack fastened around his shoulder. His eyelids look heavy, and I don’t want to wear out my welcome. It’s a Tuesday night after all.
“Stop fidgeting and get over here.”
Startled, I part my lips to protest, but he’s quicker. “Ivy.” His gaze flickers over to me. “Come here, please.”
With caution, I approach him and gingerly take a seat on the opposite side of his injured shoulder. He catches me by surprise w
hen he raises his good arm without so much as a glance my way. I slide closer, careful not to jar him with my movements, and settle against him. He curls his arm around me and exhales.
“I’ve been waiting for this since you got here.” His softly spoken words rumble in his chest beneath my ear. “Do you have an early meeting tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Can you stay?” There’s an underlying hint of vulnerability and hopefulness in his words, which pierces my already cracked and compromised armor.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He tightens his arm’s hold on me, hugging me closer to him in response. The thump of his heart beats in a steady cadence beneath my ear, and it serves as another reminder that things have shifted between us.
I ease away from his embrace to face him. He turns, silently questioning me, but I can’t answer. At least, not verbally. Instead, I show him.
His gaze is searching, his eyes flicking over my features. I shift to rest my knees on the leather couch and swing one across his lap to straddle him, bracing my hands on the leather on either side of him.
He parts his lips, and I press the tip of my index finger to them. With a tiny shake of my head, I lean forward and whisper, “No words.” I drag my lips softly over his. “Please.”
An imperceptible nod from him is all I need. I press my lips to his, and he allows me to control the kiss, the gentle way I sip at his lips. His free hand moves to my hip and the fingers tighten, clenching the fabric of my simple cotton shorts. His cock hardens beneath me in reaction to my touch.
When his lips part a fraction beneath mine, it allows me to sweep my tongue inside to taste him. And this is when he breaks.
He releases his hold on my hip to delve his fingers into my hair, and our kiss turns hotter, wetter, and more passionate. Our tongues clash and spar seductively, and he uses his hold on my hair to tip my head and deepen our kiss.
His skin is hot beneath my hands, his pectorals firm, and when I lightly drag my nails over his nipples, a slight shudder wracks his body. I rock my hips, his prodding hardness spurring an ache and a surge of wetness between my thighs. Our lips part, and his heavy-lidded gaze locks on me with unbanked heat. With my index finger, I trace a path down the center of his chest, over the defined curve of his abdominals, and pause just below his belly button. The fine dark hair that disappears into the waistband of his shorts entrances me.
Still holding his gaze, I nudge his legs apart and slide down to kneel between them. I tuck my fingers beneath the top of his shorts and start to lower the fabric when he grasps my wrist, drawing me to a stop.
“Ivy.” He pauses for a beat, his forehead wrinkling in worry. “I didn’t ask you to stay the night for this.”
“I know,” I reply softly. “I want to.” I tug his waistband lower, down over the flared head of his cock.
I’m about to do what I’ve never done before. I’ve never gone down on a man without any ulterior motive of getting my own pleasure in return. Without the intention of having control over the situation. This moment is vastly different because I want this. I want to help him, to get his mind off the pain. I want to love a part of his body with my mouth even if I can’t do so with the long-forgotten organ in my chest.
I hold his gaze and lower my mouth to tongue the slit of his cock and lap up the drop of moisture from the tip. I dart it along the veiny ridges before trailing it along the underside of his shaft, reveling in his sharp intake of breath. His thighs spread farther, providing me more access, and the fist that settles beside his thigh clenches tightly.
I grip his heavy straining erection in my hand and slide my mouth down over him, and he makes a rough sound in the back of his throat when I create suction with my mouth. I slide up and down his length, taking him as deeply as I can before I release him and look up. His heavy-lidded gaze centers on me, and I speak, each syllable, each movement of my lips brushing against his tip. “How’s your shoulder?”
A corner of his lips hitches upward. “What shoulder?”
I slide back down his length, slick from my mouth, and work him in and out of my mouth in steady strokes. He rolls his hips, and the powerful muscles in his thighs grow more rigid beneath my palms.
“Ivy.” His voice is gravelly, but I don’t release him from my mouth. “You need to stop.” He pinches his eyes closed when I create a stronger suction.
There’s no chance of me stopping. He opens his eyes, and there’s a tinge of wildness to them. He delves a hand into my hair, tangling his fingers in it. The stronger my suction, the steadier I stroke him with my mouth, the more guttural his moans become. His carnal reaction intensifies when I shift my hand to cup his sack and run a finger along the seam.
“God…Ivy.” He breathes out my name, a myriad of emotions embedded in these two words. “Fuck.” He thrusts into my mouth, pulsing his release, and I swallow every bit. Once the shudders wracking his body ease, I gently slide my lips off him.
His eyes are still closed, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths, and I carefully pull his shorts back up to cover him. The hand gripping my upper arm brings my attention back to his face.
“Come here.”
With care, I rise with the intention of returning to the spot beside him but am caught off guard by the swift tug, which results in me on his lap.
He quirks an eyebrow. “You know I can’t let you get away with that.”
“What do you mean?”
He slides a hand to my cheek and cradles my face, his thumb skimming my cheekbone. He searches my features for a beat before his mouth curves upward in a predatory smile and it sets my entire body ablaze.
Becket dips his head and dusts a light kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Tell me something.” He places another kiss on the opposite corner. “Did you like doing that just now?” His voice dips even lower to a huskier, more seductive timbre. “Did it turn you on?”
I hold his gaze as my voice contains a hint of breathlessness. “If you’re asking if I’m wet for you, I think you should check for yourself.” This is the normal Ivy Hayes, challenging the man and acting in a seductive manner.
What’s new is the fact I feel off-kilter and nervous. I’ve never physically ached for someone’s touch before.
Until now.
He lowers his hand from my face, skimming it down my shoulder before grazing over the top of one breast. I can’t resist instinctively arching into his touch, and he pauses a millisecond, cupping the weight of it in his hand before descending once again. When he reaches my hip, he veers toward my center, to the apex of my thighs, and easily slides beneath the soft fabric of my shorts.
I gasp at the sensation of his fingers gliding over the front of my panties and give in to the urge to move against his touch as if to spur him on further.
His lips part when he notices how damp my thong is, and his eyes darken with lust. “Is this for me?” He slides his fingers beneath the edge of my panties to gently trace the crease of my entrance. “Did you like having me in your mouth?”
I arch and rock my hips, aching for him to slide his fingers deep inside me and assuage this ache. “Yes,” I breathe out and spread my legs wider upon his lap, granting him more access.
He lowers his head to trail kisses along my jawline, and when he speaks, his warm breath sends shivers coursing down my spine. “I plan to put my mouth on you.” He presses a kiss alongside the column of my neck. “And make you come just as hard as you made me.”
My breath hitches in my throat at his words. “But your shoulder,” I protest weakly. God, I’m terrible. He’s hurting, yet my baser needs are screaming for release, for him to relieve this aching pressure between my thighs.
He nudges aside the collar of my shirt and dusts a gentle kiss at my collarbone before his tongue darts out to taste my skin. “I don’t care about my damn shoulder right now.” One of his fingers dips inside, just barely, and I gasp and bury my face in his neck. “I want to touch you, Ivy.” He presses his finger deeper, and I w
himper softly. “Do you want this?”
“Yes,” I whisper against his hot skin. “God, yes.”
Another finger dips inside me, and I arch into his touch, writhing on his lap.
“You want my touch?” His voice is a low growl but turns to something more…intimate and almost vulnerable. “You want me?”
I draw back to look at him, to see if I can decipher exactly what it is he’s asking of me, but I get lost in the look in his eyes. They devour me; his heated gaze centers on me with an unnerving intensity.
I answer with unabashed honesty. “Yes.” I want you so much it scares me. Please don’t hurt me.
He brings his face closer while holding my gaze and whispers intoxicating words that make my inner muscles clench. “I need you”—he toys with my bottom lip, gently drawing it between his teeth before releasing it—“naked.” He draws away slightly, and that smirk I’ve come to know peeks out. “Then”—his eyes sparkle mischievously—“I want to taste you on my lips.”
When he leans back, I move to my feet and reach for my shorts. Sliding them down over my hips, I kick them off to the side. Becket’s sharp intake of breath spurs me on, and I rid myself of my panties.
“Oh, Ivy,” he breathes, taking in the sight of my naked lower body. He raises his gaze, fiery heat within them. “Now the rest.”
I hesitate, my hands pausing at the bottom hem. It’s an odd feeling, now with Becket. I’ve been naked with men before, but it’s never been like this.
This—here with him—I feel like I’m baring more than my skin. Like he sees more than simply a naked woman standing before him.
With a deep breath, I remove my shirt and unclasp my bra to free my breasts, dropping the clothing to the floor. I stand before him, my hands at my sides, and swallow hard past the nervous lump in my throat.
“You’re beautiful.”
Nervousness makes me divert his sentiment. “I’m naked, Jones. I’m a sure thing, so no need for the flowery talk.”
