I want to give myself permission to get to know his kids. I want to spend time with his family and friends. I want to be worthy of being in his life.
And I want to give him the kind of security that he’s giving me.
The easy, blind acceptance and trust.
He knows I’m not perfect.
But he’s kissing me and stroking me and setting my body on fire anyway. My breasts ache to be touched. My clit is demanding attention. And this kiss—
This kiss is promising he knows it, and we’ll get there.
So are his hands, gently pushing my cardigan off my shoulders, his fingers trailing fire down my arms.
He could be squeezing my ass. Demanding that I part my lips for him to take my mouth by siege. Pushing me against the wall and pressing that hard ridge between my thighs.
And I want him to.
Oh, how I want him to.
But I want this too. This slow, leisurely, set-my-body-on-fire-one-easy-touch-at-a-time seduction.
“I could kiss you like this all night,” I murmur against his lips.
“I’ve wanted to do this for weeks.”
“Even when I killed Fiery?”
“Especially when you killed Fiery.”
“I thought you wanted to throttle me.”
“Kissing and throttling aren’t mutually exclusive with you.”
I laugh.
His eyes crease in the corners. And then he’s kissing me again, harder, and it’s not enough to trail my fingers over his face, his neck and shoulders, and his chest, my hands wet and chilly outside the steam of the shower, but in an alive kind of way that makes me want more.
I want everything.
But mostly, I want him to have everything. For him to know he deserves to be taken care of too.
And so when he reaches for my shirt, instead of letting him, I drop to my knees.
“Lila.” It’s a plea and a strained warning.
An I want you coupled with a but we can’t do this.
“When’s the last time you did something for yourself, Mr. Wilson?” I lick my lips as his heavy, thick hard-on bobs before my eyes.
“I—”
“No, you don’t,” I counter without letting him finish, because I can see him about to insist he’s fine, that he takes care of himself all the time.
But not like I can.
Not right now.
I cradle his tight balls in one hand and lick the water off him from root to tip, swirling around his head before taking him all the way into my mouth.
He groans and grips my hair, my name both a plea and a curse on his lips.
Cool water mists out of the shower while I suck and tease and pamper his cock, and it’s not long before he’s gripping my hair tighter. “Lila—I haven’t—not since—I can’t—I’m going to—”
I fist him at the base and rock my mouth harder against his tip, suck harder, and he groans while he comes down my throat.
And I take it all.
My breasts ache to be touched.
My vagina is begging for attention.
But this isn’t about me.
It’s about him.
About giving him something just for him, with no expectations of anything in return, because that’s what you do for people you care about.
He sags against the shower wall, and I pull off him, then slowly rise. “Finish your shower,” I whisper before kissing him softly. “I’ll go make you some dinner.”
“Lila.”
There’s no shield up. No hiding the mixed emotions clouding his eyes. No forcing his posture straight, or masking that his breath is coming in great gulps.
I don’t know if that’s regret or memories.
I don’t know if it’s fear of trusting me, or fear that I’m going to leave.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he finishes roughly.
I’m nodding before I can think better of it.
“I have a guest room—my kids—they come in here—”
Still nodding.
No disappointment, Lila. Tonight’s for him. For him. For him.
“And security’s easier—and it’s late—and I need to shut up.”
He reaches for the shower door, but I don’t let him close it.
Not yet.
“Slow and easy, okay?”
His eyes lock on mine again, and this time, everything’s much easier to read.
I want you.
And neither of us knows exactly what that means, but we both know it’ll be complicated as hell.
“Slow and easy,” he agrees.
22
Tripp
When I get out of the bathroom, my bed’s freshly made, my phone’s plugged in and charging on my nightstand, and there’s a note that dinner’s waiting for me downstairs.
It’s been a long while since my cock’s gotten any mouth action, and I’m both embarrassed at how quickly I came, and also relaxed in a way I haven’t been in so long, I forgot my shoulders could unwind.
Lila.
She’s not at all what I expected. And now that the adrenaline has left my system, I can acknowledge that finding a retirement-age dude sitting on my back porch making vague threats doesn’t even hit the top ten list of most uncomfortable situations I’ve ever been in.
Davis would say I’m getting played.
Cash would vote for playing her right back.
Levi would tell me to keep the kids out of it, but have fun, because how many smart, sexy women are there in this world who’d want to put up with me?
Beck would take her at face value and tell me life’s too short to second-guess a chance at real happiness. The hurt happens, man. But you have to risk it to be happy.
Not that he took much of his own advice before Sarah, and god knows I know about the hurt.
He’d also tell me that when you know, you know.
Probably shouldn’t take advice from a guy who knew after the love of his life tasered him, but he has a point. I’ve known from the minute I bumped into Lila at that club in New York.
And she keeps coming back.
Until now.
She’s not in the kitchen, but the grilled cheese sandwich she left out is still hot, so she can’t have gone far. I text the security team, and they confirm she hasn’t left the house.
Which means she’s probably headed to bed.
My cock twitches.
I tell it to simmer down. We’re going slow and easy.
After I eat, I check on my kids again, then head to the playroom.
My paranoia’s better, but it still dies hard. And a man might be able to get around an electronic security system, but I know no one who can survive The Toys.
I’m scattering Duplos and Matchbox cars under the front windows when I hear a noise behind me.
Lila’s watching me from the hallway to the guest room. Her eyes are guarded, and she has her arms tucked around her waist like she needs a hug. “Extra home security system?” she asks, eyeballing the foyer in addition to the windows.
I might’ve rigged a toybox to fall over and spill toy kitchen supplies if anyone opens the door.
“You’ve seen Home Alone.”
“I really am sorry,” she whispers. “If there was a way I could prove to you that he won’t do it again—”
“It’s okay.”
Her exasperated look almost makes me smile, which isn’t something I would’ve thought I could do an hour ago.