Page 11 of Merry Ever After

Just for a booty call, obviously, but still. Beats walking.

There’s a little voice in the back of my head calling me a liar for writing him off as a casual lover, but I’m ignoring it. Staunchly. I made a promise to myself and Sonny to protectus from temporary interlopers like his father. Likemyfather. I can’t be bought with a bicycle. I’m not going to cave thanks to his big-boy mystique.

Why am I so turned on watching him eat his fourth grilled cheese?

There’s something about the grit of his body, the deep tan, the workingman’s muscles, those watchful brown eyes. His sincerity when he talks about his family or the farm. Or anything, really. The way his hand makes my soupspoon look like it belongs to a children’s Playskool tea party set. There’s just something about him, period.

“Baby’s asleep,” Luke rumbles quietly. “You want to lay him down?”

I nod and stand, alarmed to feel my legs are a bit like jelly. “We share a room,” I say needlessly, waving him toward the single bedroom in the apartment. “When he gets bigger, I’ll have to figure something out.”

Luke hums. “I’m sure you will.”

“I’m glad one of us is.” I indicate the crib in the corner of the room, and Luke passes by me, his gaze sweeping the space and taking everything in: The half-finished blouse pinned to a headless mannequin beside my thrifted dresser. The jade-green peel-and-stick wallpaper. My floral bedspread. The silk robe hanging from a hook on my closet. The baby-changing table stocked with diapers, wipes, and clean onesies. “I try to put away half the money I make from selling my designs into a house fund. We’ll see. I’d love for him to have a yard. Space to run around.”

“I’ve got plenty of that. Space.” He straightens up from laying Sonny down in the crib. Looks at me. “Anytime you want to use it, sweetheart.”

That jelly feeling in my legs is spreading like wildfire. I’ve never been jelly for anyone.

I don’t know if I like it yet.

“What exactly are you hoping for here?” I whisper as he comes closer. “With me?”

“I’m hoping for you.” His big hands slide around my hips and squeeze. “Whatever that looks like. However much time it takes.”

Oh God, my suicidal heart is pulsing in an entirely new way. Big, almost painful booms. “You know that sayingIf something is too good to be true, it probably is?”

“Yeah.”

My head tilts back to keep eye contact. “That’s what this feels like.”

He’s visibly confused. “I’m... too good to be true? Me?”

“You bought me abike, Luke. You’re good with my son ...”

“You made me jeans that fit. You apologized to my chickens for making them get out of your way.” The last thing I expect is for him to physically pick me up, but that’s what happens. In fact, I’m tossed up into his arms like pizza dough and trapped against his burly chest as he walks us slowly back out into the living room, using a hip to close the bedroom door. “You’re brave and sentimental and a little heartbroken for a few different reasons. You’ve got a lot of pride. Talent. You’re breathtaking, Evie. Gorgeous. If anyone is too good to be true here, it’s you.”

I’m squirming in his arms, no idea what to do with the overflow of compliments. Or how they make me feel like I’m standing in the sun after a cold winter. I’m not hiding my reason very well, either, so neither one of us takes me seriously when I say, “Maybe you’re just saying all that because you want to sleep with me.”

“I can tell the truth and still want to fuck you.”

“Wow. ‘Get you a man who does both,’ right?”

“You don’t have to. I’m right here.”

He sets me down on my feet in front of the couch, hands flexing at his sides, obviously waiting for me to give him the green light. “You know,” I say, sprinkling some seduction into my voice, “you get a little more confident every time I see you.” He allows me to reverse our positions and push him down onto the couch. “What’s that about?”

“I don’t know.” His chest puffs up and down. “Maybe it’s the way you look at me.”

I kneel in front of him, settling my hands on his knees and slowly, slowly letting my palms travel toward the juncture of his thighs. The closer I get to his mounting erection, the faster he breathes, his fingers digging into the couch cushions, lust bracketing his mouth. “How do I look at you?” My hands reach the growing bulge between his legs and scrub over it lightly—up, back, up and back—while he curses gutturally, making him stiff as possible before I unzip his jeans. “Like I want to do this?” I lean down and kiss the ridge trapped in his gray underwear before peeling the waistband down, exhaling in a rush at the sight of him, long and thick and wrapped in veins. “Oh, my sweet Lord.”

“Funny, I was just thinking the same exact thing,” he groans, his head falling back, his arms stretching out along the back of the couch. “It ain’t built for sucking, sweetheart, I know. Just use your hands and lick the head for a while if you can. If you don’t mind.”

I have no idea what to address first: how politely he’s requesting a (sort of?) blow job or the other part. “Not built for sucking?” He shakes his head adamantly, as if to drive that point home. A point I’m suddenly determined to show him is false. Placing my lips on the crown of his erection, I speak right against it so my lips stroke him with every word. “I think we need to disprove that theory.”

He moans.

I haven’t even done anything yet and he’s moaning, fingers buried in the couch cushions, his stomach heaving up and down. This man has not been given the pleasure he deserves—and I’m going to get a lot of satisfaction out of being the first.

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