Page 45 of Nanny for Grumpy Grant
He releases my nipple with a soft pop. "Hmm?"
"More," is all I can manage.
He smiles against my skin, then returns his attention to my breast while one hand slides between us. I feel his fingers tease along the hem of my underwear before slipping beneath the fabric to find me already wet and swollen.
"God, Ivy," he murmurs, his finger circling my entrance before sliding inside.
I rock against his hand, setting a rhythm that he quickly matches. His thumb finds my clit, applying just the right pressure, and I feel myself building toward release embarrassingly fast. But I don't care—there's something thrilling about being so desperate for him, about letting him see exactly what he does to me.
His finger curls inside me, finding that perfect spot, and I'm gone. My muscles clench around him as pleasure crashes through me in waves. I bury my face against his neck to muffle my cries, my body trembling as I ride out my orgasm in his hand.
I collapseagainst Cole's chest, my breath coming in quick gasps as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through me. His arms wrap around me, holding me close as our heartbeats gradually slow. When I finally lift my head to look at him, I find him watching me with an expression somewhere between satisfaction and awe. We both burst into laughter at the same moment, the sound filling the cab of his Jeep.
"Well," I say when I catch my breath, "that's my first car make out."
Cole raises an eyebrow, his hands still warm against my back. "Really? In all your twenty-five years?"
I nod, feeling strangely proud of this small confession.
"It's not my first," he admits with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "But definitely the best."
I stamp a quick kiss on his lips. "Good to know."
He helps me pull my dress back up, his fingers lingering on my skin as he carefully zips me. The tenderness of the gesture catches me off guard. There's something surprisingly intimate about being dressed by someone who just undressed you.
"Ready to go inside?" he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Definitely."
Cole helps me out of the Jeep, his hand remaining at the small of my back as we walk to the front door. The familiarity of the Carter house strikes me as we step inside—I've been here a handful of times over the years, sometimes with Ben, sometimes alone to hang out with Caleb when I was home from college.
But it feels different tonight. The bones of the house are the same: the exposed wooden beams crossing the ceiling, the wide plank floors worn smooth from decades of use, the stone fireplace dominating the far wall. What's changed is everything else. The space is transformed from how I remember it when the Carter parents still lived here.
Mrs. Carter had a penchant for expensive furniture that fought against the home's natural rustic charm—ornate Victorian pieces crowded into corners, delicate end tables that looked perpetually in danger from the three boisterous boys who livedhere. After Mr. Carter passed and she remarried and moved away, the brothers clearly reclaimed the space.
Now, the living room breathes. A comfortable-looking leather sectional faces the fireplace, a few simple wooden side tables beside it. A large braided rug covers the center of the floor, its muted colors complementing the warm wood tones throughout the room.
Family photos still line the mantle—I spot younger versions of the three brothers, their parents, and a few newer ones that include Emily. My designer's eye appreciates how the space now honors its country roots without trying to be something it's not.
"You guys have done a lot with the place," I say, running my fingers along the back of the sofa.
Cole shrugs. "Mostly Grant. He's got opinions about everything."
I laugh. "That doesn't surprise me."
My gaze catches on an acoustic guitar leaning against the wall near a window seat. The sight triggers a flood of memories—Cole at high school bonfires, at graduation parties, always with that guitar, always drawing a crowd. Girls would request songs just to watch his fingers move across the strings, to see the way his eyes half-closed when he hit the chorus.
"You still play," I say, nodding toward the instrument.
"When I have the time." Cole follows my gaze to the guitar. "Can I get you something to drink? Water? Beer?"
"Water's fine."
He disappears into the kitchen, and I hear the sound of a cabinet opening, water running. I take the opportunity to move around the room, examining the space more closely.
There’s a worn paperback on the coffee table—a history of rock guitar legends—and a pair of work gloves tossed on a side chair. The house feels lived in, comfortable in its masculinity, but with a hint of something else. Something restless.
I glance at the book again and remember—Cole used to talk about leaving town, chasing music. He wanted to tour with a band once, maybe even record something real. That was before their dad got sick. Before everything changed.
