“I might.”
“Don’t worry, Special Sauce.” He gives my forehead a peck. “I’m here to save the day.”
Gray Grayson. My hero.
* * *
Gray
I lean back into the pillows with a sigh of contentment. I’m a man well fed and content. We’d had dinner, the best I’d eaten in ages. I’d made a pan-seared hangar steak with caramelized onion-bacon relish and roasted butternut squash. And now dessert. Dessert being Ivy’s gig.
She’d gone for simple, making super-creamy vanilla shakes. And they’re perfect. How she does this, picking the perfect thing for the perfect moment, is beyond me. Like suggesting that we watch TV in bed.
Okay, perfect torture. We’re sitting side by side under the covers like some old married couple. It freaks me out how much I love this. How much I want this to be an option every night.
Of course, we had stalled a bit when getting into bed, me in my T-shirt and boxers, Ivy in her usual tank top and little cotton shorts. When she’d been sick, I’d been able to block the reality of her being barely dressed and concentrate on her illness. Now? Yeah, endless legs, the rounded swells of her hips, and the skimpy top that clings to her sweet breasts are messing with my mind. Thank God she’d kept her bra on or no way would I be able to hide the effect she has on me.
It was hard enough when we stood on either side of the bed, staring at each other, tension heavy in the air as we’d slowly peeled back the covers. Here we were, getting into bed with each other with the intention of sleeping together, and there was no excuse of illness to hide behind. We just wanted to. I knew. She knew it.
Ivy’s eyes had been huge in the delicate oval of her face, her pink lips parted and soft. She’d looked at me, hesitant, confused. And for a moment, I’d feared that she’d ask what the hell we were playing at, why was I here? So I’d panicked and jumped into bed, stating I got remote-control privileges.
That had cracked the tension. After a brief but torturous wrestle for the remote, all was perfect once again. Well, except for the fact that Ivy has the remote.
I rub my nipple, which still burns, thanks to Ivy’s evil, pinching fingers. “You know, you’re lucky I can’t retaliate in like manner,” I mutter.
“If you did, you’d be clutching your balls right now. In pain,” Ivy adds emphatically, because she knows me too well.
“At least I’m comfortable,” I say. “Have I mentioned how much I love your bed?”
Ivy gives me a sidelong glance, her lips twitching. “So what exactly do you love about my bed?”
That you’re in it. With me. “You have a California king,” I tell her instead, which is the truth as well. “Fucking gorgeous, this big-ass bed. I can actually fit in it without my feet hanging off. And how is it that women have the ability to find the best sheets, comforters, and pillows, and put them together to create a cloud of comfort?”
Ivy grins with perfect understanding. “Because we pay attention to detail, like buying more than one pillow and a flimsy blanket to keep warm. As for the mattress, for as long as I can remember, every bed in our house has been a California king. I’m pretty sure my dad buys these babies in bulk.”
God bless Ivy’s dad. “I guess when you’re nearly seven feet tall, the largest mattress in production just looks normal.”
“Yeah. Dad loves his comfort and assumed his daughters would like the same bed.” Ivy’s expression turns inward, happy. “When we were little, Fi and I used to call them our Princess and the Pea beds.”
“The Princess and the Pea chick had a bed of mattresses stacked to the ceiling, not a big-ass mattress.”
Ivy’s brows rise. “And how do you know all these fairy tales, Mr. Grayson?”
“My mom read them to me when I was a little guy.” God, I can still remember the sound of her voice as she tucked me up in bed and told me those old stories. My brothers, as usual, had made fun of that nighttime ritual. I didn’t care. I had Mom to myself, and she made me feel like the most loved boy in the world. Throat thick, I run a finger along Ivy’s pristine white covers.
She’s silent for a beat, then leans into my arm. “Bet you were a cute little boy.”
I nudge her back. “I bet you were a cute princess.” I can just imagine little Ivy Mac with her button nose and messy hair.
“As a fucking bug.” Ivy picks up the remote. She flicks through the channels, and I yell “Stop!” just as she squeals, “The Usual Suspects. Yes!”
We grin at each other. “Best movie ever,” we say as one.
Ivy sets down the remote and grabs her shake.
“I love Bryan Singer’s work,” she says. “And J.J. Abrams. I’m pretty sure I’d wet my panties if I got a chance to talk to one of them.”
Since “wet panties” can go two ways, my dirty mind chooses to think of sex. And Mac being wet. Clearing my throat, I discreetly adjust my dick, tucking the eager head back under the band of my boxers. “So you like guys with big brains, huh?”
Her lips curl but she keeps her eyes on the screen. “Big brains and big dicks. Yeah.”
I nearly choke, but manage to keep a straight face, because Mac, the little stinker, is definitely grinning now. “Honey,” I drawl as if my dick isn’t getting bigger by the second, “you’ve basically described me.”
Her mouth twitches, and she finally glances my way. Her eyes are alight with evil Mac mischief. “Oh, right. I forgot about your big…brain.”