Starving and his body aching, Will trudged up the steps to his flat and unlocked the door. He’d gotten a text from Ivy an hour ago telling him she’d be waiting at home and she’d picked up Chicken Tikka from the restaurant for him for supper. He was so damn sore and tired, he could barely think straight. If Ivy wasn’t there, he wouldn’t even bother eating. He’d just fall straight into bed and call it a night. But Ivy was here—at least, for a few more days—and he wasn’t going to waste a minute with her.
He was dying to know how lunch with Peyton had gone. Even without Ivy’s insecurities, it seemed that most women found Peyton intimidating—at least until they took the time to get to know her. He hoped that Ivy would give Peyton a chance and that Peyton wouldn’t inadvertently make Ivy feel bad. P would never do something like that on purpose, but god knew, the woman could be overwhelming.
And if he were honest with himself, there was part of him that worried about whatever Peyton might have told Ivy about him. He’d meant it when he said they were grown women who could make their own decisions about who they wanted to spend time with. He just hoped, that at the end of the night, his relationships with both Ivy and Peyton were still intact. He knew he was being ridiculous. But there was something about a current lover and a past lover getting together that made a man feel more than a little vulnerable.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. The house smelled amazing. The scents of garlic, clove, and ginger filled the air, and underneath that, he thought he smelled apples and cinnamon. He rounded the corner and spotted Ivy humming to herself and checking the rice maker steaming away on the countertop.
Even though he was the one who usually cooked for them, there was something incredibly satisfying about seeing her in his kitchen. She looked like she belonged there. Not necessarily in the kitchen preparing food for him. But she looked like she belonged in his home. She belonged in his life. The realization settled warmly in his chest.
Bending over, she opened the oven and pulled out a pan of something and set it on the stovetop to cool. She’d changed her clothes since she’d been home. Instead of the jeans and t-shirt she’d worn to the arena, she now had on a long skirt and a jumper.
Turning, she caught sight of him and startled, bringing her hand up to her chest. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to enjoy the fact that there’s a gorgeous woman in my kitchen. And long enough to wonder if maybe we should just skip supper and go straight to bed. Or the counter. Or the table. I’m easy to please.”
She smiled as the timer on the rice maker sounded. “You were the one whining about wanting Indian food. You can eat. Besides...” She walked to the fridge and pulled out his forgotten lunch bag and held it up. “You haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
She put the bag back and grabbed a couple of bottles of cider and handed them to him with a grin and a quick kiss. “And I need you to keep your strength up for later.”
“Point me toward the food.”
“Chicken’s in the microwave, I’ll grab the rice and veggies.”
Ivy rarely got nervous anymore when it was just the two of them, but there was something about the way she moved—or maybe it was the tone of her voice—that betrayed her agitation. It was hard to tell what it was. He’d think he was imagining it, but he’d become quite attuned to the subtleties in her moods in the last few weeks. Did it have something to do with lunch with Peyton?
He waited for her to bring it up, but instead, they talked about his day, how his knee was feeling, and the likelihood of him getting off the injury list before the end of the season. Halfway through the meal, Charlotte called. He answered, and Ivy froze, eyes wide and body stone still, reminding him of a terrified rabbit.
He didn’t mention anything to Charlotte about Ivy, and she slowly relaxed, but her gaze never left him. They were going to have to discuss her avoidance of all things Charlotte-related, but that would have to wait until they got a few other topics out of the way. But the conversation couldn’t wait too long. Charlotte and the kids would be returning home next week while Caleb stayed on a bit longer helping with his grandmother. Charlotte had wanted to know if Will would be available to pick them up from the airport. She wanted to spend a few days with Ivy before she had to return to the States. That made two of them.
As soon as he’d hung up, Ivy’s phone rang. He sat quietly as she paced while she talked, shooting him glances every so often as if she expected him to jump up and down and scream, “I’m screwing your BFF, Charlotte, and she’s kinky as fuck.”
Instead, he got up and quietly took care of putting away the leftovers and loaded the dishwasher while she told his sister about all about the bucket list trips. When they eventually hung up, he was wiping down the counters, trying to ignore the ache that scratched at him when he thought about how adamant she was about keeping their relationship a secret. He had a feeling neither of them were going to like that discussion, but it had to happen. Just not tonight. There were other things on the table ahead of Charlotte. Like Peyton. And what had gone on after she and Ivy had left the arena.
“How was lunch today?” he asked as she added soap to the dishwasher.
It was the most neutral way he could think of to phrase the question.
She started the wash cycle then turned toward him with a smile. “It was great. I really like her. I mean, obviously, there were some awkward moments.” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “But I suppose that’s bound to happen when you’re both fucking the same guy.”
“Technically,” he said, drawing out the word and stretching, “only one of you is fucking this guy.” He arched his back then straightened, noticing her scanning up and down the length of his body.
She dragged eyes up to his face and swallowed hard as their gazes caught and held.
“And I have no plans for that to change.”
She moistened her lips and lifted her hands as if she was going to reach out and touch him, but they fluttered to her side. She seemed even more nervous than she had earlier. Was it Charlotte’s call or his question about Peyton that had her so amped?
“I made apple cobbler for dessert,” she blurted.
He blinked several times, trying to adjust to the sudden conversation shift. Finally, he said, “I think we should save that for after.”
Her brow furrowed. “After what?”
“After whatever it is I’m supposed to keep my strength up for,” he said, trailing his fingertip from the hollow of her throat down to settle between her breasts. “Unless you really want dessert, right now.”
She took a deep breath and slowly shook her head. “It can wait.”
Sliding her hand into his, she led him to the bedroom, stopping next to the bed. She turned, and rising to her toes, pressed a quick kiss to his lips. Before he could respond, she stepped back.
He watched, waiting to see what she was going to do.
She slipped off her skirt and tossed it onto the chair in the corner, leaving her clad in nothing but a long jumper that hung to the middle of her thighs. Her teeth sank briefly into her lower lip as she grabbed the hem and pulled the garment up and over her head, revealing a dark green corset and matching knickers. Knickers that were clearly very damp.
Her gorgeous tits were pushed up higher than usual, and her already lush curves were even more pronounced. She was always stunning, but there was something about seeing her in this, knowing she’d worn it specifically for him, that made him ache to touch her. His tongue stuck to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth, and he nearly passed out from the sudden loss of blood.
She still looked incredibly nervous. He knew how hard this had to be for her. Despite regularly reassuring her that she was the most beautiful women he’d ever known, she was still self-conscious about her body. And here she was, putting herself on display. For him. He took an unsteady step toward her.
Her eyes darted to his then she turned and took something from the top dresser drawer. When she faced him again, she had a leather crop and cuffs resting across her upturned palms. She took a few steps toward him, and swallowing hard, lowered herself to her knees, her hands trembling slightly.
He stood there, stupidly unmoving and silent. “Fuck me,” he finally whispered.
Her gaze lifted to his. He still hurt all over. Adjusting to training after only a minimum of physical activity during the healing process was painful. But that discomfort practically vanished at the expression in Ivy’s eyes.
So many things swirled in their gray depths—vulnerability, desire, uncertainty, and trust. It was the trust that completely fucking undid him. She trusted that she could bare herself to him—literally and figuratively—and he’d see to her needs. He’d take care of her.
His chest ached slightly at the clear-eyed confidence she had in him. It wasn’t exactly painful. Not quite. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, either. He was like the god damn Grinch, his heart growing past the boundaries of that little wire cage that had been holding it in place until Ivy had come along again.
He lifted the cuffs and the crop from her hands, and she dropped her eyes. Tilting her chin until she was meeting her gaze, he said, “On your feet, love.”
Will slid the loop on the end of the crop around his wrist then opened and separated the cuffs from their length of chain. He was willing to bet that Peyton had something to do with this, but he wasn’t about to bring her into the bedroom. Not when he was about to give Ivy what they both apparently wanted.
“You mentioned wishing you’d picked up cuffs,” she murmured, watching as he unfastened the supple leather.
“That I did.” He secured one around her left wrist and then her right. “How do they feel?”
She wiggled and twisted her wrists, and he didn’t miss the little shudder that worked through her body. “Good.”
“Stand behind the footboard.”
Following his direction, she stopped when he settled his hand on the silky fabric covering her stomach. Her hitching breath practically vibrated through his palm.
“Now, bend at the waist and hang on to the top bar.”
As soon as she did, he wrapped the chain around the top rail and reattached it to the cuffs. She wasn’t going anywhere unless she safeworded or they were finished.
Ivy turned her head to watch him as he laid the crop on the bed and stripped off his shirt. The rest of his clothes quickly followed, and her gaze seemed glued to his cock. He grasped the base and roughly stroked the length.
Whimpering, she wriggled, rattling the chain against the metal bed frame.
“Something you want, love?”
She moistened her lips as if she was preparing to take him into her mouth.
He continued to stroke himself as he moved closer, smearing the pre-come with his fingers. Still staring at his hand, she opened her mouth in invitation. He shoved several of his damp fingers inside her warmth and let her suck his taste from them.
She shifted, moving her hips as if she was trying to get a little friction going. He brought his other hand down on her arse. Hard. She gasped, and her eyes practically rolled back into her head.
“Legs apart,” he snapped.
A shudder worked through her, and she drew harder on his fingers. Pulling them free, he climbed onto the mattress and knelt in front of her. He made sure she could reach him to pinch him if she needed to, because her mouth was about to be very full.
“You want my cock?”
She nodded, her head bobbing almost desperately. “Please fuck my mouth.”
He raised an eyebrow at her. “Please fuck my mouth...?”
She raised her eyes to his. “Please fuck my mouth, Sir.”
The last syllable had barely passed her lips before he was shoving inside. Snapping his hips forward, he bottomed out at the back of her throat. She whimpered, and the vibrations shot through him. He knew it was going to be a miracle if he didn’t come within the next few thrusts.
He fisted both hands in her hair and held her still as he drove forward, stretching her lips while she tried to lick and suck him.
“You love this, don’t you?” he murmured. “Barely able to catch your breath, my cock leaking all over your tongue, me fucking your pretty face.”
She groaned in response, and he pulled out. She groaned louder as he climbed off the bed altogether, and he slapped her ass again—hard enough that heat spread through his skin.
“Pouting doesn’t become you, love.”