Chapter 21

21

Lila

Tripp Wilson gives the best hugs.

Being in his arms is both soothing my adrenaline and sending my erogenous zones into heaven all at the same time, and I can't deny just how much I've missed him.

His arms— god , his arms. They're solid shields from everything in the world that's ever scared or worried me. His fingers tangled in my hair, his breath tickling my scalp, that grip…this is the security I've craved since my life was turned upside down, even when I denied that I needed help.

I know he's only human.

I know I'm no safer in his arms than I am anywhere else in the world.

But I fit here.

His heart is thundering under my ear, and he smells like Lysol and laundry detergent and…something else.

Like he hasn't showered in a month.

I don't mind sweaty male, but something is very, very wrong here. "Tripp?"

"Hmm?"

"Your kids are sick?"

His entire body goes tense, and I'm reminded that while he's apparently my happy place, I'm still not in the circle of trust here. I pull back and take his thick-scruffed cheeks in my palms.

His eyes are bloodshot with dark circles under them. His hair is showing a few more strands of silver amidst the dark brown. And my fury with Uncle Guido ratchets up another seven thousand degrees.

He didn't just ambush the man who wants to buy my baseball team.

He ambushed a single dad who's been dealing with sick kids for almost a week.

I need to fix this. All of this.

And not just because I have to, but because I want to.

"Have you eaten?" I demand.

One dark brow lifts, which I decide is Tripp-speak for I refuse to answer that question .

"Today? At all?" I press.

His gaze slides past me, and my heart squeezes.

He takes care of his kids. He's bending over backward to keep up with all the changes I'm implementing with the Fireballs, because he loves the team and wants them to succeed. What was it Knox's nana said? That Tripp was the responsible one from Bro Code?

He takes care of everyone .

Who takes care of him?

Me.

I'm going to take care of him.

"You. Shower." I point up the stairs, where I assume his bedroom is. "And then you're eating."

He drops his arms and leaps back, cheeks going adorably pink as he gives his pits a tentative sniff and grimaces. "I'll…get there."

I don't know much about being a parent, but I know from the level of attention I've seen him give to his kids that he won't get there.

He comes dead last in who he takes care of.

He's even taking care of me . When it's my fault Uncle Guido snuck over here to try to intimidate him.

"Now," I reply, and when he doesn't move, I close the distance between us, grab him by the elbow, and tug.

He doesn't move.

His lips quirk up, but he doesn't move.

"I'm a blackbelt in four different styles of martial arts," I inform him.

That quirk in his lips gets quirkier.

And I don't think it's that he doubts me.

I think it's that he wants me to try to take him out, which is more of a turn-on than it should be right now.

I shift my grip by two inches and press my thumb into a pressure point behind his elbow.

Not hard, for the record. But enough that he gives a squeak and tries to twist out of my reach.

"Shower," I repeat, and this time, when I tug, he trails me up the stairs.

"The doors?—"

"I locked them, and that security team you hired for me is circling the house."

"Okay. Okay. Jesus. Ow ."

The stairs creak while I march him up. My heart melts a little when we reach the top and I see the doors. Emma's is completely covered with overlapping scribbled drawings. James's door has trucks painted on it. There's a third door with playroom spelled out in rainbow-colored letters, and then one final door.

Still, I pause outside the playroom. "Is this one yours?" I ask.

He catches me with a poke to the ribs, and I spin, but not fast enough to catch him, since he's already retreating down the hall. "Quiet," he whispers.

He doesn't tell me to go away, so I trail him into his bedroom.

Yes, I know.

I'm shameless.

But I tell myself I'm merely making sure the man bathes and changes into clean clothes.

He's already stripping out of his hoodie and T-shirt when I pause in the doorway, and hello , Tripp Wilson's chest.

No.

No hello to Tripp Wilson's chest. This is about meeting his basic needs, not drooling over the man's broad chest with the springy dark hair and the copper nipples. Or his flat stomach and wide collarbones.

Not when he's pausing again next to his dark, heavy dresser. "You shouldn't be in here. It's germ central."

I point to the door to the left of his bed.

"That's the closet."

Fine.

He wants to be difficult?

I can handle difficult.

I march into his room, around the pile of laundry, another pile of towels, and step on something that squeaks under my foot.

I freeze. "Did I just kill one of James's frogs?"

His lips twitch, and a lightness that I haven't seen in too long comes into his eyes. "Yes," he lies.

" I did not ," I hiss.

He coughs quietly and ducks his head. "Don't lift your foot though. That's a magic toy. It makes more noise when you let it go than it does when you squeeze it the first time."

No way.

I look down, and the squished pink face of some kind of barn animal stares back at me. "So this is like a toy bomb."

"Yep, and if it wakes my kids, they're all yours."

I start to lift my foot, because I'm positive he's teasing me, but the toy under my foot immediately starts to SQUEEEEEE .

"Oh my god, who would give that to someone?" I whisper-shriek while I slam my foot back down.

"Uncle Levi. I can't wait until he has kids of his own. Payback's gonna be fun."

While I can appreciate that sentiment, I don't want to wake his kids. They've been sick, and I don't want to explain what I'm doing in their dad's bedroom at this hour of the night.

Also, he's now stripping out of his pants, and I can't do anything about it because I'm stepping on the world's loudest toy bomb.

My heart races. My throat goes dry. And Tripp—the responsible one—grins at me before turning his back and striding to the bathroom in nothing more than his boxer briefs.

That ass—and the tattoo on his shoulder blade—and that hint of a growing hard-on that I caught before he turned around—leave me staring with my mouth open.

I'm no virgin, but I get more action out of reading romance novels than I do in real life, and I'm positive I've never seen a naked body that beautiful up close and in person before.

Plus—Tripp has a tattoo?

Didn't see that coming.

I involuntarily take a step toward the bathroom, and the toy I stepped on gives a long, loud unholy high-pitched noise that ends just as I shove it under the pile of towels to muffle it.

I hear water running in the bathroom. The door's cracked, and I have a clear view of the mirror, which I actively make myself not look at, because I'm already sweating at knowing that Tripp's completely naked and maybe twenty steps away.

Need.

Space.

Mostly because he needs a good meal, a solid night of rest, and all the reassurances I can give him that Uncle Guido won't be back.

The bed is taunting me. The sheets are rumpled, and there's a musty smell to the whole room that suggests this is the last place Tripp's worried about, but I still want to grab him and roll around on those dark sheets.

I blow out a slow breath and approach his dresser while his soft moan of pleasure that goes with finally getting a much-needed shower joins the running water.

Not. Helping.

I pretend I'm not digging through his underwear drawer while I find fresh clothes for him—neatly folded sweatpants, wool socks, and boxer briefs. I can't find any shirts, so I end up in his closet, where everything is organized, of course. One rack of jeans that are probably ironed. One rack of shirts, casual on one end, dress on the other. A rack of suits. Shoes neatly lined on a shoe organizer, sneakers to loafers to wingtips. Drawers for tie tacks and cufflinks and a shelf with spare towels, blankets, and sheets for his king-size bed.

I pick a shirt with a cat shooting rainbow laser beams out its eyes at a leprechaun, which I'm guessing was a gift from someone, and grab a set of fresh sheets.

Because a man who's been caring for everyone else deserves fresh linens, I tell myself.

Not because I want to spend time touching the bed where he sleeps every night.

I strip and replace the sheets, give the pillows an extra fluff, and then, when I should just leave his clothes on his bed and go downstairs to make him a sandwich, instead, I square my shoulders and march into the bathroom.

To make life easy on him, I tell myself.

So he doesn't have to leave the bathroom to get dressed.

"Clean clothes," I announce.

I don't look at the glass shower door.

Much.

It's fogged over, and all I can really see is the outline of his body. I remind my heavy breasts and suddenly needy clit that this is not sexual .

But the fogged shower door opens, water still running, and Tripp's head pokes out.

His hair is dripping and catching in the thick stubble, and the scent of something woodsy and clean drifts out on the steam while his eyes lock on mine. "You…"

His voice trails off like he's uncertain if he'd rather chastise me or thank me for going through his drawers, but I'm okay with that.

Because his eyes are going dark, his lids are lowering, and his attention is shifting to my lips.

This is where I should leave.

And not let my own gaze drift down his dripping chest to check out just how much he's enjoying that shower.

But he crooks a finger.

A silent come here .

I'm probably in for it. Undoubtedly, he's going to dunk me in the shower stream, fully clothed, and tell me that's what I get for invading his privacy.

But I still obey the beckoning. "Do you need help getting your back?"

He doesn't answer, but instead opens the shower door wider, reaches out to cup my cheeks with warm, wet hands, and pulls me close to brush his lips against mine. My eyes slide closed, my shoulders relax, and I lean closer and mimic the motion that I've been craving since I left Copper Valley.

This slow, gentle caress of lip against lip.

There's the teeniest part of my brain telling me we shouldn't do this. That I'm technically his boss. That his kids could catch us. That he's not the casual, friends-with-benefits fling type. That I'm the love-'em-and-leave-'em type.

But my fingers are exploring his cool, wet arms while our slow, hesitant kisses become a full-mouth connection, breaths mingling, hands roaming.

I want to know every inch of him. Where to touch him to make his breath catch. The taste of his skin. If his hair curls at the ends when it grows out a little more. What it takes to make him lose control.

But mostly, I just want to be here.

With him.

No boundaries. Learning. Discovering. Stroking. Kissing. Holding.

I want to make love to him in candlelight with rose petals scattered around us, in a turret tower with the starry sky open above us. I want to have snowball fights with him that end with the two of us laughing in a pile of snow, with cold noses and fingertips that need to be warmed from the inside out. I want to stride into his office, lock the door, and unbutton my blouse while I watch his eyes go dark with desperate need for me.

I want my fantasies to move out of the pages of a book and into reality.

With Tripp.

And it's terrifying, because I've never let any man into my life for more than a few weeks.

Ever.

Uncle Guido always finds dirt. Or I get spooked. Or I realize I'll have to tell them all of my secrets.

I want to trust Tripp.

I want to trust him with everything.

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.