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“That drive is longer than I remember,” he murmurs. “But I don’t think I’ve ever counted the minutes before.”
“Twenty-four,” I murmur back.
“I think that’s a record,” he says. His hand is under my shirt again, fingers stroking my bare skin. I push my hips against him, the movement pure mindless need.
He’s hard. He’s hard like iron and that discovery slows me down, takes my breath away because despite all this, despite the kisses and the promise of seduction, I’m surprised that Levi wants me.
The kid sister.
“You were probably being reckless,” I say. I shift my hips gently, slowly, and Levi sucks in a breath, his fingers tightening on my skin.
It’s the most gratifying sound I’ve ever heard.
“I was absolutely being reckless,” he says, his voice buzzing against my lips. “And I don’t intend to stop.”
We kiss again. He lifts me out of his truck, follows. We hold hands and walk to his front door and he kisses me in front of it.
“Get ready,” he tells me as he pulls his door open, and there’s the dog — Hedwig — on me the moment I enter Levi’s house, all paws and kisses and excited little growf noises.
“Hey, girl,” I say, already crouching down and scratching her between the ears. “I heard your name was Hedwig now.”
She wags her tail, and behind her Levi pulls off his shoes, smiles at me, then walks into his kitchen.
“Come on, Hedwig,” he says over his shoulder. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”
She just looks at me, tilts her head, and pants.
“C’mon, girl,” he calls again, and this time she follows him, and I take off my shoes and then I do, too.
“Which one of us were you calling?” I tease.
He’s got his back to me, pulling something from a high cabinet.
“I like to think I know better than to call you girl,” he says. When he turns around, he’s got a bottle of whiskey in one hand, two glasses in the other. “I do know your name. Quite well, in fact.”
“You’re really making us drinks?” I ask as he sets the bottle and glasses on the counter. The kitchen is dimly lit, the only light coming from the fixtures on the bottoms of the cabinets.
“I said I would, didn’t I?” he asks, grabbing a few more bottles. “I invited you for a nightcap and I like to be a man of my word.”
I step up to the other side of the counter, let my palms drop to the cool stone surface, still not completely convinced I’m not dreaming.
“What if I said I didn’t want a drink?” I ask, teasing.
“Then I’d say you’ve never had me make you a drink before,” he teases right back.
He pulls the cork from a bottle with a pop, starts pouring. I just watch him, my own personal hot bartender as he mixes, swirls, pours something else. He adds ice. He puts a cherry on top.
Finally, he walks around the counter to where I’m standing and hands me a glass. We both take a sip: strong, a hint of sweetness, a hint of something odd. I take another sip.
“What is it?”
“An Old Fashioned.”
He steps closer, slides one hand around my back. Levi leans in and kisses me, his lips cool on mine at first, heating quickly. I think I might be weak at the knees.
I don’t think this might be a dream anymore. Levi is real as real can be, solid, grounded and right here in front of me.
“You taste like whiskey,” I tell him when we part, my glass still in my hand.
“Strange,” he says, taking another sip of his drink before he sets it on the counter with a clink. I sip again, too, and then he takes my glass, puts it on the counter next to his.
We kiss again. He still tastes like whiskey, the whiskey tasting like forest and rock somehow. I take his lower lip between my teeth and he makes a noise, a growl from somewhere low in his chest.
I slide a hand up his shirt, find his skin, and he lifts me onto a barstool, curls my legs around his hips, the edge of the counter cool and hard against my back.
“You like it?” he asks, voice low, his forehead resting against mine. My eyes are shut, and I can’t see him but I can hear the teasing smile in his voice, that version of him that I didn’t know existed until not long ago.
“I do,” I say.
He pulls back slightly, reaches behind me, takes a glass off the counter and takes another sip.
“I’m glad,” he says. “I made it myself.”
“I didn’t know we were talking about the drinks,” I say, taking the glass from him, swallowing the last sip. He watches me like he’s trying to memorize my movements, then reaches into the glass with two fingers, plucks the cherry out by the stem.
