Page 40 of Rockstar Baby

“Nice place for a waitress.”

“Got a filter to go with that mouth?”

“No.”

I rolled my eyes and twisted a stone behind the large glider bench that was currently tarped against the winter elements. Soon, it would be spring and I could sit outside with my ice cream instead of huddling under a blanket.

I unlocked the door, returned the key, and held it open. “Welcome to Casa Beck.”

He crossed the threshold and the foyer felt smaller. Which was ridiculous since my brother was approximately the size of a rugby player and we came home together all the damn time.

I shrugged it off and flicked lights on as I walked through the small living room to the kitchen. “I currently live with my brother. Both of us are single so it seemed stupid to pay two rents when we work opposite shifts.”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. In Ireland, it was rare for a woman not to live with their family until she was married.”

“And you said you were American.”

He curled his fingers around the back of the stool at the kitchen island. “I’ve been in the States for a while. Left as soon as I could. It’s actually easier to get out and work in the US than it is to go the other way around. I was grateful for it.”

That was probably the longest string of information I’d heard from him about who he was. And I had to remember it wasn’t necessary. We were here for one thing.

Me to have a little more time with him and not get all twisted up into some awkward conversation that would make him want to head out faster.

Or maybe that was the right track. Maybe this was a—

He stepped in front of me and brushed my hair behind my shoulder. “Was bringing me here for food a euphemism? Or are you actually going to feed me?”

I laughed. “Little bit of both.” I looped my finger into his belt. “When’s your flight?”

He lowered his nose to brush along mine. “Midnight.”

“Well, then. We have plenty of time to do both.”

He nipped my lower lip. “When does this brother get home?”

I shrugged. “Aug tends to get lost in his work. A Beck trait.”

“And what do you get lost in, my little ginger fairy?”

“You,” I said against his mouth just before I covered it. I hadn’t meant to say it, but it was true.

I dragged in a deep breath as storm Rory moved in for its second level destruction. He pushed me up against the kitchen island, then lifted me to the counter. I was a little taller than him, thanks to the island’s custom height. It didn’t seem to bother him though. He had greater access to my tits, which wasn’t a bad thing in the least.

He stripped me out of the borrowed sweater and T-shirt to cup my breasts together as they flowed up out of my bra. I hooked my legs around his middle, pulling him closer.

This kitchen island action looked so easy in the movies. In reality, there was no way to get clothes off easily. We laughed and tugged at our clothes until he pulled me down off the counter.

“Bedroom,” he muttered against my mouth as my bra disappeared.

I turned him toward the back of the house and we bumped our way down the darkened hallway. The day’s brief sunshine had faded into a watery gray. We were just lucky another storm hadn’t hitchhiked with the first one.

Finally, we got to the end of the hall. I fumbled with the doorknob before he pushed me through the doorway. I tripped over my laundry basket and we both went down hard on my bed, but it didn’t stop us. We were both too far gone.

He didn’t even get his jeans down around his thighs before I was gripping his shaft.

“Fuck, Ivy.”

“Yes. Yes, more of that.”