At least not without charging up Magik Mike first. And Mike had three speeds, seven functions, and rotating ball bearings, so this was pretty impressive.
“How about a drink instead?” I asked.
He smiled, looking relieved. “I’d like that.”
“Perfect.” Taking his elbow, I steered him toward the patio bar, tossing a placating smile at Irene over my shoulder. “Nice chatting with you, Aunt Irene. Enjoy the music.”
When we were a safe distance away from her, I let go of Levi’s arm, although I really wished I had a reason to keep holding on to it. What was he doing here? “Sorry about crashing into you like that. I’m a little clumsy. Plus…” I held up my empty champagne glass. “This doesn’t help.”
He laughed a little. “I didn’t mind.”
“So.” I tried to think of where to begin, since hey, remember that time we banged in a closet? seemed a little too off-color for this occasion. “It’s been a while. I almost didn’t recognize you.”
Grinning, he ran a hand over his chin. “Didn’t have the beard back in college.”
“I like it.” I liked it a lot, actually. He’d been tall, skinny and cute at twenty-one, all arms and legs, floppy hair and cocky smile, but he was tall, broad, and gorgeous at thirty-two. I glanced at the darkening sky. Please, God—please let him be single.
“Thanks. My son likes it too.”
I gave God the stinkeye. “Wow. You have a son?”
“Yes.” We reached the bar and stood in the short line. “Scotty.”
“How old is he?”
“He’s eight.”
“Got a picture?”
He pulled out his phone and scrolled through a couple photos before handing it to me. On the screen was an adorable young boy sitting on a swing. He had messy dark hair, his father’s huge brown eyes and long limbs, a smattering of freckles across his nose, and ears that stuck out a little. His expression was thoughtful and serious, and he wore a shirt with a drawing of a T. Rex on it that said Scottasaurus.
“He’s beautiful,” I said, handing the phone back.
“Thank you.”
Some quick math told me he must have gotten married fairly soon after college. I’d met him my sophomore year at U of M, but he’d only been visiting friends there. I hadn’t even planned to go out that night—I’d had on a Harry Potter t-shirt, for heaven’s sake, and I think it had a hole in it—but my friends had dragged me to the bar, insisting I needed a study break. I’d noticed Levi right away, and we’d eyed each other across the room for a good portion of the night before he finally came over to me and said, “Harry Potter fan, huh? So what are the chances I can Slytherin to your chamber of secrets tonight?”
Two drinks later, we were kissing, and two after that, we were racing hand in hand to my dorm, where he’d yanked me into the hallway broom closet after we’d discovered my roommate was already asleep in my room.
For a moment, I was distracted by the memory of giggling breathlessly as I listened to him tear open the condom wrapper and put it on, the sight of him lost to me in the dark. I remembered the way my heart pounded as I slid my underwear down my legs, terrified we’d rouse my RA, whose room was right next door. I remembered the scent of bleach and Pine Sol, his lips on mine, his hands on my shoulders as he turned my body toward the wall and lifted my jean skirt. Most of all, I remembered the way he whispered as he thrust up inside me again and again and again, so deep and hard it teetered on the edge between pleasure and pain, one hand over my mouth to stifle my cries. You’re so fucking hot, I wanna fuck you so hard, oh fuck I’m gonna come.
OK, maybe not terribly poetic or imaginative, but hey, he was young.
And for me, a bookworm whose Saturday nights were usually spent reading bio-chem textbooks or romance novels, broom closet sex with a hot guy was a pretty erotic experience. Until that point I’d only had missionary sex in dorm room beds with two other guys, neither of whom had said anything except “uuuuuuuhhhhhhhh” the entire time. And by “the entire time,” I mean all five minutes.
But with Levi, it was different. Not that it was much slower—in fact, it may have been faster—but it was more illicit. More unexpected.
Dirtier.
Rougher.
And I’d liked it—it had shocked me how much I liked it. In fact, it was still one of my go-to fantasies when I was alone with Magik Mike.
Too bad he was married.
I cleared my throat in an effort to clear my head. “Is your wife here?”
“We aren’t together anymore.” He didn’t look or sound particularly sad about it.
“Oh.” My pulse picked up, and I sent God a silent apology for the stinkeye. “So tell me how you know Sebastian. Skylar is my sister.”
He cocked his head. “Is she? Sorry, I probably would know that if I hadn’t been so late that I missed the ceremony. I never saw a program or anything.”
“That’s OK, most people wouldn’t guess it. We don’t look much alike.” Skylar and Natalie had our mother’s blonde hair and petite, curvy body. I had our dad’s tall, thin frame and dark hair, although we all had the same blue eyes. “And we, um, might not have exchanged last names that night.”
Levi laughed, a deep throaty sound that heated up my insides. “Maybe not.”
“Jillian Nixon.” I held out my hand.
He took it. “Levi Brooks.”