Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,98

reach between us as I pull out, find her clit, and flick it as I drive in, and she bites my shoulder while she clenches tight and hot and hard, and suddenly I’m coming too, stifling my groans in the crook of her neck while we climax together, hidden under layers and layers of balls, finally, finally feeling like I’m home.

Where my heart belongs.

With this hilariously fun, unpredictable, chaotic woman who’s hiding more love under all her layers than anyone I’ve ever known, while my family tries their best to wreak more havoc above us.

Daisy snort-laughs into my shoulder.

And I crack up too, despite all the overwhelming sensations that are just too much around my dick right now.

Dude, get us a cigarette, my nuts say. And then one of those Costco-sized boxes of condoms. Or maybe four. You know. A week’s supply.

“Hold on,” I whisper to Daisy. “I’ll get rid of them.”

“Don’t move,” she whispers back. “I’m not done soaking in the feel of you.”

I kiss her shoulder. Her jaw.

An errant ball pit ball when I try to reach her cheek. “Dammit.”

She giggles.

I stifle another snort of laughter.

“Why are those balls moving?” Keely suddenly says.

“Oh, shit, I have to pee,” Allie replies. “Is there a bathroom in here? Fucking childbirth.”

“Wait. Why are those balls moving?” Staci says.

“It’s the alligator,” I call. “Get out.”

“West is getting nooky in the ball pit!” Keely shrieks.

“I am not going in there,” Brit says. “Gross.”

“He’s not getting nooky,” Staci tells them all. “He’s probably trying to find a place to hide to get some sleep.”

“I love your sisters,” Daisy whispers.

“I’m about to love horrifying them by standing up naked,” I murmur back.

“West? Are you getting nooky?” Allie asks.

“You could jump in and find out for yourself,” I call.

There’s a beat of silence.

And then a rustle of bodies moving.

I tense, because I don’t actually trust my sisters to not jump in here. But the door slams, and when all is silent for another full minute, during which Daisy runs her hands over my chest, my shoulders, my face—I finally breathe a sigh of relief.

And go back to the kissing.

Because I am never going to get enough of kissing Daisy.

Thirty-Six

Daisy

West’s family is the best ever.

We spend two days hanging out and getting to know each other and wrangling the cats and playing in the pool. Between our moms and his sisters, Remy is spoiled rotten while both West and I manage to get caught up on work some too.

And also sneak away to bang at every opportunity.

We’re very busy, but in the best way.

I’ve set a goal, which I emailed him about in detail, about the way we’re going to christen every single room in my house.

And it turns out, he’s very good with executing a plan. Which doesn’t surprise me in the least.

This whole being in a relationship thing is new.

And awesome.

Finding new ways to make West smile is the best. He’s not the grumpy, straight-laced Marine all the time. Turns out, he’s fucking amazing at relaxing. And tolerating all the shit his sisters give him. And giving it right back.

And he’s always aware of exactly when I need something.

It’s a skill I’m studying closely so I can figure out how to turn it on him.

Late Friday, my grandmother calls—which is eight million times better than her stopping by—to tell me Margot Roderick has been arrested.

I’m still sitting at my desk in my office, staring at my phone in shock while Elvira makes herself at home on my dick rug, when West pops his head in. He’s gotten a haircut, but it’s not military short—just trimmed up—and it shows off the silver strands I’ve started to notice more and more amidst all the dark brown.

I love them.

They’re more evidence that he’s seen enough of life that he knows what he’s getting into with me.

“Daisy?”

That’s all he says—just my name—but it’s everything.

Are you okay? What do you need? What can I do?

He doesn’t need to do anything—this is the kind of news I could handle on my own just fine, because I’m an independent woman, except I don’t want to handle it on my own.

I want to decompress about it with someone.

“Froyo run?” I ask.

His face scrunches into one of those don’t bullshit me faces, but he still strolls over to my wall of frozen yogurt, grabs two cups, and fills them both before crossing to my desk and setting them both in front of me.

My windows are open, and there’s an ocean breeze rolling in. The