by Emilia Finn
“Ouch! What the fuck?”
“You pulled me!” I fight to sit up. For a guy complaining about my being on him, he still manages with surprising strength to tangle our arms and foil my escape. “You did that!”
“And now I’ll never have children.” He grazes his teeth along my neck. My shoulder. My jaw. “We’re dating here.” He slides his hand around and rests it on my belly. A caress. A hold that feels like so much more than a hug. “In this room, where it’s just you and me.”
“Really?”
“Mmhm. I want all of your attention. I want your eyes on mine.”
With a lump in my throat, I turn just my head and meet his gaze.
“So pretty.” He grins. “And hopefully, once we’re done in here, you’ll be caught up.”
“Caught up?” Our noses almost touch. Our breath mingles. “What do I have to catch up to?”
“Well, I’ve been dating you for weeks.” He drops a kiss on my chin. “Months. Now you get to date me back, and I can feel good about consent.”
I snort out a laugh. “Pig. You’re so weird.”
“Only for you.” He presses one last kiss to my cheek, then shuffling me off his lap, he waits while I make my way to the opposite corner of the blanket and fix my skewed clothes.
Beckett has a way of making me feel exposed, even without undressing me. It’s a skill I’m sure he’s quite proud of.
Grabbing the ancient picnic basket, he opens the top flap to find plates and silverware. Not plastic or paper, but the real deal. He sets one plate down in front of me with a wink, then the second in front of himself. Placing a knife and a fork—only one of each—on my plate, he does the same for himself, then he dives back into the basket and makes a throaty hum as he takes out a wrapped tray of something that smells divine.
“It’s hot as Hades!” He makes the hss-hss-hss sound as he sets the plate on the blanket and shakes his hands to ease the burn. His jaw twitches, but his smile grows and makes him that little bit less intimidating.
In a suit, in his workplace, in his town, he’s quite the ladies’ man, and he knows he looks good. If not for work purposes, I know myself enough to know I would never approach this man; I would never look twice, because he’s a little too sure of himself for my taste. And even if I’d found myself helplessly in lust with the guy, I would never share that information with him.
Fear of rejection is a cruel thing.
But here, in jeans and a shirt, in sneakers instead of dress shoes, and with his hair shower-styled, and not with a comb and gel, he’s approachable and silly. He’s endearing and charming. Dammit, he’s lovable, and he makes me wonder about life outside the confines of the murder farm.
“What are you thinking about?” Beckett works on placing baked lamb and potatoes on our plates. His eyes come up, even as his hands remain busy. “You look really serious over there.”
“I’m thinking about us,” I admit. And since we’re staying in for the night, I kick my shoes off and tuck them under the bed.
My jeans are restrictive, my top is body-hugging. I thought my ensemble was casual and comfortable for a date—at least it’s not made of doilies—but now, I’m considering my other options. Considering something else entirely.
“I’m thinking about how handsome you are in jeans,” I snicker.
On a whim—and a metric ton of bravery—I unsnap my jeans, and bite down my smile when Beckett’s eyes whip to the motion the way a retriever’s might a falling bird.
He’s like an overly energized puppy. And I… am the snack.
He swallows audibly, so I see the way his throat moves. But when I stand and begin shucking the denim over my hips, Beckett drops his silverware completely until it clangs against the plate. “What… what are you doing?”
“Getting more comfortable.” I push the denim to my thighs, to my knees.
On the outside, I guess I look daring, confident, and a little bit crazy, but on the inside, nerves make me sick, and my blood runs so fast, my head turns dizzy.
“C-c-comfortable?” Beckett pushes up to his feet, completely abandoning our dinner, and steps into gaps made by our meals. “I, uh…” he places his hands on my hips and squeezes. “I could help you with that.”
“Yeah?” I bend and pull the denim from my feet. One, then the other, while Beckett’s hands roam my skin.
I’m standing in my underwear in front of this man for the second time today. My knees quiver, and my stomach whooshes. But the way he so unashamedly touches… caresses… laves… it takes away every ounce of worry in my soul. He’s not going to reject me. Not today. Not ever.
Not that that means I won’t play with him.
I set my jeans on the bed, grit my teeth when that slight weight makes the entire frame squeak, then leaning onto the mattress, hands on the sheets, ass in the air, I glance over my shoulder to find Beckett’s eyes eating me up. His hands on my hips. His dick pressed somewhere that would have for sure landed him with a sexual harassment claim only a week ago. He’s readying to take me, salivating at the chance, begging for the green light.
But because I enjoy playing with him, I snag my pyjama shorts and stand tall once more, acting like there is zero sexual tension floating in the room. Zero innuendo or hunger.
I step into the shorts with a quick one-two, then snapping the waistband against my stomach, I turn and glance up at the underside of Beckett’s tensed jaw. “So much better.” I stand on my toes and press a kiss to his Adam’s apple. “You okay?”
“That was a dirty rotten fuckin’ tease.” He swings away from me, dramatic arms flying into the air as I laugh at his back. He’s like a pre-teen who just had his playboy collection confiscated. “Tabitha Rosa! I’m so mad at you.” He drops into his place with a huff, folds his legs, and goes back to serving dinner. “You’ll pay for that.”
“Uh huh.” Comfortable now, I sit back on my side of the blanket and take a potato from the plate closest to Beckett. “And that bit where you casually call me Rosa? Totally not a red flag?”
“On the murder farm, you are Mrs. Rosa,” his disappointment moves aside for a chortling snicker. “We’re gonna try it on for size, see how we like it. Later,” his eyes come back to mine as I nibble on my snack, “tonight, or next month—you decide when—but when I make you come, you’ll beg to keep the name and make it legit.”
I choke on my potato. Heave, wheeze, as a solid piece clogs inside my throat, then slamming my fist to my chest, I cough until the lump lands in my palm and my eyes water.
Stunned, I stare at the mass that tried to kill me. Then the man, with tears in my eyes. “That was mean.”
“So was what you did a second ago.” Smirking, he tilts his chin toward the bed, then he goes back to serving our meals and pretending he’s not evil.
“Your legs look fan-fucking-tastic in those shorts, by the way.” Setting his fork down and pressing his knuckles to the floor, Beckett leans across and presses a kiss to the side of my knee. “I love this about you.” He kisses my thigh. “And this.” He kisses higher along my thigh, and sniggers when my breath catches. “I love most your shyness.” Glancing up, he pushes back to sit and continues to serve our food. “I’m excited to see how far I can make you blush. Is it just your face, Tabby Cat?” He places a slice of lamb on each plate. “Or does it spread down your chest? Into your panties?”
“I can’t discuss this with you.” My face burns as I dive forward and search in the basket for something to drink. With any luck, it’ll contain alcohol.
Beckett chuckles and moves on to serve green beans.
“Wine!” I grab the unlabeled bottle with an almost ‘hurrah!’, and dive back in for glasses. “They make their own booze,” I tell him. “One of us should remain sober, just in case this is poison and we need help.”
“Let me guess,” he scoffs. “You drink. I’ll keep watch.”
“If you insist.” I pop the bottle open with quick moves and begin pouring the almost honey-colored liquid in
to the first of two glass flutes. I pour only a small amount, then I set the bottle on the floor, and swirl the glass for a moment.
Beckett snorts. “It’s fucking homebrew, Tabby, not fifty-year-old whiskey. No need to swish.”
“Hush and keep plating my food.” I bring the glass to my nose, inhale, and open my eyes wide when the deep aroma of something akin to chloroform invades my senses. “Jesus, it’s strong. This is like paint stripper.”
“Yeah? With any luck, it’ll be a Tabby-stripper too. I saw the start of a birthmark while swimming today.”
“You did?”
“Mmhm.” He sets down his fork when our plates are full, and snags my glass of… turpentine. “I sure as shit did. It was right up,” he looks at my thighs and grins. “Somewhere special.”
He speaks of a birthmark, but he acts like it’s inside my vagina or something.
“Your eyes see all,” I drawl.
“Uh huh. And my tongue will soon follow.” He sips the wine and looks to me the way a goofy dog might. Wide, dancing eyes, and a tongue that darts out to taunt me. “They’ve literally poured kerosene in here. What the fuck?”
Bursting out in giggles, I set the glass aside and take my dinner before it turns cold. My appetite is barely noticeable, but I know that’s because of nerves.
I’m in a room alone with my boss, on a date, after an entire day of making out. If I don’t eat now, I might pass out from low blood sugar. And really, that’s not what I want for myself tonight.
“Six weeks touring Europe with six a.m. daily alarms and late nights, or weeks on end, bumming on a beach, reading books and checking out the cabana boys?”
Beckett makes a face and searches my eyes for sense. “What?”
I cut into my dinner and study his playful eyes. “I know a lot about you, but now I’m asking more.”
“So you’re asking about cabana boys?”
“I’m asking how you’d prefer to spend your vacations—busy, busy, busy sightseeing, or lounging around on an island?”
“Oh!” Catching on, he nods. “Okay.” He rips his lamb with his fingers, instead of cutting it like a normal human being, then tossing the strip into his mouth, he smiles so fucking charmingly that my heart sinks.
It should be a bad sink. A damning sensation. But really, it’s my soul preparing me for a lifetime of You’re stuck, bitch.
“You probably assume I’m the tour-the-Colosseum kinda guy, huh?”
He’s not wrong.
“Europe, the world’s oldest amphitheater, battles to the death, swords and fighting, Tabby! What’s not to love?”
I snag a green bean from my plate and take a bite off the end. “So you’ve decided?”
“Nope.” Chuckling, he licks his fingers and draws my eyes to his smiling lips. “While all that sounds cool, I’d still choose the island of bumming around.”
“You would?”
“With you?” He crosses the space between us and presses a gentle kiss to my lips.
His are oily from dinner, moist and smooth, but he’s impossible to ignore. It would be a downright sin to reject him.
“I would sit on an island with you forever,” he pulls back and murmurs. “Sun, sand, you in a bikini?” he pushes back to sit. “Books, booze… Getting to hold your hand all day long and ignore the rest of the world? Mm.” He grabs a bean from his own plate and takes a bite. “Being on tour in Europe where I have to share you with everyone else and never get to stay in bed half the morning sounds like fucking torture.”
“Yeah?” He has all the right words. The right everything. “That’s not what I would have guessed for you.”
“Because I’m high-energy and enjoy attention?”
I snicker but nod. Because there’s no point in lying now. “Yeah, because you’re always moving, and you inhale attention the way the rest of us inhale oxygen.”
Unoffended, he licks his fingers and goes searching in the basket again, only this time, he pulls out a bottle of water. “If I was twenty-one again and single, I’d probably choose the tour.” He unscrews the bottle and pours the contents into a fresh glass. “That’s where everyone else would be, so I’d have fun chasing the girls down, staying up all night, then touring again the next day.”
I purse my lips and watch on as he sips water and regales me with stories of other women; hypothetical or not. “Lovely.”
He snorts. “But that’s the life of a single, unmarried, uncommitted man.” He offers his water and waits until I accept it. “But I’m a married man now, Tabby. Which means I bring my own girl to the island. We lock ourselves in and send all the boats and the cabana boys away. Then it’s just me and you.”
He crawls across the rug once more, hands and knees, and stops right in front of me so his strong jaw ticks with something dangerous. “I choose the island,” he murmurs. “I’d rather be alone with you, than surrounded by hundreds of other people, having to pretend I give a fuck about what they’re saying.”
“You w— You—” I swallow to lubricate my throat. “You wouldn’t care?”
He shakes his head and slides his lips over mine. “I care only about you and your thoughts. It’s been like that since the moment I met you.” He presses another kiss to my lips. “Eat up, hurry up. I wanna explore your birthmark, and doing so while you’re trying to eat would be bad manners.”
I laugh, which almost results in me choking on a tiny portion of lamb. Eating while flirting with Beckett Rosa is a dangerous sport. “Okay.” I push him back with a gentle hand on his chest and make space for myself to eat. “Would you rather a romantic date night out,” I ask, “or takeout on the couch?”
He scoffs and tosses a potato into his mouth. “Island, baby. I will always choose the island with you.” He speaks around his food, and grins when he knows I’m judging him for it. “Takeout on the couch is the same as an island honeymoon.”
“Wait, who said anything about a honeymoon?” My heart races, but all Beckett does is eat his potato and smirk. “I didn’t say honeymoon.”
“Uh huh. So once we marry, you’d prefer I booked us in for Europe?”
“Hell no,” I grumble. “That sounds like hell.”
He flashes a victorious smile and chases his potato with water. “Exactly. What’s your favorite sex position?”
I choke. On nothing. On air!
Pitching forward, I catch myself on one hand, and use the other to slam against my chest to dislodge whatever is hurting me. “Excuse me?”
“Missionary?” he nods and continues to eat. “Okay. Just means I get to look at your beautiful face.”
“Beckett!”
“I have this image in my head though, kinda like…” he moves his hands, his arms… he frowns while doing whatever the hell he’s doing. “Like, folding you up like a camp chair. Ya know what I’m trying to say?”
I wheeze for oxygen.
“It’s still missionary,” he adds. “But damn, Staci, I wanna fold you up.”
“Who the fuck is Staci?” I push tall and ball my fists. “Beckett Rosa!”
Giggling, he grabs my wrists and tugs me into his space. His chest bounces, his eyes dance. And not one part of him thinks about the black eye he’s about to receive. “I was kidding.” He pulls me into his lap, over our food, into his arms, and presses his lips against mine. “I swear I was kidding.” Another kiss. “Not about the folding, or the sex. But I was playing with you.”
“And Staci?”
“It’s a saying.” He slides his tongue along my jaw and turns me to putty under his touch. “There’s this show my nephew is always watching, and there’s this kid named Staci. They say ‘Damn, Staci’ at least once every episode, and it always cracks me up.”
“You’re gonna send me insane long before I die.”
“Uh huh.”
“Probably before our first anniversary.”
“As long as there’s an anniversary.” He buzzes his lips along my jawbone.
“I choose you,” he whispers r
ight by my ear. Laughter, silliness, teasing, all gone. Now he’s speaking from his soul. “Whatever the question is; vacations, dinners, bed-shopping, or party RSVPs, I choose you. For the rest of time.”
“Fuck.” Tears well in my eyes and make my stomach whirl. He beats down my every defense. He makes it impossible to take things slow and remain somewhat impartial. “What do you mean bed-shopping?”
He slides his hand along my ribs. His fingertips touch, front and back, but his palm soothes, loves. “I mean, I don’t give a fuck how convincing the sales attendant is, we are never, ever, ever buying two twin beds and pushing them together. Not even the five-thousand-dollar beds, not even the zero-gravity, remote-controlled, sports performance, pillowtop bullshit. We are never putting that line between us, because no matter how convincing the salesperson thinks they are, it is not the same as a king bed.”
“Beckett, I—”
“Because then we’ll have two islands,” he pushes on. “Maybe they’re really close, and maybe we can visit each other’s each night, but at the end of it all, we’ll still sleep on separate islands. And you?” He presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Me?” Another. “One island, Tabby. Forever.”
“How did you make all that sound so friggin’ romantic?” Frustrated, I wrap my arms around his neck and pull us closer together. “You were talking about Europe, and Staci, and twin beds, and islands, and now my heart—”
“Loves mine?” he cuts in with a small smile. When our eyes meet, he presses his lips to mine. “You’re catching up, Tabby. I knew you would.”
“You make all this so hard,” I whimper. “I don’t want to be way in love with you.”
His eyes sparkle and search mine. “You don’t?”
“No! I want to be independent, and smart. I want to be able to go on if you somehow contracted something awful and died. I want to be able to function like a normal human being even if this doesn’t work out. I don’t want to be a prisoner to this,” I groan. “It’s terrifying, giving someone else that much power over me.”
“I already gave mine to you.” He nibbles on my bottom lip and slides his nose along my cheekbone. “Forever ago, I gave you access to every single thing that I am.” He presses a kiss to my chin. “I gave up my independence, and I sure as fuck ain’t gonna be able to go on; whether it’s a disease or breakup, if you walk, I die.”