by Jodi Watters
“And unless you get that thing on me in two seconds,” he said roughly, his eyes on the condom as he reached for her impatiently. “Baby Aggie is a real possibility.”
It took her longer than two seconds, but he wasn’t joking. She was still rolling it down his length as he was pushing deep inside, their mutual groans of pleasure competing with the blistery winds howling outside the thin apartment walls. His thickness filled her, touching her so deeply she could feel him with her whole being.
It was fast. It was hard. And it was glorious.
There was no two ways about it, Beck was a bed hog. And it had less to do with his six feet two inch, chiseled frame and more to do with his arm span. The man wasn’t built for a cramped double bed.
Hope burrowed in tighter, tucking herself into him and absorbing the waves of heat rolling off him, his naked body like an electric blanket, only better. Way better. Muscled arms spread wide, he mumbled his good morning, but didn’t move those impressive guns a centimeter. Running her finger down the narrow strip of soft hair bisecting his rippled abs, which seemed impossibly more defined now than before, she brushed a hand over his toned navel.
“Go any farther south and some things are gonna happen.” His raspy voice was only slighter louder than the wheeze of her old furnace, rumbling to life with a racket that could wake the neighbors. “I’m not saying stop. Just giving you fair warning.”
A quick look downward told her something was already happening. A remarkable rising that had her licking her lips with deviant intent. But that could wait for later.
Pressing open mouth kisses across his chest, she slid her fingers back up his happy trail and laid her hand flat on his pec, propping her chin on top of it as she stared at his bristly face. Even from this angle he looked ridiculously handsome, his long, dark lashes hiding his unclouded eyes as he slowly came awake. A person shouldn’t look this good when you were staring straight up their nose.
Lifting his spread arm sluggishly, he dropped it heavily across her lower back and pulled her in tighter. If that was possible. “Mmm, should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“What letter did you give Ash?” Her brother’s comment last night had slipped past her, the shock of seeing Beck overriding everything else.
But, as the sun started to rise this morning, casting the pristine white landscape in a blindingly bright light, she’d replayed last night in her mind while watching him sleep. Counting every soft, sleeping breath, and the rise and fall of his chest, Hope was too afraid to close her eyes. Too afraid he was only a figment of her imagination. And that’s when Ash’s comment penetrated her thoughts.
Cracking one eye open, he lifted his head a fraction, a frown wrinkling his forehead. Sleepy, sexy, and grumpy, all rolled into one panty melting package.
“He said to tell you he shredded it,” she prodded. “What was it?”
“That motherfucker,” he said, with affection. At least, as much affection as a person can produce while calling another an extremely foul name. With a heavy sigh, he scooted down the too small double bed, pulling her up as he did so.
Face to face, he cupped her cheek, sweeping the pad of his thumb across it. “I resigned.”
“You what?” Rearing back, she scrambled to her feet, reaching for his flannel shirt on the carpet next to the sofa. “Why would you do that, Beck? I thought you loved all that... that... pow-pow and ka-boom stuff,” she sputtered, buttoning his huge shirt over her chilled body.
He sat up, not bothering to cover his nakedness. It was distracting as hell. “I can’t work for Scorpio long distance, honey. And I’m not living in a different goddamn state than you,” he said, adamantly.
“What? You quit your job? For me?” He quit his job for her? “But, why?” It wasn’t easy to be articulate with a bare-assed Beckett Smith standing in front of you, much less with his bare front locked and partially loaded. And now she was regretting her reluctance to take advantage of him while she had the chance.
“I’ll find something here, Hope, and there’s plenty of money in my savings. Hell, I’ll work as a mall cop, if I have to. Busting punk teenagers for riding their skateboards through the food court sounds like fun.” He grabbed his jeans, putting on a far better show than any working class male stripper as he carelessly shrugged into the frayed denim, leaving the button fly undone. “And I still want to get my hands on this place.” He pointed up. “That popcorn ceiling has got to go.”
It would be so easy to shove her hand down the front of those jeans right now, grab onto his goods and give him an especially good morning. Sheer curiosity was the only thing stopping her.
Dragging her gaze upward, she said, “You want to stay here? In Denver?”
“No. I want to stay where you are, Hope.” Grabbing her hand, he pulled her toward him. “Didn’t I make that clear last night, honey? I want us to be together for the long haul. I lost the right to ask you to come back to me, so from now on, wherever you go, I go. Like a hobo on a ham sandwich.”
“For the long haul?” she asked, squeezing his hand. “Like I’m a ham sandwich?”
His grin matched hers. “For as long as you’ll have me.”
“That could be a long time, you know.” Smiling, she bit her bottom lip. “Because I love you a whole lot. I love you so much it could be like... forever.” When the corners of his mouth lifted in supreme, masculine confidence, she threw her curve ball. “But, you might want to keep your duffel bag packed because you’re not gonna be here as long as you think.”
“Honey.” He frowned. “Princess, you have to know I’m so sorry—”
“Honey and princess at the same time? God, you’re hot when you grovel,” she said, swooning. Swinging their clasped hands playfully, she leaned in and kissed the center of his chest, just above his heart. “I’m moving back to San Diego in a few weeks. I need sunshine and seawater.”
“Oh, thank fucking God.” Relief laced his words as he hugged her tightly to him, cupping the back of her head.
“You might not be saying that when we’re sleeping in my Toyota,” she said, teasingly. “I haven’t found a place to live, yet.”
“At least we’ll be together.” Playing along, he nibbled her earlobe. “Although, it might get a little tight once Baby Aggie comes along.” Releasing her abruptly, he rifled through his duffel.
Holding out her pink blanket, a heavy look crossed his face. “You were right. That stupid thing works. Thanks for letting me borrow it.”
Not disputing the stupidity of her blanket, Hope held the soft cotton to her nose, breathing in Beck’s favored fabric softener. It smelled like his guest towels. It smelled like him. It smelled like home.
“Anytime,” she replied, amazed that someone could feel such complete happiness, standing on dirty shag carpeting in a mildew ridden studio apartment. But the truth was, she did.
“One hundred, thirty-nine days today, honey.” He released a deep breath, hesitantly holding out a large envelope, his greens eyes bright with uncertainty. “For you.”
“What’s this?” Confused, she released the small metal clasp sealing the envelope and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers. Legal papers.
“It’s your jacaranda tree,” he whispered.
Flipping through the pages of legal mumbo jumbo, her sleep deprived brain absorbed the information. “You gave me a tree?” she asked absently, skimming the pages.
Then it dawned on her what the papers were. What they really meant. Yes, he’d given her the beloved jacaranda, its canopy of purple blooms providing her safe haven on so many nights. But, what the envelope actually held was the deed to his house, both their names listed at the top.
He’d given her the Lark Street house.
“You gave me your house?” Stunned, she looked from the papers to him, then back to the papers. Then back at him again, her jaw slack. “You can’t give me your house, Beck.”
“Sure, I can. I own it,” he said easily, shrugging. “I can do whatever I want with it. And I want
you to have it.”
“You can’t give me a house, Beck.” Repeating it in a firmer voice, she shook her head and the papers at the same time. “Who gives somebody their freaking house?”
“You have my heart, Hope, and now you have my house. Sooner or later, it’s gonna be marital property, anyway, so the whole place will be yours, as much as mine.” He tilted his head toward her midsection. “Baby Aggie, remember?”
She rolled her eyes. “You do know there’s no way on God’s green earth I’m naming some poor child Agnes, right? That’s why we used birth control.” When he merely grinned, she took a shaky breath, letting it out slowly. “Are you proposing?”
Because if he was, then holy shit on a shingle, she was going to fuck his brains out right after he was done. Truthfully, she was doing that no matter what came out of his mouth. That sexy peek-a-boo view into his pants was driving her crazy.
“I’ll leave the names up to you,” he conceded. “And since we have a house, some goldfish, and a jacaranda tree, we might as well get married, too.”
Leaning down, he placed his mouth over hers, his hungry kiss filled with promise.
When he finally pulled back, their lips clung briefly. “But I’m not proposing, princess. Not yet, anyway.” He swiped a finger across her chin lovingly. “Not because I’m not sure, but because I want you to be sure. I need to earn your trust back and I need to trust myself. That means being sober for a hell of a lot longer than a couple hundred days.”
He was about to get real lucky in the sex department. And considering her heart was bursting with love, so was she. In the life department, too.
“Deal.” She reached out to shake his hand, laughing when he yanked her into his arms, sinking down onto the plaid couch. Mouths melding, they sealed their lips together for a long moment, the kiss full of emotion. Of love and lust and commitment.
Hope rested her forehead on his when they broke free, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders. Speaking of a little thing called love, his tender speech had been missing one key ingredient.
Eyes locked, she spoke quietly. “I’m gonna need the words, Beck.”
He’d gotten a lot better at communicating, graduating from well trained poodle to grown man with relative, but sometimes painful, ease. Mumbling something, he moved his mouth to bite her earlobe, running his hands down to cup her bottom.
“You can do it,” she prodded, grinning as she licked the warm skin on his neck. “It’s easy. There are only three.”
“Let’s get naked?” he asked, his breath tickling her ear.
She shook her head. “I like the sound of that, though. Keep it handy.”
Letting out a small laugh, he tried again. “You were right?”
“That’s a very good guess,” she said, encouragingly. “And probably a phrase you should get used to saying. Just not the one I’m looking for.”
“Oh,” he said, grinning. “You mean, I love you.”
“There it is.” Her smile was a mile wide. “See? That wasn’t hard at all. And it sounds so wonderful, doesn’t it?”
Beck leaned back, gazing at her with clear, clean eyes. “I do love you, Hope. I probably have since the moment you walked into that hotel room at the Vistancia and demanded an interactive experience. I love you so damn much, I’m pretty fucking afraid I’m always gonna.”
It was such a Beck thing to say. And it was music to her ears. “Good thing we have my blanket.”
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
My love for steamy romance began when I was in junior high. A friend and I came upon a dumpster of discarded paperbacks behind our small town’s Ben Franklin store. The covers were missing and each book was torn in two, split right down the center of the spline, but I found that to be no obstacle as I scanned each page looking for any love or lust words—and curse words, too. It wasn’t long before I was scouring the public library and our local discount store, devouring anything labeled romance. I said a tearfully grateful goodbye to Judy Bloom as Jackie Collins began ruling my world.
I live with my high school sweetheart turned husband and our three, beloved DVR’s, in the desert Southwest. Otherwise known as the surface of the sun during the summer months.
My life long goals are to think before I speak, smile more and swear less, and actually weigh what my driver’s license states I do. And I have been contemplating a hair color change for the last decade. I’m thinking red.
CONNECT WITH THE AUTHOR
I love hearing from my readers and I invite you to connect with me online:
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Remember getting a little taste of sexy Sam Gleeson in WRONG THEN RIGHT? Find out how the former Army Ranger falls in love with his seductively sweet neighbor, Ali Ross in:
NEXT TO ME
Book One in the Love Happens series.
Available now!
Excerpt from NEXT TO ME
CHAPTER 1
If the old saying about never having a second chance to make a first impression was true, then Ali Ross was screwed. And not the good kind of screwed, either.
The head banging, sore muscled, glad-you-were-a-woman kind of screwed that she hadn’t had in too many years to count. Okay, who exactly was she kidding here, because she’d never had that kind of sex before. Never even came close. Swallowing back the sarcastic sob that sorry admission brought on, Ali quickly dabbed her eyes with the loose cuff of the threadbare, white button down shirt she wore over her paint spattered tank top, hoping to wipe away any evidence of the embarrassing tears tracking down her cheeks. And prayed to God she didn’t have snot dripping out of her nose.
Her private pity party, which included a shame filled walk down memory lane, had just been crashed.
“Pete!” The low, masculine command came from thirty yards down the beach and even with the sound of the surf breaking gently as it met the shoreline a few feet from where she sat watching the sun set, Ali heard his voice loud and clear. Felt it in her toes, which curled where they were partially buried in the sand, still warm from the unusually hot southern California summer day. Her heart was beating a loud tattoo in her chest, reminding her of how long she’d been out of the game.
Their first meeting was crucial to her plan and she’d been wondering how to coordinate a chance introduction for days. Only a few plausible options had come to mind and this one, the one where she sat quietly weeping like an emotional basketcase on the beach, wasn’t one of them.
Hoping it looked like she had her shit together, Ali braced herself as the puppy landed ass over teakettle in her lap, paws wet and tail thumping, making himself at home in her personal space. Unable to stop herself, she stroked the soft, sugar-colored hair of her unexpected visitor and watched nervously as the large, dark figure jogged toward her. The steel blue sky, still partially streaked with the hot pink and burnt orange glow of the setting sun, made his shoulders, already a mile wide, look even wider. Thankfully a soft, sympathetic whimper momentarily distracted her and she looked down at her newfound friend. Tongue hanging out in happy bliss, knowing brown eyes stared at her in concern and Ali couldn’t help herself. She smiled her first genuine smile in what felt like forever. Maybe not that long, but too long. It felt good.
“I’m sorry.” The voice was close now, close enough that she could see his bare feet out of the corner of her eye as he approached and she buried her face briefly in the fur of the white Labrador puppy leaning against her as if she was his redeemer. Ali silently snorted. She was nobody’s savior. “Pete’s new around here and he’s still learning the ropes.”
Forced to look up at him, she smiled and shook her head. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” he said, the casual laziness in his rough voice contradicting his scolding
words, meant more for the dog—Pete, apparently—than her. “I’m trying to teach him about stranger danger, but he’s not as smart as I’d hoped.” Crouching down, he scrubbed a hand over the dog’s face affectionately. “I should’ve gotten the Pit Bull, I guess. Right, Pete?”
She grinned and peeked at him again, not surprised to see him staring directly at her, something sparking in his eyes as he took in her blotchy face and puffy eyes. Cursing her shitty timing and fair complexion, Ali stared back at his surprisingly perfect face, unable to look away from such masculine beauty. He looked younger, much less severe than in the one photograph she’d been able to find of him online. The standard headshot pasted next to his short and somewhat awe-inspiring biography showed a magnetic expression portraying the all business attitude suitable for the co-owner of Scorpio Securities, Inc. The fact that he was more handsome than the average man wasn’t something Ali had given much thought to six weeks ago. It was his credentials and real time experience she’d been focused on. But now that he was right in front of her, the sharp angle of his jaw and straight blade of a nearly perfect male nose was only made more appealing by the shadowed, late day stubble covering the lower half of his face. His dark, almost black hair wasn’t long by any stretch but it wasn’t the closely cropped near military cut he’d had in the photo. A woman could run her fingers through it now, if she was so inclined.
And suddenly, Ali was.
Until this moment, she had seen only brief, distant glimpses of him in the week since moving into the house next door to him. Her newly purchased home along the panoramic Pacific coastline in La Jolla was one of only a dozen that sat side by side along the pristine beachfront, a mix of both old and new structures, and all built narrow and tall to maximize the prime square footage that came with a staggering price tag. And in her case, a remarkably hot neighbor.