by Misti Murphy
I take the bag from her and collect the rake. “I’m going to take a shower and then we’ll drive back into town. Need to get some people food too.”
“Don’t like tofu?” she asks sweetly.
I snort to myself. There’s only one reason that shit is in my fridge, and it isn’t because she eats it.
It’s been a week since Beck moved in with me. Seven days of coming home to a house that looks like it’s been ransacked. There’s a half-eaten pizza left to get cold and gross on my coffee table. A slice of it is upside down on my floor. The oil from the cheese is no doubt seeping into the wood. There’s a smell too. It’s almost worse than the oranges; like moldy socks and stale sweat. I toss my keys on the counter along with the six-pack of beer and bottle of wine I picked up on my way home.
I huff out a breath and open a beer. She’s driving me crazy. Her hotel room was a mess, but this is worse. Almost as if she’s intentionally trying to push me into saying enough is enough. Scratch that. It’s exactly like she’s trying to goad me into kicking her out. She was planning something from the very first night. She had that article open on her laptop. Doing research. Only she must have decided not to go through with it when she thought I’d change my mind. Clearly, she’s scheming with a vengeance now.
My bedroom door is closed to me, like it has been every night since she moved in. She hasn’t been hiding though. Most evenings she comes out and slouches on the couch in the same shorts and tank she’s worn all week. There’s so much popcorn between my couch cushions now, I’ll never get it all out. Those little seeds are a pain in the ass. If I have to watch another episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians...
It’s not all bad. Having her here. Sharing space. Spending time together. Listening to her commentary running over the top of the shows she can’t seem to get enough of. Not being alone. On my own. Even if she’s adamant about getting her way. Can’t blame her for that. Admire her commitment. But I’m committed too. That’s why I’ve allowed her to relegate me to the couch. It’s why I haven’t lost my calm when it feels like there’s a storm brewing inside me over the state of the cabin.
I tap on the door between us. “Beck, we need to talk.”
She doesn’t answer.
I growl under my breath. “Could you unlock this door, so we can have a conversation?”
“It’s open.” The wood muffles her voice.
It’s dark inside the bedroom. The curtains are drawn and there aren’t any lights on. The air smells like salt and stale sheets. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
I flip the lights on. It’s a horror movie. No one can live like this. Dressed in the same clothes she’s been wearing these past seven days, she’s curled up in my bed reading something on her phone. Hollander is stretched out with his head on her knee, and there’s an empty sleeve of cookies beside her. The last one is in her hand. She’s surrounded by crumbs, and not just the invisible sand like crumbs that you only know are there because they’re like sandpaper on your skin. That’s half a cookie crushed into my pillow. Damn. “What’s that on your shirt?”
She glances down at her chest and shrugs. “Oh, that’s pizza.”
“Pizza?” My jaw cracks as I clamp my teeth together. She’s enjoying this little show she’s putting on. Waiting for me to lose my cool. Can’t do it though. That’s exactly what she wants.
“Yeah.” She flicks a little bit of crusted cheese off her shirt and it lands on my sheets.
I stare at the stringy glob of mozzarella with traces of tomato paste that’s staining my sheets. Disgusting. It’s too much. “That’s it.”
“What is?” She looks up at me innocently.
I take a deep breath and force myself to relax. Can’t get caught up in an argument. Won’t let her talk me into a corner. But I can change the playing field. And I sure as hell can get my bed back. My knees bump the mattress as I scoop her up.
Unsettled from his nap, Hollander bounds from the bed and heads for the door. He stops only long enough to trill his offense at having been uprooted and then slinks from the room.
“Put me down.” She slaps repeatedly at my shoulder as I carry her into the bathroom. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Running you a shower, babe.” With one arm wrapped around her waist, I reach inside the cubicle to turn it on. Cold water jets from the showerhead, soaking the sleeve of my T-shirt.
“Is there something wrong with my hygiene?” She crosses her arms, under her tits, under that pizza stain that’s never coming out. The corner of her mouth turns up, though no doubt she tries to stifle it as her eyes dare me to admit that there is. Not going to happen.
“Nope. Nothing.” I test the water with my hand, waiting for it to heat up.
“Are you sure about that? If you didn’t think there was why did you carry me into the bathroom? It isn’t very subtle. You think I’m disgusting, don’t you?”
I think she wants me to believe she is. And considering the smell and the state of the rat’s nest on her head she’s put a hell of a lot of effort into proving it. She’s trying too hard though. It’s too obvious. Especially with the fifty million bottles and tubs and tubes of product that now litter my bathroom and bedroom and fridge.
“I just thought you being a princess and all would appreciate being waiting on a little.” I lift her off her feet and move her straight under the water, clothes and all.
She sputters and gasps as the water hits her. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Believe it.” I kick off my boots and climb in with her. Her tank top is already soaked through. It clings to her curves, semi-transparent. Black. Her bra is almost completely visible through the thin material. It scoops low between her tits as they jerk up and down. The cubicle is tiny, barely enough room for the two of us. Half an inch of movement and her breasts will be pressed against my chest.
I push the thought down. Squash it. She’s not going to want that. I turn my attention to the fancy bottles on the shelf, read the labels to make sure I get it right before picking one and squeezing a dollop of goo into my hand.
“Are you serious?” She stares at me like she’s never shared a shower with someone before. Never had someone treat her just a little bit special. She’s so independent and so certain that being with someone, anyone is bad. What happened to her to make her so skeptical? Not that this is what I’m doing. I’m not trying to look after her. I can’t even look after the people who matter to me. Can’t keep my promises.
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you done with this hot mess act?”
“What if I like being a slob? Does it bother you?”
“No.” I shrug. “Not at all.”
“It’s okay if it does,” she says, but it sounds more like a question. As though she’s a little sad at the idea. “We don’t really know each other. We didn’t know each other at all when we married.”
“That’s true.” I move behind her and massage the shampoo into her hair, paying attention to her temples and the nape of her neck until she starts to relax. A sigh parts her lips as I tip her head back. The suds dissolve under the water while I run my hand through the strands to make sure I get it all out.
“We don’t have to do this,” she continues, but there’s no resolve to it. The hot water must be like a balm, relaxing her as it washes away the dirt and sweat. “We could just go our separate ways.”
She’d like me to agree to that. She wants me to tell her I’ll sign whatever documents she puts in front of me. I can’t. There’s too much on the line. Too many people relying on me that I won’t let down again. I pick up a bottle of conditioner and squeeze some onto her hair. My fingers slip through her tresses, and she moans. It warms my chest, in a way that makes me want to smile. It feels good to look after her. Especially when her back sinks against my chest. I breathe in the scent of her conditioner, something sweetly intoxicating and almost edible. It makes me hard. She can probably tell each time her ass hits the bulge in my jeans. Tilting
her head back, I let the water wash away the remnants of conditioner.
I find the soap. A clear bottle full of something pink that’s labelled cleanser. The gel smells like roses and pepper and spices as I smooth it onto her shoulders and down her arms. “I told you I’m not ready to give up on our marriage.”
I pick up one of her hands and rub the soap into it. She doesn’t wear the ring. Didn’t expect that she would. Hope she still has it. Don’t expect that either. But it was the ring my mother wore for the fifteen years my parents were married, and I’d like to have it back by the end of our time together. Sure my parents fought, loud banging and clanging arguments that would send us kids flying out into the yard to avoid them, but they were never serious. They were nothing in the scheme of things. Blown over just as soon as they started. A drop in the ocean of a blissful life together. Until she died.
Dad never got over it. Never moved on. Always believed that was what marriage was supposed to be. Two people loving each other no matter what. Always thought I would give that ring to the woman I’d spend the rest of my life with.
I move onto the other arm. My hands slip and glide over her bicep, her forearm, her wrist. Our fingers entwine. There’s something between us that makes it hard to think straight. But it shouldn’t matter that I’m attracted to her. It’s not important. Only looking after my family and restoring Casey Records matters. Liking her has nothing to do with that. If anything it complicates it.
“You still don’t want to call it quits, even though I’m making a mess of your life?” She turns around and looks up at me. Water drops cling to the tips of her eyelashes, thick dark lashes that sweep her cheeks as she glances down at my chest where the cotton is suckered to my skin.
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” I crouch and pick up her foot so that I can soap it. She has no idea how messed up my life is. How much I’ve let my family down. My dad. Myself. The state of my house is nothing in comparison to the whirlwind of destruction I brought into our lives.
I run my palms up her leg until I get to mid-thigh. I bite my lip as I consider moving them higher. Her tiny shorts are baggy and leave room to roam as high as I want. Was a time when I wouldn’t have had to second-guess such a move. Could have anyone I wanted. They lined up for us outside concerts and gigs. Pushed their panties into our hands and our pockets. Threw themselves in our paths. Stalked us.
I don’t miss it. Don’t miss any part of that lifestyle. Not the women, and not playing in front of crowds, or at all. I drop my hands to the other foot and start again. “You’ve made a mess of our cabin.”
“And myself,” she adds. I glance up to catch her roll her gaze at the ceiling.
“A little,” I admit. I’ll give her props for the effort she put in. At the same time I happen to like that she’s not perfect, or trying to be. And that messy hair was a turn on. The image of how she looks after a night between my sheets with me runs through my mind.
She makes a sharp little sound as she pulls in a breath and her lips part. Her hand squeezes my shoulder, fingers digging into my flesh. She blinks long and slow.
“What is it?”
“Your fingers,” she rasps.
I drop my gaze to my hand that’s been massaging the soap into her skin. They’re high on the inside of her thigh. Higher than I meant to go. She’s smooth under my rough touch. Under the layered scents of soap, I can smell her arousal. I breathe it in. Taste it at the back of my throat. Want it, want her.
Her throat muscles move as she gulps. Her pupils darken. My dick punches at my wet jeans. I want to slip my fingers up the rest of the way, inside her shorts and touch her. I want her to continue making tiny noises that tell me it feels good when I have my hands on her. I’d barely have to move my fingers to press them to her clit.
I should stand up. Climb out of this shower and let her finish in peace. I should set to tidying up the damn cabin and washing my sheets. I should retreat to the shed where I can fix the ache in my balls that’s a result of wanting her as much as I do right now. With my hand or a hammer.
I haven’t so much as looked at another woman in two years. Didn’t care to, didn’t need the hassle. She’s the last woman I should be complicating things with considering she holds my future in her fist. She’s the key to rebuilding my life. One stupid decision could wreck everything, and yet I’m salivating over her. One little gasp and I can barely keep my dick under control. “Fuck, I want to touch you. Want you to want me to touch you. Want to see you come all over my fingers.”
“Oh God.” Her palm slams against the tiles as her knees buckle. The door of the shower rattles.
“Do you want that, Beck? Do you want my fingers on your clit? Want them inside you? Want me to make you come?” Like I want to. Like I’m dying to. “Going to scream my name for me?”
Her eyes are luminous as she stares down at me. She’s panting. Her tongue dashes across her lips despite the moisture in the shower. She nods.
“That a yes, Angel?” My heart is beating fast. Too fast. Pumping blood that’s all heading south. The pressure of the heavy, wet denim on my erection is almost unbearable. I want to get my mouth on her. Want to taste her too.
“Touch me.” She whimpers, her legs bowing.
She gasps as I slide my fingers out of her shorts and dig them into the waistband to tug her closer. I yank on the button, undo the zip. Press a kiss to her belly just below her navel as I drag her shorts and panties down and push them to the floor. Water sluices over her skin, runs in rivers over the dips and hollows.
I glide my soapy fingers up the inside of her leg, draw them along her seam to her clit.
“God.” She groans, the sound half lost as she tips her face into the stream.
It does things to me. Makes me feral with desire. Makes my balls draw tight. I thumb her clit, rubbing the rough pad over her most sensitive flesh. “You like a little rough handling, don’t you, Angel? Like the way my fingers feel on your skin? It turns you on.”
“So much.” Her abs clench as she moans from my touch, and her fingers dig deeper into my muscles, like she might float away from the earth if she isn’t tethered. The water washes away the soap, leaving her slippery with arousal and the moisture from the shower.
Putting my fingers to her entrance, I sink them into her. She shudders, her thigh muscles contracting and releasing. I fuck her slowly, savoring the little sounds she makes and the way her eyes glow with desire when she drops her head. And damn if it isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I could bust a nut. I press on my hard-on to try and ease the pressure that keeps building and building. My palm slaps against her wet skin each time I thrust my digits into her, squelching with the wetness. Her pussy contracts around them. She’s already close. But it’s not enough.
“Want to taste you. Need to get my tongue between those pretty pussy lips and fuck you with it.” I inhale her scent as I bring her closer to my face. Like the first time we did this. Haven’t forgotten. Can’t. The way she came apart. Her screams. Her sweetness that belonged only to me.
She tightens around my fingers, an orgasm making her sway. It’s fucking beautiful. My cock aches so damn much, the wet denim too snug.
I dart the tip of my tongue over her clit, and she cries out involuntarily. My dick pulses. So fucking hot. I want more of her in my mouth. Want that swollen flesh between my teeth. I lap at her. Suck and bite at her. The whole cubicle is shaking. She’s practically climbing the walls. Breathless. Moaning. Panting. Husky, whining sounds that egg me on. Grasping her hips with both hands, I bury my tongue in her. Seal my mouth to her hot wet flesh while I eat her up and swallow her taste like I can never get enough.
“Nox. Shit. Nox. Oh God.” She comes apart again, riding my mouth. It ripples over her face. Her muscles clench as she hovers like that one final note of a song, fading and falling just as sweetly.
I have the feeling I’ll never get enough. But I knew that before she showed up again. Knew it from the first tim
e we fucked. From the first time she smiled at me.
Doesn’t help when wanting her could screw me over.
CHAPTER TEN
Marriage is hard work.
Through the good times and the bad.
It takes compromise.
And forgiveness.
BECK
I have to regroup after that. Have to find my bearing. He pulls me out of the shower and drags my sopping tank and bra off before he wraps a towel around me. He peels off his socks and shirt and drops them into the hamper with mine. I watch his hands work the button on his jeans. The hard bulge trapped inside is painfully obvious. My mouth waters as I catch a glimpse of paler skin and fine hair that leads deeper into the thick material as he walks past me and out of the bathroom, leaving a trail of water in his wake.
Here I am trying to disgust him, trying to change his stubborn ass mind, and he’s blowing mine. With his fingers and his mouth, oh God, did he. More than that. It’s the other stuff. Not just the sexy stuff. It’s the patience he’s managed to have though he’s been grinding his teeth in his sleep because he’s so on edge. It’s how considerate he was while he tactfully manhandled me into realizing being a slob isn’t going to win me this war. It’s the fact that he refuses to walk away.
I don’t know a lot of men like that. I’ve known cheaters, like Liv’s fiancé who we found in bed with his secretary that weekend we ran off to Vegas. Chauvinists who think women are secondary humans, like my mother’s third husband. Assholes who assume the whole world revolves around them. Players. Control freaks. Momma’s boys. Psychopaths. It’s enough to put a woman off even trying to find a good man. Or it should be. Not that I have that problem. I know better. Finding a happy ever after is like winning the national lottery. Better to save my time and money and dignity.
Which is why Nox washing my hair and taking care of me in the shower shouldn’t have felt so nice. It shouldn’t have made me relax. It shouldn’t have made me warm everywhere he touched me and turned me on in a way straight up flirting never has.