Hot Under Pressure

by Louisa Edwards

  How could he explain what it meant to him to know, in every sinew and with every flex of muscle, that she was there with him? “I like it,” he repeated stubbornly. “You feel good in my arms, soft and sexy. Not like some bag of hollow sticks poking at me.”

  Her cheeks were still red, but now she was giving him a shy smile, and Beck’s chest opened up with relief. Giddy with it, he fumbled the condom up to his mouth and ripped the foil wrapper open with his teeth, making her eyes go even bigger.

  An instant of one-handed dexterity later, and her eyes went soft and hazy, her pink lips parting on a sigh that Beck felt through his whole body, every bit as intensely as he felt the wet heat of her sex closing around the latex-covered tip of his cock.

  He had to concentrate in order to keep his fingers from digging into the taut, quivering mounds of her ass, leaving bruises on her creamy skin.

  Instead, with as much delicacy as the throbbing of his erection would allow, Beck relaxed his arms and let gravity slide her down, down, down until every inch of him was sunk into the soft, searing depths of her.

  When she came to rest against him, her sex sealed to his pelvis and her thighs trembling with the shock of his penetration, Skye groaned and clutched at his shoulders. Beck devoured her with his eyes, every reaction, every shudder and quake of her responsive body as precious to him as the pleasure overloading his system.

  He didn’t know how long it had been for her. He reminded himself that he had to go slow. Be gentle. Remember how much bigger he was, how much he could hurt her in his rush to satisfaction, and go easy. Let her set the pace.

  But Skye tipped her head back and gasped out, “Move, please … oh God,” and all of Beck’s good intentions went up in flames.

  His hips leaped forward, like a racehorse loosed from the starting gate, and jammed his cock harder and deeper into her. He thrust again and again, delirious with the slick, tight clutch of her around him, drunk on the way her internal muscles quivered and pulsed, pulling at him as if trying to milk the orgasm from his body.

  Setting his mouth to the spot on her neck that was already becoming livid with the bruise he’d sucked there earlier, Beck licked at the sensitive skin to make her gasp, then set his teeth against the spot and bit down. All he knew was the need to claim her, inside and out.

  The drive to make her his, irrevocably and completely, so the whole world would know, pushed him into the last fiery, convulsive thrusts that ground him against her until she tensed and cried out a high, reedy wail of pleasure.

  His own climax followed a heartbeat later as lightning shot up his spine and down into his legs where they braced their shared weight against the office floor. He panted through it, openmouthed and silent, with the taste of Skye’s skin filling his mouth and the scent of her all around him.

  For long moments, they sagged against the wall, spent and overwhelmed. Finally, though, Skye stirred restively, and as she dropped her legs from around his hips, he lowered her to the ground. The movement made his cock slip out of her, which sucked, but he had to deal with the condom anyway.

  Making sure Skye was steady enough to lean against the wall on her own, Beck stripped the condom off and tossed it in the garbage can by the desk before turning back to the most gorgeous sight he’d ever seen.

  Skye Gladwell, in the glorious, luscious, naked flesh, all languid and leaning and bright-eyed. Her creamy skin still showed the hectic flush of arousal, and there was a soft, satisfied smile curving her pink mouth. Her strawberry-blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in a silky mass that begged for his hands, the ends curling down almost to the tips of her gorgeous, uptilted breasts.

  He stood there, drinking her in, and the moment stretched on until she couldn’t help but notice his stare.

  For once, though, she didn’t make a move to cover herself. She didn’t glance away, or blush, or duck her head. Instead, her smile widened and her stance opened, inviting him in.

  She lifted her arms from her sides, Beck moved without conscious thought, his feet carrying him into the lush welcome of her embrace.

  He was home.

  *

  There was a particular ridge in the mattress of the old futon where, over time, the stuffing had gotten pushed and prodded into sticking up.

  Before Skye even blinked her eyes open, she felt that diagonal line of hard discomfort pressing into her side. Not yet fully awake, she grunted in annoyance and wriggled away from it and closer to Beck, who, like always, was taking up about eighty-five percent of the available mattress.

  Wait.

  Skye’s eyes popped open, and she levered herself up on one elbow, trying to figure out where she was and what the hell was going on.

  Yep, there was Beck, hogging the mattress, his bare back rising like a mountain from the sparse covering of the ratty cable-knit throw he’d pulled over them last night.

  After they had sex.

  Amazing, exhilarating, soul-satisfying wall sex.

  And then they’d fallen asleep on their dilapidated futon—their marriage bed—just like old times. Skye had even gravitated toward her old side of the bed, uncomfortable ridge and all.

  In the moments between sleeping and waking, it had been easy to mistake this morning for any other morning during their brief marriage … but those days were over. Or at least, they were supposed to be.

  Flopping back down on her back, Skye stared up at the ceiling. There had to be something wrong with her, some terrible moral flaw, because even though she knew she should, she couldn’t make herself regret what had happened last night.

  Beck had opened up to her, more than he ever had before. She’d gotten a short, searing glimpse into his inner life, the storm that raged behind his dark eyes and stoic facade, and she’d been sucked into it like Dorothy going up in the twister.

  She’d wanted to give Beck comfort, to show him with her body, since words hadn’t reached him, that she truly forgave him.

  But it hadn’t been one-sided. Beck had given her something, too. She’d never, in her whole life, felt so desired. So necessary. So beautiful. It was a gift, and Skye hugged it to her chest.

  This morning she might have pillow creases in her cheeks and a wild snarl of bedhead turning her hair into a natural disaster area, but last night she’d seen herself through Beck’s eyes … and she’d been beautiful.

  Beside her, Beck stirred and the sheet pulled taut between them, rolling her closer to the decadent, intense heat of his body. Feeling daring, Skye put her hand on the smooth, hard plane of his lower back, just above the sexy dip at the top of his ass. His skin was fine-grained beneath her fingers, like polished wood, but with the living, breathing beat of his heart pounding through it.

  In books, people always seemed to look different when asleep—more innocent, or younger. But Beck seemed the same to her: a silent, immovable statue. A mystery.

  Even his tattoo … squinting in the dim morning light filtering in from the high window above her desk, Skye cocked her head to try to make it out.

  It was on the shoulder Beck slept on, and he had his right arm pillowing his head, which twisted the tat and pressed part of it into the mattress. Flicking a glance over Beck’s sleeping face, Skye carefully sat up on her knees and put a hand on Beck’s top shoulder.

  Exerting gentle pressure, she tried to get him to turn over on his stomach so she could get a better look at the swirling pattern of dark blue lines radiating out from his right shoulder blade.

  They almost looked like words …

  Skye meeped as the immovable statue suddenly moved.

  Without warning, between blinks, Skye was on her back staring up at Beck’s fully awake face, both her wrists imprisoned in his large fists and pressed to the mattress on either side of her head.

  For one, terrifying heartbeat, she stared up into black eyes that held no light of recognition.

  But then her heart pounded out another beat, kicking painfully at her chest, and Beck blinked. His whole face changed—a slow grin cr
inkled the skin at the corners of eyes that now sparked with desire, amusement, affection.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  His morning-rough voice reverberated through her ribcage where they were pressed so tightly together. His weight, which had been crushing in that first instant, was still heavy—but now she felt safe, sheltered, coccooned.

  For some reason, the words I wanted to see your tattoo wouldn’t come out.

  Feeling an embarrassed flush spread over her skin, Skye flexed her wrists in his grip and said, “Just wondering if you wanted coffee or something before we have to get back to the competition kitchen.”

  The hold on her arms had turned into a caress, more than anything. His thumbs brushed back and forth over her pulse points in a hypnotic rhythm. “I want something before we go … but it isn’t coffee.”

  Giddy delight burbled up in Skye’s chest. It came out as a breathless laugh, and she squirmed beneath him, loving the rasp of his body hair against her skin, the power of his heavy chest trapping her between the ancient futon and the vivid sensations overtaking her.

  Beck’s hands trailed down her arms and over her breasts as he moved down the center line of her body, fingers following the shape of her, mouth searching out her sensitive places as if it had been just a day, instead of ten years, since they’d last woken up together.

  As he kissed his way over her stomach, Skye fought the urge to suck in. To distract herself, she concentrated on the sensation, the contrast of his soft lips with the scratchy stubble of beard rasping at her skin.

  He kept going down, down, his hands moving to part her thighs as he lay between them, and Skye nearly lost it.

  She knew what he was about to do, and she’d never been comfortable with it. Even when they were together before, they’d get to this point and she’d laugh, or pull away and detour him with kisses until he forgot about putting his mouth … down there.

  There was just something so vulnerable about it. So exposed. But as he pressed a gentle kiss to the crest of pale curls at the top of her mound, he flicked his eyes up to hers as if to say, “Is this okay?”

  It wasn’t. At least, not yet. But Skye wanted it to be. She didn’t want to be the sort of woman who backed away from pleasure, from life anymore. She gave him a short nod.

  Then she closed her eyes, because it had to be easier to let go and feel if she wasn’t staring at his dark head moving between her thighs. But at the first slow, easy glide of his tongue, Skye’s eyes flew open.

  Just as she remembered, the sensation was intense, a sharp jangling of nerves that couldn’t quite tell pleasure from pain. She tensed, but Beck didn’t stop.

  He licked her again. Not too fast, not too hard, and her nerves settled down. All it took was one more light swipe against the slickening folds of her sex for her nerves to be entirely sure … this was pleasure. Shockwaves of pleasure rolling through her in great bursts, like thunder shaking her mind to pieces until she lost herself, her worries, her fears—everything but this moment and the man cradling her climax between his hands.

  She cried out mindlessly, again and again, until the hoarse sound of her own voice was all she could hear.

  Time stopped. Her heart stopped. Everything stopped except the relentless coil of feeling at the base of her spine, the knot of sensation between her legs pulling tighter and tighter and tighter until it burst in a shower of sparks.

  Breath, sight, pulse … everything came back to her slowly while Beck turned his face to the soft skin of her inner thigh and sucked up another red mark to match the one she could still feel throbbing on her throat.

  She couldn’t speak yet, didn’t have the brain power to form words, but as soon as she could lift her arms, she got one hand into Beck’s thick, brown hair and tugged lightly, urging him up beside her.

  He gave her a smile, like dawn breaking over the bay, and said, “God, I missed the taste of you.”

  And … apparently her ability to feel complex emotions like embarrassment was back online.

  Embarrassment mixed with delight, actually, which was beyond complex. It was downright confusing.

  “I missed you,” she said honestly, forcing herself to meet his penetrating gaze.

  Something flared in the depths of his eyes, and he licked his lips, almost as if he were nervous.

  “Skye.” He hesitated, and her heart picked up speed. “Do you think, when the competition is all over, maybe we—”

  He broke off abruptly, his entire body going still. Heart in her mouth, Skye poked him in the shoulder.

  “What? What about us?”

  But instead of finishing his question, Beck shot off the futon and landed on his feet in a single, powerful rush of controlled strength.

  Feet braced apart, hands cupped loosely, arms ready—he looked like he expected an army to come marching through her office door any second.

  Before she could try to bring his attention back to what might happen after the RSC, there was a muffled thump from the kitchen.

  Clutching the blanket to her breasts, Skye sat up. Another thump, this time closer to the office door, and Skye’s blood turned to ice water when the sound was accompanied by a familiar masculine voice.

  “Ow! Damn it. Is anyone here?”

  It couldn’t be, she told herself frantically as she scrambled off the bed and wrapped the blanket around her body like a toga. He was in Africa. Burkina Faso. He couldn’t be here, in the Queenie Pie kitchen, on the other side of that door.

  He couldn’t be. But he was.

  The door opened, and Jeremiah Raleigh walked in.

  Chapter 24

  Beck’s mind automatically scanned and catalogued the threat: white male, early thirties, approximately six foot two, a hundred and ninety pounds. In good physical condition, moved like he knew how to handle himself.

  When the intruder stopped stock-still just inside the door and blinked in the darkness of the office, Beck noted his darkly tanned skin and shiny hair, light at the tips as if he’d bleached it that way. But judging from his cargo shorts, scuffed brown leather boots, and battered canvas jacket, Beck had a feeling this guy had spent more time under a hot sun than in a stylist’s chair.

  “Sunshine? You in here?”

  Who the hell was this guy? Did he know Skye?

  That last question was answered as Skye stepped around Beck, wearing nothing but the blanket from the futon and an expression of dismay. “Jeremiah! What are you doing here?”

  “I came to find you,” the guy—Jeremiah—answered, glancing back and forth between Skye and Beck.

  Who realized abruptly that he was stark naked.

  He didn’t really want to back down long enough to find his pants, but when Skye shot him a pleading glance, the embarrassment reddening her cheeks convinced him.

  Without taking his gaze off the new guy for longer than a second, Beck crouched down by the futon and felt around for his jeans.

  “I went to your parents’ house first,” Jeremiah went on distractedly, “But they said you never came home last night, so I thought you must have crashed in your office. And I see I was right. Skye, what’s going on here?”

  Beck snorted as he tugged his jeans up his hips and zipped them up. New Guy must have lost a few brain cells to heat stroke if he couldn’t put the pieces of this puzzle together.

  “Jeremiah” was all Skye said, sounding helpless. She shook her head as if she’d been dazed by a blow. “I can’t believe you’re back already.”

  Beck frowned. She seemed to be really having trouble with this. Was Jeremiah one of her cooks, an employee she’d sent on a stage to another chef’s kitchen somewhere, and he wasn’t supposed to be home yet?

  Except he’d gone by her parents’ house, so he must be a personal connection rather than professional.

  Sticking out his hand, Beck narrowed his gaze on the new guy. “Beck,” he said shortly. “And you are?”

  “Jeremiah Raleigh,” the guy answered, shaking Beck’s hand. His grip
was dry and easy, firm but not crushing. It was a respectable handshake, likeable, even, but for some reason Beck didn’t want to like this guy.

  When Jeremiah finished introducing himself, Beck knew why.

  “I’m Skye’s boyfriend. Nice—and, wow, kind of awkward—to meet you.”

  “Oh my God,” Skye moaned, putting a hand up to her face.

  Beck barely heard her; it was all he could do to stay on his feet. Stumbling back a step, his calves hit the edge of the futon and nearly toppled him.

  Everything wanted to topple him—the very air around him felt insubstantial and too thin to breathe, as if he were falling through empty, black space.

  “Boyfriend,” he repeated. On some level, the gutted rasp of his voice shocked him, but Beck was beyond caring at that point.

  “Yeah, but you know,” Jeremiah made a waving gesture with one tanned hand. “I’m gone a lot. Peace Corps, you know? We’ve got an open relationship, don’t we, Sunshine? So it’s all good. We’re cool.”

  He sounded like he might be trying to convince himself more than anyone else. Personally, Beck was about as far from cool as he’d ever been in his life. Cool didn’t begin to describe the chasm that had opened up in his chest—he felt so cold inside, it almost burned.

  “Beck, please…”

  Skye’s voice broke into the buzzing in his ears, soft and pleading, with an edge of fear that made Beck realize he was up on the balls of his bare feet. Looking down, he saw his own hands curled into fists, white-knuckled with tension, the corded muscles of his forearms practically vibrating with the need to propel his fists into Jeremiah Raleigh’s face.

  Then Skye put a hand on Beck’s back, soft and almost cold against his overheated skin.

  In spite of the rage boiling inside him, her touch had the same effect now that it always did—he felt himself settle, the battle fever cooling to a manageable level that allowed his head to clear.

  And all he could think was Thank God this happened before I made a complete fool of myself, asking Skye to give our marriage another shot.