by K. Bromberg
“Is that a promise?” she asks with a flash of a wicked grin as she saunters to the back of my truck, where the tailgate is down. She quirks an eyebrow at me as she bends over and leans her chest on it, her body bent at the waist, her ass sticking out, tempting me like no fucking tomorrow.
“Christ, baby, I don’t think you want to play with this fire.” I walk slowly toward her, wanting to take what she’s offering, except I know just around the corner are a few of the crew, waiting for us to get started.
She wiggles her ass at me as I come up behind her and trail a finger up and down the seam of her jeans shorts. I hear her suck in her breath, see her hips still before she presses backward into my hand. I withdraw my touch and step back—I’d take her right here, right now, but I’m not really ready to let any of the guys see her like this, give them real-life visuals to go along with the thoughts I know they’re going to be thinking when they meet her face-to-face.
She turns around when I step back, and angles her head at me. “You know what they say about playing with fire, right?” She leans into me and taunts my lips with hers. The fucking sugar to try to sweeten me up.
Damn tease.
“You get burned?” I answer, eyebrows raised, trying to figure out where she’s headed with this because I sure as hell know this isn’t the answer she’s looking for. My answer’s typical and Haddie’s is anything but typical.
“Hmm.” She hums against my lips. “Yes, but that just means you need to get your hose wet to put out the flame.” She brushes her body up against mine again, and hell, if she does that one more time, this whole idea at the track is going to get thrown out the damn window so I can go play firefighter.
Because this hose sure as fuck is getting wet again.
“I like the sound of that,” I murmur before I slip my tongue between her teasing lips, a three-alarm fire already lit within.
“Hey, Daniels! We doing this, or you going to pussyfoot around all day, wasting our time?” Smitty calls to my back, his voice echoing off the concrete walls of the infield near pit row.
Seriously? He always has the worst damn timing.
I raise my hand in the air, middle finger brandishing my hello wave to him. His laugh carries over to where we stand. “Maybe later, dear, but right now we’ve got the car primed and prepped, so get your ass over here.”
“Coming,” I yell back to him, my eyes locked on Haddie’s.
“Promise,” she whispers to me with an impish gleam in her eyes and a little wiggle of her body so that her tits rub against me one last time before she steps back.
I can’t help but grin even wider because how fucking lucky am I to be standing here with a woman who would make a quip like that? Twisting an innocent response into a dirty thought. Talk about one hell of a turn-on.
And hell if I’m one to break a promise.
Or a rule.
We hold each other’s gaze a moment longer, and I love seeing her eyes full of feistiness when so much of the time we’ve spent together they’ve been conflicted, guarded, sad. I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I want to keep that look there permanently.
“No worries there, sweet Haddie,” I tell her as we turn hand in hand and head toward the pits. “I’ll make that fire of yours rage and then use my hose to put it out in a blaze of glory. It would be my pleasure.”
Little does she know I’m talking about a helluva lot more than just sex.
Chapter 23
I can’t keep myself from smiling, and it feels normal for the first time in forever. I don’t know how Becks knew his idea would help, but somehow I feel revived again.
Who would have thought strapping on a helmet, getting behind the wheel of an old stock car, and zooming around the track would be so invigorating? And it wasn’t just the adrenaline that refreshed me. It was the ability to control my destiny.
I mean I know I was going only a quarter of the speed Colton goes when he flies around the track, but I didn’t care. The notion that how fast I go, if I hit the wall or not, I could stay out there all day long if I wanted to, except for stopping for gas, let me feel like I was in control of my own life.
And the moment my mind started to wander, I’d push the gas pedal a little harder, go a little faster so that I had to concentrate on living and not on dying.
What a concept.
Becks walks me up the sidewalk to the front door, his hand in mine, and I realize I’m not ready to let him go just yet. I mean, this morning when he found me looking out the window, the tears in my eyes were from a potent mixture of the fear of tomorrows mixed with the comforting knowledge that I am trying to let him in … for today at least. I had one foot planted firmly and one foot out the door, waiting for the first sign it was time to bail.
And now? Now I feel like one foot is still firmly rooted while the other is in the air, suspended, as my heart urges me to plant it down permanently beside its partner.
And all in a span of forty-eight hours.
What is he doing to me?
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I’m cockstruck by him, but that’s just not possible. Hell yes, his bedroom prowess is fine as fuck, but there’s something more here—and as much as it scares me, it’s also really alluring. It holds promise for possibilities that just might be on the horizon.
But what the hell do I know? Tomorrow I could be hit by a Mack Truck, as Rylee so nicely suggested.
Or be diagnosed with cancer.
I shrug the thought away. It has no place in the here and now after the incredible past thirty-some-odd hours with Becks.
Oh my God. I actually know the hours, have figured them out subconsciously. I really am cockstruck. Fuck me. Hmm—yes, please, but I force myself to pull my mind from its comfortable place in the gutter and focus on how this just isn’t possible.
As much as I like my alphas, I always make sure that the sex is so stellar that even though they think they are in control, I can reduce them to whimpers if I hold out on sex to get what I want. And now look at me. Standing here next to Beckett Daniels—Mr. Slow and Steady—and I’m cockstruck, dick-whipped, legs-spread-wide-served-up-on-a-platter, whatever way you want to say it.
Did the fat lady sing?
And before I can scour the neighborhood to see where she’s hiding, Becks tugs on my hand and pulls me into him as we near the front door. I lean against the solidity of his chest as he wraps his arms around me. Then I close my eyes and absorb the comfort of his nearness because we are light-years away from where we were yesterday morning when we were in this exact same position bristling with sexual tension.
The funny thing is that we’ve all but devoured each other, and yet I feel that want and need ten times stronger now.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head as we hold each other tight. “Thanks for going with me to the farmhouse.” The timbre of his words vibrates from his lips on the crown of my head down through my chest pressed against his, leaving me to feel like he’s a part of me somehow.
“For going?” I tease. “I believe I wasn’t given an option since you were so intent on calling my bluff.”
“Hmm … but it was so much fun mounting that bluff and coming down off of it, now, wasn’t it?”
My body reacts viscerally to his words, a contented sigh on my lips. He can prove it to me right now—once again—if he wants to because hell if my body pressed up against his isn’t already spiraling into the oblivious free fall of desire that only he holds the parachute to.
“Wanna come in?”
He laughs, his hand running up and down the length of my spine. “As much as I’d love to, I can’t.”
Unexpectedly I feel rejected, as if I haven’t gotten my fill of him yet. “You have something better to do than me?” I pull back from him, my lips in full pout as I look up at him and bat my lashes.
“Not in the least.” He smiles softly and leans forward to press a soft sigh of a kiss against them. “You’re cute when you pout, but coming in would break my
rules, and you know how much I hate to do that.”
Him and his frickin’ rules. “Rules? Which rules would those be?” Tell me, Becks, so I can break them.
His mouth widens into a full blown megawatt grin as he shakes his head. “Well, it would break two of them … the pinkie-toe rule and the first-date rule.”
“Come again?”
“Oh, you can guarantee that,” he replies before I realize what I’ve said. I just roll my eyes at him.
“The pinkie-toe rule?” I reiterate.
“Yeah, if I come in, I’m going to want to bang you on every piece of furniture in your house just like you do your pinkie toe. It’s an inevitable thing that’s just going to happen.” He raises his eyebrows as I laugh at him. “I don’t want to do that because, one, by the looks of the bike in the driveway your way-too-present and way-too-male roommate is home. As much as I’d love him to hear you screaming my name, I don’t want to share a single part of you with him, and even if it’s by sound … it’s not going to happen. I don’t share. Anything.”
Although I’m laughing at his ridiculous pinkie-toe rule, the possessive tone of the rest of his words and the look in his eyes—amused dominance—are quite a turn-on.
“And, two,” he continues as I study him, “breaking rule number one would lead to breaking rule number two, no sleeping together on the first date.”
“First date?” I sputter, my head shaking back and forth as I try to understand him.
“Yes. First time I’ve come to your house and picked you up and taken you somewhere.” He shrugs. “Call me old-fashioned, but first date.”
I snort out a laugh and then try to stifle it. “Well, it seems you already broke that rule—yesterday, last night, this morning. Just in case you’ve forgotten, and then if you did, I’d be more than insulted.” I lean in and whisper, “We’ve already slept together.”
“Oh, I assure you I didn’t forget, but this is the first time I get to walk you to the front door and kiss you good night. That’s an important first, and I’m not going to overshadow the importance of that kiss because you’re so busy thinking about how hard I’m going to fuck you up against the front door once we get inside.”
I have a hard time swallowing after that statement. He’s telling me he’s not going to come in, and then he says something like that? “Wall sex, huh?” I try to play off the allure of the idea.
He fights the smile on his lips and almost wins, but his eyes give away his burgeoning desire. “Yep. Wall sex is highly underrated,” he says matter-of-factly as he takes a step toward me. I move away only to realize my back is against said front door.
“Why’s that?” I breathe out, his proximity and the topic of conversation beginning to make my heart quicken.
He steps in again so that my body is pressed against his with nowhere to retreat. “Because,” he says, bringing his hands up to frame my face so that I have no option but to look at those mesmerizing eyes of his, “when you’re pushed against the door with your legs wrapped around my hips, your body weight makes it so that you take me as deep as you possibly can.” He makes a humming sound of appreciation in his throat that mimics how I feel right now, desperate for the feeling he just described. My lips part to beg him, but I keep my dignity—for how much longer, I’m not sure.
With his eyes fastened to mine, he runs his hands down my shoulders, along my rib cage and stops right at my hips so his fingers can grip me there. My breath hitches as I wait for him to lift me up and press me against the door, oblivious to the fact that we are outside and that’s not going to happen.
His fingers grip a bit tighter as he lowers his face oh so slowly to mine. That mouth of his, which I want to do so many things to me, brushes gently against my lips when he pins me to the door. And rather than the desperation I feel, Becks keeps the kiss so tender, so reverent that we sink into it so gently, I become lost in him.
He lifts me gently, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, but our lips never leave each other’s, and the eroticism of our connection is not lost on me. Our bodies fit together, his erection against the V of my thighs almost as perfect a fit as our lips.
Even as my desire swelters to unfathomable heights, the kiss remains slow, measured, meaningful, with our fingers tangling in each other’s hair. It softly ends, a pleading protest falling from my now swollen lips as he pulls back to look in my eyes.
“Good night kisses are my favorite,” he murmurs, and damn, I can see why he favors them, especially when they’re like that. Knock the breath from your lungs, turn your knees to jelly, and overwhelm your mind so thoroughly, you can’t think a straight thought. His hands are back on my hips as he holds me, lowering me to the ground, my mind so shaken that I momentarily forget about my suspended state.
He angles his head, his eyes swimming with so many things that I’m too scared to look too closely. “Good night, City.”
He takes a step back, and I want to cry in protest, but all I utter is “’Night.” He looks at me for a beat longer, with a ghost of a smile before he turns and starts to walk down the path.
“Hey,” I call to him, my scattered wits slowly returning now that there is distance between our bodies. He turns and narrows his brows at me. “Do you have a three-day rule too?”
“Three days? You’ll just have to wait and see now, won’t you?” A lopsided smirk curls up his lips. “I never give away my secrets.” He goes to turn to walk away but stops and faces me. “Hey, Montgomery? The question you should be asking me is if the three-day rule I have is for a phone call or for the wall sex.”
And with that, he grants me a lightning-quick grin before turning and walking away, his laugh floating over to where I stand, thighs clenched and head shaking as he leaves me once again, a woman already wanting more.
Damn you, Beckett Daniels.
I watch him pull out of the driveway, knowing the ache in my chest is only going to get worse as I fall farther and farther down the rabbit hole.
When his car is gone from sight, I open the front door, shut it, and then sag against it in a state of complete exhaustion that feels oh so good. And then I laugh to myself when I realize this very position is exactly where I hope Becks plans to meet me three days from now.
Wall sex.
Damn.
Chapter 24
I throw my purse on the counter and rest my hip against it, thoroughly exhausted. I’ve yet to recover the sleep I lost from my night spent with Becks out in Ojai or the late-night-into-early-morning phone calls we’ve had the past few days. More time spent getting to know each other. Not that I minded because not sleeping with Becks is such a damn good way to lose sleep. Besides, I’ve been busy humoring him and abiding by his ludicrous and completely back-assward rules. But as ridiculous as they are, they are actually kind of sweet too.
And since we’ve been talking every night, obviously the three-day rule did not apply to phone calls. I can only hope it means tonight I get the push-up-against-the-door wall sex he’d hinted at.
Like the sooner, the better.
Becks has built the anticipation so handily that waiting to get up to my bedroom is not an option.
I grab a drink and head out to the backyard per my usual end-of-day routine, the last rays of the sun calling to me before the night claims them for itself. I sit down in my favored chaise and bring my lemonade up to my lips. My thoughts drift to my time with Maddie this afternoon and how she was so cheerful and genuinely happy and how my heart felt so much better leaving her this time.
I know the grief will always be there for her, a constant, but at the same time, I’m starting to see pieces of the little girl she was a year ago before this nightmare we’re never going to wake from happened. And those glimpses tell me there’s the possibility of so many more just around the corner.
I process a couple random thoughts about work and the last Scandalous party coming up in the next few days. I’m more than satisfied with my job for them and know the message I received e
arlier this morning about how the higher-ups were raving about the job I’ve been doing boosted my confidence at the possibility of landing them as a client going into this last event.
And then of course my mind wanders to Becks. I don’t even try to fight the smile that graces my lips at the thought of him and everything he’s come to mean to me in such a short amount of time. I mean, if someone would have told me that I’d be falling in love with a man this quickly, I’d have told them they were crazy. But I rationalize and justify that we’ve been friends for more than a year so the transition to falling for each other is not as drastic as it seems.
And hell it feels so damn good. Butterflies in the stomach when my phone rings, staying up all hours of the night on the phone, talking about anything and nothing, just mesmerized by each other’s voices. It’s early yet, I know, and as good as it feels, I’m trying to pace myself, trying to take stock of everything because the fear is still there, still clawing at my psyche. Making its presence known with each thought, with every action so that I second-guess myself, but I’m trying desperately hard to ignore it. Push it down. Keep it at bay.
I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun, settling into the feeling when my phone rings beside me. I fumble for it, keeping my eyes closed, expecting it to be Becks since it’s getting close to his quitting time, and I’m quietly hoping I get to see him tonight. It’s been a few days and that just feels like forever right now when you’re in that getting-to-know-you stage.
“Hello?” The smile is on my face, my ears anticipating the timbre and cadence of his voice, which calls to me on so many levels.
“Ms. Montgomery, please.”
The disembodied monotone of the voice shocks me. “This is she,” I respond, half of me wanting to look at the screen and see who is calling and the other half that has my anxiety ratcheting tells me I’ll find out soon enough. But I already know.
“Hi, Ms. Montgomery. This is Dr. Blakely. How are you doing today?”