29. Cami
Cami
B eckett kisses as though his life depends on it—as if mine does.
As though if he doesn’t seal his mouth to mine we’ll die.
It’s rough, the thrust of his tongue, the press of his lips, but it’s the most genuine kiss I’ve ever had.
There’s no mistaking this man wants me.
It wouldn’t be any clearer if he took out a billboard advertisement or it flashed on the Jumbotron at the arena the next Rogues home game.
His mouth on mine trips a switch I had no idea existed and no desire to turn back off.
My hands find his head, my fingers twisting in his hair, as fire races through my veins. It pulses hot and frenzied, snapping every cell to attention, tightening and tightening and tightening something so deep in my belly it really does feel like I’ll die if he stops.
When he lifts me from the floor, it’s automatic for me to raise my legs, to wrap them around his hips and squeeze so there’s not even air between us.
The hard length of his cock presses against my throbbing clit and I’m helpless to stop from grinding against him.
It’s not enough.
I want to feel his skin on mind .
Feel his heat singe my slick core.
Feel every inch of his hardness inside me, filling me up, taking me over.
With a groan, I pull my mouth from his.
“Beckett.” His name is a plea. A curse. A demand.
“I know,” he murmurs into the curve of my jaw as his mouth moves downward. “Jesus. Cam.”
He shudders against me and I can’t stop myself from demanding more. “Fuck me.”
The sound he makes is guttural, a primitive cry that could be agreement or objection. Whatever it is, it has my fingers clawing at his shirt, scraping at his skin.
“Beckett,” I moan, the need racing through me restricting my breath.
He mumbles something I can’t understand before sealing his mouth to mine once more.
Hot and wet, this kiss is no less frenzied or more practiced. It’s raw and hungry and matches the craving taking me over.
A rock of my hips has us both groaning, the sounds swallowed down. When Beckett matches my actions, thrusts against me, I can only whimper in need.
I want this man inside me.
I want his skin against mine.
I want?—
“Dad? Is Cami okay?”
The shout from below has us yanking apart. Harsh breaths saw in and out of both of us and the lust filled gaze locked on mine delivers relief as well as frustration.
“Shit.” He drops his forehead to mine. “I’m sorry. Give me a second.”
“Dad?” Whitney’s voice is closer.
Beckett clears his throat as he lifts his head and turns to the side and calls out, “Cami’s fine. We’ll be down in a second.”
Breath still ragged, our eyes locked again, we don’t say a word for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds .
When I unhook my legs, he slowly lowers me to my feet and holds my waist until I’m steady. I have to stifle a groan of disappointment when his hands leave me.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
I press a hand to his mouth. “Don’t say it.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” The last thing I want is for him to regret delivering the best kiss of my life.
Long fingers wrap around my wrist and lift my hand away from his lips. “I’ve never forced myself on a woman before.”
The sound that comes out of my mouth is one of disbelief. “Did I fight you off? No. Did I actively participate in that mind blowing lip-lock? Yes.”
“I still shouldn’t have?—”
“Shouldn’t have stopped?” I nod. “Agreed. But your teenage daughter is downstairs and as much as I want to keep doing what we were doing, see what else we can do, I think we need to shelve this discussion for later. Preferably when Whitney is not in the house.”
I’m not a prude but the thought of kissing Beckett again, at the idea of taking the kiss to the place I’m pretty sure it was headed, while Whitney is in the house leaves me feeling icky.
“I’ve never been with a guy who had children. I’m not sure how to handle that. Not that I think we’re together.” Shit. Am I presuming here? I don’t think this is just sex, but I can’t be sure and before now, Beckett hasn’t shown any signs of wanting me.
“I can hear your brain working.”
With a shrug, I say, “It does that a lot.”
“I’ve noticed.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know the protocol here because I’ve never been with anyone.”
His confession shocks both of us if his wide eyes and my slack jaw are an indication. “But…”
“Whit’s mom, yes, kind of. But no one else.”
“Oh.” So this is just sex. The disappointment that rolls through me threatens to take out my knees .
“Wait. That’s not what I meant.” He ducks his head so our eyes are level. “I’ve never dated. Never had a one-night stand.”
When his words register, when what he’s saying makes sense, my jaw goes slack again and if there were flies around, I’d be catching them. “ Never? ”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“You haven’t had…”
“Not since before Whit was born.”
I’m not sure what shocks me more. The confession, the fact he’s been celibate for eighteen years, or that he wants to break that streak with me.
“Dad!”
“Shit. We need to get downstairs or she’ll come up here.” He reaches for my hand and weaves his fingers through mine as though he has the right, as though he’s been doing it for years. “But this discussion isn’t over. If you’re okay with it, I’d like to kiss you again.”
I can’t help the bark of laughter that bursts free. “Sorry. Not laughing at you.”
“Oh.” He tugs on my hand and gets us moving out of the bedroom. “What are you laughing at?”
“I’m not sure I’d call what just happened a kiss.”
“No?”
“No. There was more to it.”
The smile he shoots my way is blinding. “So you wouldn’t mind doing it again? With me?”
His voice wobbles on the last two words and I’m shocked again.
How this man, so confident on the ice, can be insecure off it, boggles my mind. Except now I know some of his history, I understand it.
Squeezing his hand, I reassure him. “I more than don’t mind. In fact I’d be very disappointed if you didn’t kiss me again.”
“Good. Okay. Good.”
Laughing, I let him lead the way downstairs. We’re not all the way down when the most delicious smell has my stomach rumbling loudly.
Pressing my free hand to my belly, I send a sheepish smile Beckett’s way. “Guess I’m hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “Almost twenty-four hours.”
“Really? What time is it?” I feel like I’ve slept for days but I can’t have been out that long. My hair’s still damp from my earlier shower.
“Five. PM.”
“Wow. Okay, yeah, close to twenty-four hours. No wonder my belly feels hollow.”
“The doctor said you might have a bit of nausea when you woke. I made soup though, so that should be gentle on your system.”
“Soup?”
“Chicken noodle.”
“Does it taste as good as it smells?”
“Yes!” Whitney races over to us as we reach the last step. “Here. This way.”
Whitney grabs my hand and pulls me away from her father, tows me into the dining room where the table has been set for three.
“Sit down.” She urges me into a chair already pulled out from the table. “I’ll get the soup. Dad, get drinks. I brought a couple of the energy ones from the gym fridge up for Cami. Get her one of those as well as some ice water. I’ll just have ice water.” Directions given, Whitney leaves the room.
I tip my head up and smile at Beckett. “She usually give orders?”
“No, but she’s been really worried about you.” He bends over and brings his face close to mine. “She insisted on sitting with you when you fell asleep after your shower.”
“Oh.” I frown in the direction Whitney went. “I hate that.”
“Don’t. She’s a lot like me, keeps to herself a lot so doesn’t have a heap of friends. Her concern shows she’s chosen you as one.”
“Hmm… I’m sure you weren’t happy about that.”
“In the beginning, no, but then I wasn’t taking into account who you are. Just saw your job and decided you couldn’t be trusted.”
“Probably didn’t help that I was involved in the whole Draper incident.”
Beckett blows out a breath. “Probably. Doesn’t mean I don’t owe you an apology.”
“I think you’ve apologized enough.”
“I haven’t at all.”
“Beckett, as much as I love words and they’re how I make a living, I’m a firm believer in actions speaking louder than words and you’ve done nothing but show me you’re sorry in the last few days.”
“Huh.”
“Dad, where are our drinks?” Whitney asks as she comes back, her hands gripping a large steaming pot.
“Sorry, on it now.” Beckett shoots me a grin and a wink before he heads off.
“This is the best soup.” Whitney places the pot on a folded towel between the three placemats. “I’ll serve you just in case you’re a little shaky. It’s not one of the side effects of Zolpidem but you haven’t eaten in a day so…”
Arching an eyebrow, I study her. “And you know this how?”
“I looked it up online. Dad told me what the doctor said but I needed more than that, so I did some research.”
“I think not eating has drained me of energy and I’m glad you’re happy to serve me.”
Her gaze meets mine. “You’re in luck because Dad’s chicken noodle soup is the perfect thing to build your strength back up.”
“It smells good.”
“Tastes good too.” She slowly spoons the fragrant liquid into a bowl. “I’ll give you half a bowl first. You can have more if you feel up to it.”
I press a hand to my rumbling tummy. “I’ll definitely be having more.”
“Don’t make yourself sick. I can always heat up more later.”
“Whitney.”
Her eyes meet mine again. “Yeah?”
“I’m okay. I’m hungry, a little drained of energy, but other than that I feel completely normal.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Reaching out, I put a hand on her arm when she places my bowl in front of me. “I’m fine.”
A sob catches in her throat before she blurts out, “It’s all my fault.”
“No.” I push to my feet. Take the ladle from her hand and put it back in the pot. With both her hands in mine, I make sure I have her undivided attention. “None of what has happened is your fault.”
“But the reporter the other day, and the one yesterday, they wanted to talk to me.”
“That doesn’t make any of it your fault.”
“Dad said you wouldn’t blame me.”
“He’s right, I don’t. But I understand why you might feel as though you’re to blame for everything. I’ve been there. In your shoes. When I was younger, my biological mother wasn’t very nice to me and I was convinced it was my fault. That because I wasn’t a good girl, she treated me the way she did.”
“That’s…were you bad?”
“No. But it didn’t stop me from thinking I should be better. It took a lot of years and a lot of therapy to break that mindset. Don’t fall into it. We can only control our own actions. If you had pushed me down the stairs or stabbed me with Zolpidem, then yes, it would definitely be your fault. But you didn’t. Two very unscrupulous men did.”
She studies me for a moment, checking to see if I’m speaking the truth no doubt, before saying, “I won’t be upset if you decide not to let me stay with you when Dad has away games.”
Her words have me jolting. “Oh, Whitney.” Pulling her in, I wrap my arms around her. “This only makes me want to stay with you more.”
“Oh.”
She’s almost the same height as me, maybe a little taller, I can’t be sure because I’m not wearing shoes and she’s got a pair of sneakers on, but our cheeks are lined up and my jaw brushes her shoulder.
Holding her tight, I will her to believe my words. I’m not worried if she doesn’t. Like I said to Beckett. Actions speak louder than words. I’ll just show her what has happened in the last few days has no effect on the way I feel about her.
And I’m beginning to suspect I’m falling for Whitney Higgison as deeply as I think I’m falling for her father.