Chapter 11
Idon’t give him much time to recover before I slide up his body and shove my dick down his throat. I still have a mouthful of cum, and I’m already sitting at hair-trigger level. I feel barbaric. Like, I kinda wanna pound my chest with my fists right now.
Do not pound your chest right now. For fuck’s sake, get it together.
“Can you snap your fingers?” I ask.
He looks at me funny, but tests it out anyway. “Yes.”
“Good. Snap your fingers if you need me to stop because I don’t do slow and easy.”
“Send me to pound town, s—” I don’t let him finish, just slide my cock back into his hot mouth. Note to self: when Beckett gets bratty, throat fuck him.
I look down at his blissed-out face. His cheeks are flushed, and tears wet the corners of his eyes.
When they fly open and lock on mine, he swallows.
His lips stretch around my length, saliva dripping down his chin.
Fuck, he looks so sexy like that. I arch into him, and he tilts his head back, opening his throat so my cock can sink another inch.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re good at this. Yeah, baby, take me down that hot, wet throat of yours.” He hums. “My cock looks so fucking good in your mouth.”
I pump my hips, fucking into his mouth hard and fast. “Fuck, baby, that’s it. Take my cock.”
It starts at the base of my spine, the buzz of electricity building. A couple more thrusts and my balls draw up tight. “I’m gonna come, baby. Are you gonna swallow my load down?”
He nods, with hollow cheeks.
I thread my fingers through his hair, grabbing on tight as my orgasm shoots down my spine and rope after rope of cum coats the inside of his throat.
With my chest heaving, I pull off, slide down his sweat-slicked body, and lie next to him. “Are you okay?” I ask between labored breaths. “Was I too rough? Did I hurt you?” I ask, reaching up to untie him.
A shit-eating grin spreads across his face, telling me no. “That was perfect. I love a good mouth-fucking.”
“Jesus, little mouse, I didn’t know you were such a slut.”
He lets out a laugh. “Edging is my favorite, so I do plan on holding you to that, but I like it a little rough.” He winks.
We’re both quiet as we lie there catching our breaths. As soon as oxygen becomes our friend again, Beckett sits up. “Can I use your bathroom?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Beckett slides those damn little black briefs back on before walking into the bathroom. I resist the urge—hard—to bite my knuckle as his ass bounces away. I can show some class. I’m a grown-ass man, even if I wanna dirty him the fuck back up.
The room is quiet when the door clicks shut. Too quiet.
My head’s still scrambled. It’s been a long time since I’ve let anything get this intense. Long time since sex left me feeling… raw. Exposed. Like if he looks too close, he’ll see all the pieces I usually keep bolted down.
He steps back into the room, lips still swollen, that blissed-out, wrecked expression lingering with a shadow of uncertainty underneath. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, like he’s suddenly not sure what to do with them.
“Well,” he says, bending for his jeans. “I guess I’d better go.”
Something in my chest pulls tight.
“Wait.” The word is out before I can second-guess it. “Stay. Please stay.”
He straightens, searching my face. “Are you sure? Because I can go if it’s… too much.”
The fact he even thinks that sinks a blade right into my ribs. That he’d make it easy for me to push him away, like he’s preparing for it.
“No,” I say too quickly. I sit up against the headboard, reaching without grabbing. “I want you here. And I already scheduled your appointment at Joe’s for the morning. We’ve got to drop your car off anyway.”
He hesitates one breath longer, then nods. “Okay.”
When he climbs back into bed, it’s slow, careful, like he’s giving me another chance to change my mind.
I don’t. I lift the blanket, and he settles in against my side, head fitting into the curve of my neck like that’s where it belongs.
One hand rests over my chest, light, warm, right over my heartbeat.
“Would you mind driving me to the grocery store after we drop my car off?” he asks quietly. “I’ve got a rare day off, and I want to play with some recipes.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my fingers tracing a lazy line along his shoulder. The small, normal task settles something jagged inside me.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Of course.”
He goes on, softer, like sleep is pulling at him. “I didn’t even ask if you’re working. If you’re busy, Finn can—”
“I’m not,” I cut in. “Shop’s closed tomorrow. No appointments. I’m free all day.”
He tilts his face up, and there it is again—that little spark. Mischief overlaying something more tentative.
“How would you feel about being my taste tester?” he asks. “For the cookbook stuff.”
The question is light, but it lands heavy. That he’d invite me into that space, the one that was used against him, the one he’s rebuilding from scratch. That he’d trust me with even a piece of it.
“Ummm,” I say, because my brain is slow but my heart is not. “A whole Beckett meal?” I press a kiss to the top of his head, letting my lips linger there. “Count me in.”
He relaxes fully then, body melting into mine.
I stare up at the ceiling in the dark, aware of every point where we’re touching. This should terrify me more than it does. He’s under my roof, in my bed, planning tomorrow with me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself want him to still be here when I wake up.
“Are you sure you’re okay taking the bike? We can always swing back to my place and grab the truck,” I say as we cross the lot. “We’re only a couple of blocks away.”
“No, your saddlebags should be big enough. I’m just picking up a few things,” Beckett says, peeking into one.
We’ve already dropped his car at Joe’s and hit the hardware store for the part I ended up having to order for his washer, which is now hogging the top case.
That leaves the saddlebags for groceries.
In my defense, it was a nice day; the bike was an automatic choice.
I did not factor in logistics. Or the fact that I woke up to a very eager mouth on my dick and my brain hasn’t fully rebooted since.
Inside the grocery store, Beckett grabs one of the small carts, and pulls out his phone.
“Just wanna double-check my ingredients,” he says.
“Take your time.” I steer us off to the side with the produce. “What are you making me, Chef?”
“It’s such a nice day, I was thinking grilled steaks. And there’s this bourbon garlic cream sauce recipe I want to mess with.” His eyes flick up. “If you’re nice, I might even share.”
“You had me at steak and bourbon,” I tell him.
He huffs a quiet laugh. We lock eyes a beat too long, until he breaks first, cheeks warming.
“Come on, then,” he says. “You can push the cart.”
“Oh,” I say. “Promotion.”
Beckett grabs a bag of lettuce and throws it into the cart before stopping in front of the dressings. “I’m surprised you don’t make your own,” I quip.
“I usually do,” he says, scanning labels. “But those are for Italian, and tonight is steak night. In my professional opinion, the only correct options are Thousand Island or blue cheese. And I’m in the mood for a sweet flavor.”
“Thousand Island it is,” I say because I happen to agree with him.
He drops a bottle into the cart, grabs garlic, and we angle toward the potatoes.
Out of the corner of my eye, two familiar shapes materialize near the display.
Oh, hell.
Instinct kicks in. I throw an arm across Beckett’s chest and redirect him hard toward the strawberries.
“Whoa, easy there, big fella,” he laughs. “If you wanted strawberries, you could just say—”
“I don’t want strawberries,” I whisper, a little too harshly.
His eyes widen. “Dom, I like you, but not enough to publicly role-play in the produce section of our local grocery store.”
“It’s the old ladies,” I grumble.
He cranes his neck. “Where?”
“Potato bunker. Two o’clock. Locking on target.”
He gasps. “Shit. Hide me.”
In one smooth move, he tucks behind me, using my back and the cart as cover.
“Think they saw us?” he whispers.
“Considering they’re peeking around a pile of potatos like budget CIA…” I say. “Yeah.”
He bonks his forehead lightly against my back. “Okay. Strategy. You run interference, I’ll get steaks. Go.”
“Why me?”
“Because we need potatoes. And they’re trying to set me up with someone’s cousin’s friend’s brother who ‘also just happens to be gay.’”
The fuck they are.
“Mine,” I growl under my breath.
He grins up at me wickedly. “Exactly, big guy. Yours. Now use your terrifying presence for good.” He pats my chest and moves off toward the butcher.
Traitor.
I turn the cart in their direction and ease in with caution. “Good afternoon, Ms. Brandy, Ms. Cook. Ladies, what a surprise, running into you here… at the potato… store.”
“Lame,” Ms. Brandy announces.
Ms. Cook nods, eyes twinkling. “Shopping for potatoes, dear? Need help? She’s very gifted.” I stare at her blankly. What?
“She is,” Ms. Cook continues. “Just last week, I was making my famous bacon potato soup and asked her to pick me up some on the way home. Made my bacon potato soup legendary.”
“Due to my superior potato instincts,” Ms. Brandy says. “It was the best damn soup you’ve ever tasted. Although I can’t say it was all because of the potatoes. Missy here makes amazing soups.”
“Wait, I didn’t catch that. Did you say coming home? Are you two living together now?”
I can almost feel the thousand needles Ms. Cook will be poking into her voodoo doll before she goes to sleep tonight.
Ms. Brandy leans in. “How many potatoes d’you need, sweetheart?”
Shit! Well, that didn’t work.
It’s not that I mind if people see Beckett and me doing whatever it is we’re doing, but these two… They’re like gossip stations. If I don’t want them setting Beckett up on a date, I’m gonna have to give them something.
“Two,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near suspicious.
“All right,” she says, sifting through. “What you wanna look for is smooth, dry skin. If it’s wrinkly and soft, then no bueno. What size?”
“Ahhh, I don’t know. Beckett never told me.”
“I’d go with large,” she decides. “You two look like you can handle a decent amount in your mouths.”
I blackout for half a second.
She presses two perfect potatoes into my hands. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” I croak.
“Anytime. And when you see Beckett at the butcher counter, tell him to give me a call. I’ve got a question.”
Absolutely not. Oh no, my brain has mysteriously forgotten what she said. Whatever will I do?
“Of course,” I lie, smiling at Ms. Brandy and giving Ms. Cook a curt nod before executing a tactical retreat.
Back near the dairy aisle, Beckett is waiting with a suspiciously innocent look. “You owe me,” I mutter, dropping the potatoes into the cart.
“Did you at least use your scary Dom face?” he asks.
“I have a scary Dom face?”
“We’ll circle back,” he says, picking up a potato. He inspects it. “Damn. She nailed it. Great size. Nice skin.”
I cock my head. What the fuck is going on?
“What can I say? She has a touch of magic when it comes to picking potatoes.”
“How does one even get the magic touch for potatoes? That seems like an odd talent.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. This one time, the warehouse belonging to the supply company we normally buy our potatoes from flooded.
They lost everything. Ugh, all that food wasted.
Anyway, she overheard me on the phone yelling at the delivery guy.
When I hung up the phone, she was right in front of my face, like a spiderweb.
She kept trying to tell me about her Aunt Martha’s alpaca farm.
I couldn’t shake her, so when she told me she had a special talent for picking out potatoes, I took the chance to get her to leave my kitchen.
She came back with the best potatoes for making french fries. ”
“I still say they’re nosy,” I mutter. “You know they kidnapped Alex the night Jasper fainted?”
“Worked out, didn’t it?” he says. “Chester found a home. Chaos runs on community service.”
“Hey, Dom,” Anthony calls from behind the meat counter as we roll up.
“Hey, Anthony.”
“Beck, I’ve got your steaks here, freshly butchered.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
“Beck? Tony?”
Beckett shrugs. “We’ve bonded over a shared love of meat. We’re nickname-close now.”
Sure. Fifteen years I’ve known the guy, but Beckett flirts with a ribeye once and they’re brothers in arms. Shared love for meat, psh. He probably just wanted to get into his pants. I saw the way he looked at him at the farmers’ market last month.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Not jealous. At all.
“Dom,” Beckett murmurs. “You’re growling.”
I clear my throat. “We done?”
“Almost, just have to get heavy whipping cream and we’re all set.”
I follow along like a lost puppy.
This is the part that throws me. I don’t follow.
Not my style. I quietly lead. I let my presence control the situation.
Something about Beckett is different, though.
He makes whatever this is between us light and fun.
But the swoop in my stomach every time he gives me that shit-eating grin tells me there is something more.
I’ve never been this close before. I can see the line between infatuation and love, but I’m terrified to cross it.
He drops the cream in with a flourish. “Mission accomplished.”
“Everything gonna fit on the bike?” I ask.
“If not,” he says. “I’ll just hold it between my thighs.”
My jaw clicks. He winks and pushes the cart toward the checkout like he didn’t just try to end me in aisle nine.
The old ladies reappear near the registers. We do not make eye contact.
Outside, the sky is bright, the air warm. We load up the saddlebags in easy silence—steaks, cream, sauce ingredients, contraband potatoes. Beckett swings onto the bike behind me, hands settling on my waist like it’s the most natural thing.
As we pull out of the lot, his chest pressed against my back, his laugh muffled against my shoulder when we hit a bump, it hits me how close I am to something I’ve spent most of my life avoiding.
I’m right on the line between wanting him because he’s gorgeous and sharp and lets me ruin him in bed, and wanting him because of stupid shit like this—grocery runs and shared jokes and him trusting me enough to watch him build his dream.
I’ve never let myself step over that line before.
Behind me, Beckett squeezes just a little tighter, like he’s holding on for more than just balance.
For the first time, the idea of crossing it doesn’t just terrify me.
It feels like the only move that makes sense.