5. Beckett
Chapter 5
Beckett
I skim my hands down her arms over her silky skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in my wake. Entwining our fingers, I press them against the wall on either side of her head, leaning my body into hers with a protective, enveloping warmth.
How the hell did I end up here?
With her .
Temptation in a sky-blue tank top that matches her eyes and jeans that hug her rounded ass and hips like they were stitched by the devil himself just to taunt me.
She’s pinned between the wall and me, her firm, curvy body melting into mine, loose strands of chestnut hair framing her flushed cheeks, eyes glittering like blue topaz. Her breath comes in soft, uneven gasps that match the pounding in my chest.
I don’t do this—I don’t let myself do this. I don’t chase moments that feel too much like more . I don’t let myself get caught up in the soft sighs and warmth of a woman who makes me forget who I am, who I’ve been, and what I’ve done.
Yet here I am.
Here she is.
She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be mine for even these brief stolen moments. But I can’t make myself stop.
I told myself it was nothing at first—curiosity, attraction. But that was a lie.
She’s already under my skin, burrowing in deeper with every look, every touch, every fucking breath. And I don’t know what it is about her, if it’s how she meets my gaze without flinching or the way she bites her lip like she’s trying to hold back everything she wants.
Or maybe it’s that she doesn’t look at me like a man who’s done terrible things.
She looks at me .
As if she sees something worth wanting.
As if I’m more than my past, my scars, my mistakes.
And that? That’s fucking dangerous.
Because I can control everything else—my body, my actions, my instincts. But not this. Not her .
Her fingers twitch against mine, and I realize I’m still holding her hands pinned to the wall, our fingers entwined.
Her breath hitches, and my grip tightens. I lower my head, dragging my lips down the column of her throat and over the pulse hammering there. She shivers.
I did that.
And I want to do it again.
I want to see how many times I can make her shiver, make her moan, make her forget anything outside this room exists.
I press my body into hers, surrounding her, consuming her, claiming her in a way I have no right to.
And when she lifts her chin, offering me her lips, her body, herself …
I stop thinking.
I need another taste of those soft lips. My lips brush hers, so light it's barely a touch. It’s not enough.
I deepen the kiss, my tongue teasing the seam of her lips, coaxing them open. When she yields, she tastes like whiskey and something warm that feels like a promise.
She melts into me, her body softening, her defenses crumbling.
“You feel that?" I whisper against her lips. "That connection. That heat? You can't pretend it isn’t there.”
She nods, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She knows I’m right. She can't fight it. And I can't pretend. Not with her, not like this.
My hands slide up her back, under her tank top, tracing the ridges of her spine. I touch her firmly but gently, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly how to make her feel everything.
“Let go, I murmur, my lips trailing down her neck, kissing every sensitive spot, every secret place that makes her shiver. “Let me take care of you.”
She does. She lets go. Lets me lead. Lets me remove the rest of her clothes and guide her to the bed with a trust that makes my heart ache. I don’t know what she’s fighting, what she’s running from, or why she’s scared of whatever this is between us, but I can feel it in the way she trembles and hesitates for a fraction of a second before giving in.
She’s not afraid of me. She’s afraid of herself.
And damned if I’m not scared too.
Scared of what this means, of what it might uncover. Afraid that if I let myself feel— really feel—there will be no turning back.
Doubt creeps in.
Shit. I should stop this. I should let her go.
Because I’m not a good man.
Not anymore. Maybe I never was.
The things I’ve done and the choices I’ve made don’t belong in the same world as someone like her. I’ve crossed so many lines that they blurred into bloodstains.
I’ve killed. I’ve broken men without hesitation and done whatever was necessary to complete the mission. There’s no redemption for men like me, no way to erase the ghosts that haunt me when I close my eyes.
I have nothing to offer her except hands that know how to destroy, a body trained for war, and a heart so battered and bruised I don’t know if it even works properly anymore.
But she’s here. Soft and warm in my arms, the first good thing I’ve let myself touch in longer than I can remember.
I cup her face, my thumbs skimming over the curve of her jaw, grounding her. Grounding myself.
“I’m not a good man,” I rasp, my voice rough, my conscience clawing at me like a wounded animal. I swallow hard. “But if you let me…” I exhale sharply, my control hanging by a thread. “I’ll make this good for you.”
Her pupils dilate, her breath catches, and her body stills in my arms, not in fear but in anticipation. “You already are.”
Fuck.
I break.
I was holding back. I’m not anymore.
My hands tighten on her hips, dragging her against me, crushing every inch of space between us.
I kiss her like a dying man gasping for air.
One second, I’m convincing myself she should walk away.
The next?
I’m pressing her into the mattress, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every ounce of hesitation.
Her hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, into my hair, tugging—desperate, demanding.
A groan rumbles in my chest, low and deep, as her legs wrap around my waist like she’s meant to be there.
She fits.
Jesus Christ, she fits so perfectly.
“Last chance to make a run for it.” My words are rough and guttural, one last thread of restraint before I lose myself completely.
She breathes hard, her lips brushing mine, teasing, wrecking me.
And then she laughs. A breathless, wrecked sound that sends blood rushing straight to my dick. “You’re wasting time talking.”
I curse, a deep, hungry growl tearing from my throat. Then I move. Lips on her throat. Hands gripping, exploring, claiming.
I claim her mouth in a kiss that’s neither gentle nor soft because there’s no more pretending, no more illusions. This is exactly what it is: two strangers colliding, seeking solace in each other for one night, finding something close to healing in the dark before the sun rises and reality pulls us apart.
My grip tightens in her hair, angling her head so I can kiss her deeper, harder, pouring everything I can’t say into the way our mouths move together, desperate and searching as if we’re trying to memorize each other before the night steals us away.
She responds with the same urgency, her nails scraping down my back, her body pressing closer, molding to mine in a way that feels like fate. Like inevitability.
Every time I touch her, every time she gasps into my mouth like I’m the only man who’s ever kissed her like this, something deep inside me shifts.
Something I wasn’t ready for.
Something I don’t have a name for.
Her fingers fist in my shirt, tugging me closer. I groan into her mouth, dragging my hands down her body and branding her with my touch, ensuring she knows how much I want her.
I press my forehead to hers, both of us breathing hard as our chests rise and fall in sync. I don’t say anything because I don’t trust myself to.
And maybe she doesn’t either because when she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, almost like she’s afraid to break whatever spell has settled between us.
“Don’t stop.”
Tomorrow, she’ll walk away.
But tonight?
Tonight, she’s mine.