16. Beckett
Chapter 16
Beckett
I burst through the door of my guest apartment with George in my arms.
My chest tightens as I glance at the bruises on her wrist, and my anger spikes again.
Then I remember George's lips against mine, the way she wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me closer as if she couldn’t get enough. The way she whispered “yours” against my mouth.
I lower George to her feet. A sliver of moonlight gilds her hair, which tumbles wildly around her shoulders where I ran my fingers through it. Her chest rises and falls quickly, unevenly. Her blue eyes are wide and bright and alive.
I tug my shirt over my head and toe off my boots and socks. Her gaze travels down my bare chest, over the scars and tattoos, my low-slung jeans, my bare feet, as if she’s memorizing every detail.
I remain still, my face carefully blank, but inside, I’m unraveling, thinking about what could have been if I hadn’t arrived at the garage when I did. I grip the edge of the nearby table, my knuckles white, grounding myself before I lose control completely.
“You let me fight my own battle today,” she says finally, her voice quiet but steady.
“I told myself I’d never take more than you wanted to give.” The admission grates against me, honest and raw. “But when I saw him touch you?—”
Her hands rise, hovering inches from my chest, not quite touching. So close I can feel the heat radiating from her palms.
“I knew I’d kill for you, George. I’d die for you.” The confession rips open something inside me, leaving me exposed. “But I don't want to do either. I just want to be yours.”
There it is. The truth laid bare. I’ve fallen fast, hard, and completely. And I’ll never recover if she walks away.
“You already are,” she whispers. “I’ve been trying to prove myself to you. Show you I’m strong enough. Brave enough. Just… enough,” she confesses, her voice softer now but no less sure. “But all along, I just wanted you to stay.”
She’s never needed to prove a damn thing. I’m the one who’s never been good enough for her. I force myself to look straight into her eyes, making her see the truth of who I am. What I’ve always been.
“Despite what happened tonight, I’m no hero. You deserve better than me,” I tell her, my voice rough under the weight of my conscience.
She should agree. She should run. Instead, her fingers curl around my wrist, not pushing me away.
“I’m not a good man.” I repeat the words I told her that night at The Honey Pot, needing her to understand.
George slowly presses her palms against my chest—two points of heat that brand my skin. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and unguarded, as if she doesn’t see the monster, the blood on my hands, or the sins etched into my bones.
Her breath brushes my lips as she tugs me closer and says, “No, you’re my man.”
Something tight and knotted inside me finally releases, unfurling into a warmth I've never felt before. I feel alive.
The grip I’ve maintained on the table edge loosens as my hands find their true purpose, locking around her waist and dragging her against me with a roughness that should frighten her.
It doesn't. She meets me with equal force, her hands sliding up my chest to grip my shoulders, nails biting into my skin. She's as wrecked as I am and just as desperate.
The kiss is hard, messy—a claiming. My fingers dig into the soft curve of her hips, lifting her slightly, aligning our bodies until nothing exists between us but the fabric I want to tear away.
I walk her backward until her spine meets the wall, pinning her there with my hips. One hand slides down to grip her thigh, hitching it around my waist. The other cups her jaw, tilting her face to deepen the kiss, to taste more of her.
She wraps her other leg around my waist, locking me in place. Her hands slip under my shirt, palms flat against the ridged muscle of my abdomen. The contact sears through me, making me groan against her neck.
“Beckett,” she breathes when I break away to trail my lips down the column of her throat. Not a plea. A confirmation. As if she needs to say my name to make this real.
“I'm here,” I murmur against her skin, my teeth grazing the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. “I'm not going anywhere.”
“Show me,” she demands, pupils wide, lips swollen from my kiss.
“I can't go slow,” I warn against her mouth, my voice ragged. “Not tonight. Not with you.”
“Prove it.” George reaches up, tracing her fingers along my jaw, down my throat, across the tattoo over my heart. Her eyes find mine, challenge and vulnerability swirling in their depths. "Stop holding back.”
The certainty in her voice breaks something open inside me. The certainty in her voice shatters the last of my defenses. Years of keeping people at a calculated distance collapse in seconds under the weight of her trust.
I lower myself to her, claiming her mouth again, gentler this time but no less thorough. “Good, because I'm going to show you what it means to be mine.”
I carry her to the bedroom, refusing to break contact even for a second. When I finally lay her on the bed, I hover over her, drinking in the sight, her hair spread across my pillow, her lips swollen from my kisses, her eyes dark and wanting.
Mine. She's finally completely mine.
Our clothes seem to melt from our bodies until we’re naked, skin pressed against skin, hearts pounding. Her hands are everywhere, tracing scars and gripping muscle as she learns me thoroughly.
George's fingers tangle in my hair, tugging hard enough to make me groan.
Somewhere between kisses, she smiles against my lips—a curve of satisfaction that twists something fierce in my chest. We're not fighting anymore. We're home. The relief in her eyes mirrors what's expanding in my chest—this isn't just desire. It's recognition. Belonging.
This time is ours. Peace and magic. Hours and hours of it, and it belongs only to us.
George arches into the caress of my hand as I slide it over her rounded stomach, my fingers stroking delicately as they drift across her sensitive skin. My stubble abrades the skin of her throat as I nuzzle her there before soothing it with my lips. Her hips lift and jerk as I spread her slick folds and slide my fingers inside her in a deep, velvety stroke.
My teeth catch her nipple in a delicate pinch that makes her press her head into the pillow. She writhes, her nails digging tiny divots into the flesh of my shoulders. My name trickles from her lips in a litany, demanding, pleading as my thumb finds her clit, circling and pressing, driving her to the edge.
“Beckett, please. I need you. I?—”
Her plea ends in a choked moan as I thrust into her silken depths.
Home.
The word echoes in my head, a raw truth settling deep in my bones.
George shudders beneath me, her body clenching around mine, drawing me in, anchoring me to this moment, to her. There’s no past here, no ghosts, no battlefields.
I brace my forearms beside her head, my fingers tangling in her hair as I press my forehead against hers. Her breath is my breath. Her heart is my salvation.
She cups my face, dragging my mouth back to hers, kissing me like I’m everything. Like she belongs to me as much as I belong to her.
I roll my hips, finding a perfect rhythm that has her gasping, her nails pressing deep into my back. Her pleasure is my mission now. My only goddamn objective.
Her legs tighten around me, heels digging into my ass as she rocks up, meeting every thrust like she can’t get close enough. And neither can I.
“Beckett,” she whispers, her voice breaking like she’s giving me something sacred.
I groan, my control unraveling, but I hold back—barely. I need her to come first. Need to watch her shatter beneath me.
I slide a hand between us, pressing my thumb against her slick, swollen clit, circling, coaxing, worshipping.
Her body tightens, a sharp gasp breaking past her lips, and then?—
She splinters.
She clenches around me, pulsing and shaking, her moan dissolving into my mouth.
The sight of her, the feel of her, the sheer goddamn privilege of being with her like this is too much.
I thrust deep, hold her tight… and let go.
Home.
* * *
Later, tangled in sheets damp with sweat, I brush my lips over her bare shoulder, tasting salt and something uniquely her. Her body is soft and sated against mine, her breathing finally steady after I've spent hours making her come apart in my arms.
George stretches like a cat, all sleepy grace and warm skin. Her eyes meet mine, and that slow smile spreads across her face—the one that hits me straight in the chest.
I trace idle patterns across her stomach, possessive even now. These hands that have dealt so much damage are now capable only of gentleness with her. I can't stop touching her, as if she might disappear if I let go.
I pull her closer, burying my face in her neck, breathing her in. I can’t quite believe she's here. In my bed. In my arms. The steady rise and fall of her chest has become the most important rhythm in my world.
I've found something I never thought possible: peace. With her breath synced to mine and her heart beating steadily against my chest, the war inside me finally goes quiet.
I trace the delicate curve of her spine with my fingertips, memorizing every inch of her—the small scar on her shoulder, the constellation of freckles across her back, the soft spot below her ear that makes her shiver when I kiss it.
She pulls me down for a kiss, soft and sweet and perfect. When we break apart, she's still smiling. “So what now?”
What now? The question hovers between us, weighted with possibility.
I pause, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “I came here with nothing but a duffle bag and too many ghosts, George. Now I have no plans beyond keeping you safe, keeping you close...”
I roll her beneath me, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth, her jaw, the hollow of her throat. Her pulse beats steady beneath my lips, strong and certain.
George hums, her fingers drifting lazily down my back, tracing the ridges of old scars. She knows what I’m saying.
She shifts beneath me, her legs tangling with mine, pressing closer. “That sounds dangerously close to a commitment,” she teases, but her voice is softer now, her walls down.
I smirk against her throat, nipping at the delicate skin there just to hear the way her breath hitches. “Reckless of me, huh?”
George grins. “Extremely.”
She presses a kiss to my chest, right over the place where my heart is finally beating for something other than survival.
I don’t know what the future holds.
But I know this—her, us, this moment.
And that feels like enough. More than enough. Like everything.
“Get some sleep,” I tell her, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I'm not going anywhere.”
She smiles, her eyes already drifting closed. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
It's the easiest vow I've ever made.