Chapter 46
LAUREL
Three weeks after a judge makes my divorce official, I end up barefoot on Beckett Vale’s sofa arguing about tempered chocolate like my life has always been this normal.
The woman on television has thirty seconds left; Beckett insists the clock keeps running through the judges’ commentary, and I insist that’s bullshit because no sane person is expected to explain what she’s doing with half a minute left and a bowl of molten chocolate in her hands. At that point, let the woman cook.
Beckett’s house is less intimidating than I expected a Beckett Vale house to be; expensive as hell, obviously, with floor-to-ceiling windows that probably require their own payroll and a kitchen island big enough to seat a jury, but it stopped feeling like a rich man’s showroom somewhere around the third time I came over.
Tonight I nearly tripped over Theo’s baseball cap by the back door, and Evie’s glittery concert program is still taking up prime real estate on the coffee table because she made Beckett swear he wouldn’t throw it away after informing him, dead serious, that six songs was “basically a whole concert.” He complained about it for maybe thirty seconds and hasn’t moved it since.
My legs are stretched across his lap, his hand loose around my ankle, thumb moving lazily over the bone, and that little touch has been getting to me for the better part of an hour. It isn’t even sexual, which might be why I can’t stop noticing it.
The last three weeks have been full of things too ordinary to make a headline: coffee before work, dinner with Lila and Matt, Evie’s concert, an afternoon at Studio B where Beckett sat in the corner answering emails until Jenna called time on my voice and he packed up without questioning her like he secretly knew more about my throat than the people treating it.
Sunday dinner with Mama, Dean and Monica.
Two nights at my townhouse where we kissed until neither of us had much use for oxygen and still stopped the second I asked him to.
Dr. Levin’s office confirmed my next evaluation window three weeks ago; imaging first, then the tentative microlaryngeal procedure once the augmentation wears down and he can get a proper look at the scar, therapy continuing through all of it, sustained performance still months away if my throat decides to cooperate.
Bellamy House is busy enough that Erin has started sending emails with profanity in the subject line before nine in the morning, my voice remains a question several very expensive people are still trying to answer, and my divorce decree is sitting in a folder I haven’t decided whether to file properly, frame as a warning or burn on a particularly dramatic Tuesday.
None of that disappears because Beckett’s thumb keeps tracing the same lazy path over my ankle.
It’s all still there. For once, it just isn’t the loudest shit in my head.
I look over at Beckett, who is still frowning at the television because the contestant has fucked up her pate à choux, and maybe it’s the rolled sleeves of his black shirt, or the strong line of his forearm, or that stupid watch I once mocked for costing more than my first car, but the wanting I’ve been keeping on a leash for three weeks suddenly gets tired of my shit. I want him.
Not in the abstract way I’ve wanted him during long kisses at my house or when his hand lands at the small of my back in a crowded room and stays there just long enough to make me think about it later.
I want him naked. I want his hands everywhere they haven’t been yet.
I want to wake up tomorrow knowing exactly what he looks like first thing in the morning after I’ve thoroughly ruined his sleep.
I pull my legs from his lap before I can overthink it.
Beckett catches the shift at once, his attention leaving the television and coming straight to me. “You okay?”
I take the remote from his hand and switch off the television. “Hey,” he says, glancing at the black screen. “You’ve spent the last forty minutes fighting for that woman’s life.”
“She’s on her own now.”
His eyes come back to me, and the amusement fades when I move closer, one knee easing between his thighs, my hand settling on his shoulder. “I don’t want to stop tonight.”
His fingers flex once against his thigh, then relax, the smallest tell from a man who usually keeps every reaction under lock and key. “Baby.”
I already know where he’s going, so I press a finger to his lips. “Shh.”
His brows pull together, but instead of arguing, he turns his head and kisses my fingertip, making me smirk. “Why am I being shushed?”
“Because I know you, and you’re about two seconds away from making this very respectable.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I was going to ask if you’re sure.”
“See?” I drag my finger from his mouth to his chin. “Respectable.”
His hand slides higher on my thigh. “I’d argue asking if you actually want to sleep with me is one of the few occasions where responsibility deserves some airtime.”
“And I’d argue I’m sitting half in your lap telling you I don’t want to stop, so maybe trust my communication skills.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, linger there for a beat, then come back to mine. “I do.”
“Good.” I lean closer until there’s barely any space left between us. “Then keep up.”
I take his hand, push it under my sweater and put his large palm over my bare waist. His fingers close around me on instinct, warm and firm, and the tiny break in his composure makes me want to climb directly into his lap.
“I waited because I needed to know this wasn’t me losing my mind after the divorce or trying to prove I could fuck a different man and survive it.
I didn’t want Grant anywhere near this, even as a reason.
” Beckett’s expression softens, but I shake my head because I’m not finished.
“And he isn’t. I’m not thinking about him.
I’m sitting on your sofa three weeks divorced, completely abandoning that poor woman and her collapsing pastry because I want you so fucking badly I’m starting to resent your shirt. ”
A laugh breaks out of him, low and helpless, his forehead dropping briefly to mine. “You really are sure.”
I close the gap until our mouths almost touch. “Beckett, if you make me get any more specific, I’m going to lose the last scrap of dignity I have.”
Beckett’s eyes drop to my mouth. “You’re assuming you brought any.”
I laugh and shove lightly at his shoulder. “Fuck you.”
His hand moves higher on my thigh. “Working on it.”
“Jesus Christ.” I kiss the corner of his mouth, still smiling. “Fine. Upstairs. Naked. Inside me. Clear?”
His fingers dig into my thigh, and it takes him a second longer than usual to answer.
“Crystal.” I start to pull back, but his palm slides behind my neck and he kisses me before I can add anything else.
He isn’t tentative now; all those years of wanting me are suddenly right there in the kiss, in the arm wrapping around my back and hauling me the rest of the way onto his lap.
The hard press of his cock against the seam of my jeans catches me off guard, mostly because there is absolutely no ambiguity about how long he has been sitting here pretending to give a shit about pastry.
I shift against him on instinct, just like I did on my porch, and his fingers bite into my hips. Oh. I do it again because I am, at heart, an asshole.
He groans, one hand slipping under the hem of my sweater, warm palm skimming my side without any hurry until his fingers reach the edge of my bra and stop.
I know exactly what he’s doing. I also know he’ll sit here all night waiting for me to decide whether he gets to go any farther, and that would be very sweet if it weren’t currently irritating the shit out of me.
I take his wrist and put his hand over my breast myself. “Beckett. Touch me.”
His thumb moves over my nipple through the bra, and I kiss him harder, almost feverish, his hand fondling me until the sweater becomes one layer too many.
I pull it over my head and toss it behind the sofa, and Beckett’s attention drops immediately.
His eyes move over the black lace of my bra, come back to my face, then fall again like he can’t quite help himself.
I smile. It’s nothing special, just something I put on this morning while answering an email from my accountant, which makes the way he’s looking at me even better.
He looks mildly offended by the fact I’m still wearing it.
“Well?” I ask.
Beckett rubs a hand over his jaw. “I had a sentence.”
“Had?”
“It’s gone.” He hooks one finger under my bra strap, eyes back on mine.
“I’ve spent years trying very hard not to picture you without clothes on.
” I lift an eyebrow. “Trying?” “I didn’t say I was successful.
” I smile, warmth spreading into places he hasn’t even touched yet, as his thumb runs once along the lace.
“You’re fucking beautiful, Laurel.” I open my mouth, but his eyes drop to my chest and whatever tenderness he was about to let me sit with lasts all of three seconds.
“Your tits are also making coherent thought pretty difficult.”
We make it upstairs with Beckett nearly taking out a side table because neither of us cares where we’re going, and I discover that kissing the little spot below his earlobe makes him twitch and sigh into my mouth, information I reserve for future abuse.
Another six feet, and he has me against the wall, kissing me so hard the bedroom might as well be on another floor.
His palm slides to my waist, and I take his wrist and guide his hand inside my jeans.
Beckett pauses for half a second, searching my face; whatever he finds there is all the answer he needs. His fingers move lower.
The first pass of his fingers over my pussy has my eyes rolling back and pulls a rough “Fuck” out of me as he drags them through the wetness coating me.
“Jesus Christ.” The satisfaction in his voice makes me bite his lower lip. “You’re soaked, baby.”