Chapter 17 Employee of the Month
Seventeen
Employee of the Month
Forest
I need his mouth, but not for talking.
Back when I used to hook up, kissing was never part of it. That’s just too intimate.
My body has forgotten this rule, though. I climb on top of Beck and kiss him like it’s my job, and I’m running for employee of the month. I suck on his tongue until we’re both panting like prizefighters.
“If you keep that up, I’m going to lose it,” he says on a gasp.
“Don’t,” I say abruptly. I reach between our bodies and give the base of his dick a squeeze. “Not yet. I’ve got big plans for you.”
He rests his head on my pillow and closes his eyes.
“Hang on. I’ll think about something boring.
Like the certification requirements for goalie-mask impact testing.
They use a specialized pneumatic cannon to fire pucks at three different velocities while measuring microscopic deformation patterns across seven distinct facial impact zones… ”
I watch his handsome face and his squeezed-shut eyes, and something shifts inside my chest. Something dangerous. And I find myself kissing him softly on the jaw as he takes a deep breath.
The problem is that I like Becker James. It’s not just that he was smoking hot on the ice tonight, and that naked, he’s a work of art. All his nervous chatter ought to be annoying, but it isn’t. It’s real and it’s raw. It’s…great.
Fuck. A guy who’s hot and earnest. That’s my kryptonite. If I’m not careful, I’ll get carried away and do something I’ll regret later. Like invite him to stay over and then make him breakfast.
But nope. I can’t lose focus. Tonight’s tryst isn’t meant to be cuddly. This is about sex and showing Beck a good time. I can do that. Starting now.
I open my bedside table and grab the lube and the condoms. “This still good idea?”
“A great idea. The best idea.” He rubs his hand reverently down my biceps. “I just want you to destroy me.”
That’s a clear mandate. And, fuck, I admire this about Beck. Sure, he talks a lot, but it’s a feature not a bug. He’s honest as the day is long, and I need that in my life right now.
He watches as I open the lube and coat my fingers. “You ever play with yourself like this?” I ask as I dip my hand to his ass.
Lifting his hips for me, he nods. “Think about you when I’m doing it, too.”
“Fuck.” My dick throbs in response. “You’re going to get it so good.” I run a slicked finger over his hole, and he parts his legs, relaxing for me.
“Do it,” he pants. And then he groans when I penetrate him.
“Breathe,” I remind him as I slowly open him up.
“Yes…sir.”
“You trying to kill me?” I rasp, thrusting my finger in deep. “Sure you haven’t done this before?”
“Not unless toys count. If they do, I’m a total slut.”
I re-lube my fingers and tease him some more. When I nudge his spot, he moans my name. Yeah, even if I’m a little rusty, I’m good at this.
I lean down and taste the salty tip of his cock, and he bucks. “Dude.”
“I know,” I say, backing off. “Waiting is hard.”
“So hard,” he agrees. “Hurry up. I can take more.”
“But I’m having too much fun,” I tease, lubing up again and giving him another finger.
He grits his teeth a moment and then relaxes again. “More.”
“So impatient.” We both are, though. So I stick to the plan and work him open until he’s sweaty and begging, and my balls ache.
“God, look at you, hungry for it.” I reach for the condoms. “I’m gonna give it to you now.”
He lifts his hips, and when I line myself up against his hole, he bucks against me, so eager. “Yes, yes, yes,” he chants. “Now, Forest.”
I’d never want to hurt him, so I’d planned to go slow. But that’s not okay with Beck. As soon as I breech him, he growls and bears down on my cock. And I’m the one who’s left open-mouthed and struggling to adjust to the glove-like fit of our bodies, and the sudden, erotic embrace of him.
“Fuck,” I gasp. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, we are,” he agrees. “Finally. I’ve been thinking about this so much I could probably write a dissertation. ‘An Analysis of Why Forest’s Flannel Shirts Make Me Lose My Mind: A Study in Poor Life Choices.’”
I’m too turned on to process much of that. I’ve turned into a lower-order organism, the kind with only a couple of functions—breathing and thrusting. Although I try to take it slow, because I need this to last.
Beck grabs his knees, spreading them to give me space. He’s so fucking flexible that I sink easily down onto his ripped body, moaning when he does an ab curl so he can lift his head to kiss me hotly.
It’s almost like he’s the one in the driver’s seat now, and somehow, I don’t mind that much. I thrust shallowly, so I can devour his mouth at the same time. His dick is trapped between us, hard and leaking onto my skin. And I never want it to end.
We kiss fast, and then slow. Like there might be a quiz later, and we need to review every detail. He makes desperate, horny sounds, and I swallow down every single one.
He manages to grunt, “So. Close,” into my mouth, and when he says it, it’s suddenly true for both of us.
I pull myself up and grab his legs, one in each arm. “Touch yourself,” I pant. “Do it.”
Beck, face red and lips swollen, wraps one big hand around his cock and stares up at me with heated eyes. He’s so fucking beautiful. It’s hard to believe that he’s ever felt undesirable a minute in his life.
“You look at me like that, and you’re gonna make me come,” I growl.
His hand flies on his cock, and he tips his head back against the pillow, seeming to unspool in front of my eyes. “Fuck yes,” he slurs. Then he bites his lip and shoots all over his own chest.
I follow him about a nanosecond later, because how could I not. All the tension leaves my body in several pulses of pure joy. And a few seconds later we’re left staring at one another’s sweating, wondrous faces.
Beck lets out a shuddering breath, and I feel like a god.
In the morning, I wake up slowly, consciousness filtering through layers of warmth and drowsiness.
There’s a weight against my side, the sound of breathing that isn’t mine, and—fuck—a hand threading gently through my hair.
The touch is so pleasing that for a moment I forget where I am.
Forget all the reasons this shouldn’t be happening.
“Is it okay if I make some coffee?” Beck’s voice is rough with sleep, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” I manage, the word slurring past my lips. My head feels heavy, full of lazy, peaceful thoughts that I haven’t allowed myself in months. Nobody ever touches me like this—gentle, reverent, like I’m something worth savoring.
I haven’t done sleepovers since… My blurry mind takes a minute to consider it. Hell, since I was married. Ruby and I used to have lazy Saturday mornings in bed, back when we pretended we could still make it work.
Beck’s hand abruptly disappears, and I hear his bare feet padding across my hardwood floors. Soon there’s the distant sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, followed by soft whistling. I let myself drift again, floating in that space between sleep and waking where everything feels possible.
The whistling gets closer, and I force my eyes open. Beck appears in the doorway, fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes, holding two mugs. His hair is sticking up on one side, and there’s a crease on his cheek from my pillowcase. He looks rumpled and beautiful and completely at home in my space.
I struggle into a seated position against the headboard, and he hands me one of the mugs. It’s the blue ceramic one with World’s Greatest Dad printed on the side—a Father’s Day gift from Charlie three years ago that I never use because it feels too presumptuous. Too hopeful.
The coffee smells good, but my heart starts pounding the moment the mug touches my hands. A bad memory hits me like a meteor—the last time someone made me a drink in my own kitchen, I woke up twelve hours later with my life in ruins.
The coffee turns to acid on my tongue. Suddenly, I’m painfully awake, fully present, and confronted by the reality that this sleepover probably shouldn’t have happened.
Beck in my kitchen. Making coffee. Acting like he belongs here.
Like this is normal. The panic running through my veins is not normal.
Why the hell didn’t I send him home like I’d planned last night?
“Want to go out for breakfast?” Beck asks, settling cross-legged on the foot of my bed like he’s done it a thousand times before.
“Your fridge is kinda bare. I know this great diner about ten minutes away. They make these pancakes that are basically diabetes on a plate, but in the best possible way.”
“I can’t,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended. I set the mug down on my nightstand without taking another sip.
His offer isn’t outrageous, but that’s part of the problem. I can’t even afford to take myself out for brunch, let alone someone else. How pathetic is that? A thirty-four-year-old man who can’t spare twenty bucks for eggs and coffee.
And riding hard on the heels of that thought is the larger problem of where this is headed. I don’t want to lead him on.
“I’ve got errands.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up, reaching for yesterday’s jeans. “It’s my first day without Charlie in a week. Laundry, groceries, oil change. Boring adult shit.”
Beck gives me a sideways glance, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. “Okay, dude. It was just an idea. Don’t get freaked out.”
“I’m not freaked out,” I lie, shoving my arms through the sleeves of a flannel shirt.
“No, I’ll go,” Beck says quietly, setting his mug down and standing up. There’s something resigned in his voice that makes me hate myself. “There’s only so much of the Beck Show that any one man can take.”
The words hit me like a slap. “Hey, that’s not it.” The expression on his face—shuttered and trying so hard to be okay with rejection—makes my chest ache. I’m so bad at this stuff, but I try anyway. “If I didn’t like you, you wouldn’t have made it past the front door.”
Beck rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand, not meeting my eyes. “Nah, I get it. I’m a lot.”
Something clicks into place as I watch him retreat into himself. The way he assumes he’s the problem. The way he’s already apologizing for existing.
“You’ve got it all wrong,” I insist, stepping closer. “You being you? That’s actually why you’re here.”
He looks up, confusion clouding his blue eyes. “Because you have a thing for weirdos with no filter?”
“Nah, don’t do that.” The words come out harsher than I mean them to, but I need him to hear this. “There’s plenty of people in the world ready to tear us all down. We don’t have to help them.”
His eyes go wide and vulnerable, like I’ve just told him something revolutionary instead of offering basic human decency.
“I wasn’t kidding earlier. You don’t have all the information about me. I don’t do this anymore.” I wave a hand between us. “Sleepovers, dating, any of it—because I got burned by someone who could charm the pants off a nun, and it fucked up my whole life.”
I run a gentle hand through his hair. “The only reason you’re here right now is because you’re so unlike other guys. You’re not slick. You don’t put a lot of effort into being something you’re not. I don’t even think you’re capable of it.”
Beck’s mouth opens slightly, like he wants to protest, but I keep going. “One hundred percent real is the only kind of guy who’d make it past hello with me right now, and I’m not even sorry about it. You’re a rare breed, Beck, and I’m glad you came over last night.”
“And yet you’re so eager for me to leave?” The question cuts right to the heart of things.
I sit down heavily on the edge of the bed. “I’m not eager. Not really. But—and this isn’t going to change anytime soon—I just don’t have a lot to give.” I look up at him, trying to make him understand. “But if I did? I’d give it to you.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things neither of us knows how to say. Beck stands there in his wrinkled clothes, coffee-mussed and beautiful, and I want so badly to be the kind of man who could offer him breakfast and Sunday mornings.
But I’m not that man. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He tilts that handsome face and considers me. “We’re doing this again, though, right? The just-sex part. I know I want to. And I don’t think you’re sick of me.”
“I’m not,” I say immediately. “Not even close.”
He smiles. And I feel like I finally did one thing right.