17. Greer
Greer
I fiddle with the edge of the Band-Aid on my shoulder before ripping it off.
There’s no blood, and I can hardly see the injection site.
I glance at my shoulder in the bathroom mirror, rotating it twice before tossing the Band-Aid. It’s a bit stiff, but nothing out of the ordinary.
I dragged my father and sister to the clinic at the hospital this morning so he could get the high-dose flu shot he needed, and I took the opportunity to force my sister to sit still for three seconds so she could get one, too.
A nice, wholesome family outing.
Or it would have been if maybe they seemed to care and I didn’t have to drag them.
It hurt me, when I had to remind them that he needed to take care—that we all needed to.
Stella had looked back at me with an exasperated sigh before slamming my car door and parroting my earlier words, “We know, livers don’t grow on trees. We need to take care of them.”
They don’t grow on trees.
But one grew in me, and I gave it away, and sometimes I think I didn’t want to.
I blink in the mirror, and my eyes travel down to the right side of my rib cage, the scar that sits there just under my T-shirt, slightly raised and pink, even after all these years.
I look back up, tipping up my chin, and I notice the things in me I see in my sister and my father: the cheekbones, the eyes, even though they’re different shades of green, and all the things that sit just below the surface.
And I try to remember what it was all for.
The leaves of Stella’s eucalyptus, draped over the golden edges of the mirror, rustle in the cool night air drifting through the open window in my bedroom.
When I leave the bathroom, I debate going in, inhaling, seeing if those leaves will finally do something—but I notice the gown from the gala, draped over the arm of a chair in the corner of my room.
And then I think of Beckett.
I think of his eyes when I round the corner from the hallway into my living room.
I think of his hands, firmly gripping my legs and keeping me afloat, rooted to the real ground and not helplessly suspended in a body of water, when I grab my book where I left it on the shelf.
I think of him breathing, in and out with me, when I light the candle in the middle of my coffee table.
I think of his hands moving higher, stopping at my knees, the way his eyes flicked up to mine for permission, when I sit down on the couch.
I try not to think of him anymore when I pull out my bookmark from where I left off. But I can’t really see the words in front of me—they blur, my brain skips over them, and I have to double back.
I’m not really seeing anything. Only him, I think.
I see him: this effervescent person who tries to pretend that maybe he doesn’t take things seriously. But he took me seriously.
I see him staring at me intently, nodding ever so slightly, before a gentle smile turns into a grin, and those hands slide higher.
But I don’t see what comes next because my doorbell rings.
I drop my book, and I’m not really thinking when I walk down the hallway and open the door.
Beckett leans against the wooden railing, arms crossed over his broad chest, the curves of his biceps visible under the grey sweater pushed up his forearms, exposing all those cords of muscles and veins. One foot kicked up against the railing, laces of his shoes tied haphazardly, and thigh muscles on display where his shorts ride up his legs.
There’s no grin on his face, and he looks all too serious. Even his voice sounds rougher than usual. “Evening, Dr. Roberts.”
“What are you doing here? How’d you know I was off?” I haven’t seen him since the gala—since his head was between my legs for an extended period of time—only that texted thank you between us. It wasn’t for the orgasms—but for staying with me. For seeing me when no one else did and making sure I was okay.
“Took a lucky guess that a big, important fellow such as yourself wouldn’t be working on a Sunday night.” His eyes trail over me, and I notice they’re barely green. Dilated pupils, jaw tense with a muscle popping in his cheek. He looks back up and raises his eyebrows. “I have a bit of a problem I was hoping you could help me with.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I can’t stop thinking about my head between your legs.” Beckett shrugs, his voice gravelly and rough and wholly inappropriate. “Season starts this week, and I can’t think about anything but you. Can’t visualize. Can’t aim for shit. Drove right by the turn to my street last night. Spending a disproportionate amount of time in the shower thinking about it. Thinking about a lot of things, actually. How I would very much like to fuck you.”
“Oh,” I repeat. I blink, and I feel my heart rate pick up. But it’s not the increased rhythm that usually warns me of bad things to come. This is something else entirely. My skin pebbles, I shiver, and I don’t think it’s from the night air. “You can come in, if you want.”
He nods, kicking off the railing. “I would.”
Neither of us say anything, but everything sounds impossibly loud. His footsteps across the porch. The creak of the door and the click of the lock when it shuts. His breath on the back of my neck as he walks behind me.
His heart. My heart.
The light is still low, the candle still flickers on the coffee table, and the book is where I left it, open on top of a throw blanket. Beckett glances around, but he doesn’t really seem to focus on any one thing before he sits down on the couch.
His eyes are on me the entire time I fold myself down beside him, only one cushion and the book separating us.
“Do you like reading about...” Beckett trails off as he picks up the book, glancing at the cover before flipping it around to read the back. He glances back up at me, and there’s a shade of the boyish charm there for just a moment, but then he’s entirely rough again. “Romance and sexy faeries?”
“Who doesn’t?” I bite down on my lip, leaning forward and taking the book back. My fingers graze his, and I go to sit back, but his hand wraps around my wrist.
“What’s this one about?”
My lips part and my breath stalls—I don’t think there’s any air left in my lungs at all, actually. But the thought doesn’t scare me like it usually would. I swallow, brushing my fingers along the back of his hand. “A human who gets transported to another realm and is held captive by a brooding, dark-haired, six-five male who sometimes has wings. You know, the usual.”
Beckett nods, eyes never leaving me. His voice drops again, and it’s rougher than before, traipsing across my exposed skin like the brush of one of those calloused palms of his. “Is that what you like?”
“Sure, why not?” I say, finally extracting my wrist from him and leaning back against the arm of the couch, putting distance between us even though I’m not sure I want to. “But what you did the other night was satisfactory, too.”
His eyes move over my shoulders, my arms folded across my chest, before they come back up to find mine. “I can do a lot of things.”
“I’ll bet you can.” My voice is just a rasp.
“Want me to show you?”
I blink, and there are a million things I should be thinking about—why it’s a bad idea, why I should ask him to leave, why I shouldn’t let him in any more than I already have—but those things feel small, fleeting, and somehow inconsequential when he’s looking at me like that.
I think about the fact that the air in the room feels impossibly heavy—that it feels a bit like there’s a string between us, and it pulled taut the second I opened that door and he was standing there.
My eyes cut down to his mouth, full lips parted slightly, and I wonder what they would feel like against mine again.
I look back at him, barely nodding. “Sure.”
Beckett leans forward, every muscle in his body tight, plucking the book from my hands. His eyes never leave mine as he sets it on the coffee table.
They’re still on me when his hands wrap around my wrists. He leans back against the couch and pulls me flush to his side. I’m only there for a moment before his hands find my waist.
Like I’m nothing, weightless, not someone heavy with all this baggage they carry, stuck, sinking below water in a car she left years ago. He hoists me onto his lap until our chests and foreheads are practically flush.
I inhale. He smells like something I can’t quite place—but I think it’s something I used to love a long time ago when I was young and free and safe.
My hands find his shoulders and I can feel the ridges and valleys of muscle beneath his sweater as his fingers slide under the hem of my T-shirt.
“I don’t think business acquaintances sit like this,” I whisper, and I feel his hands tighten around my waist.
Even though I can barely see them this close, those green striations in his eyes light up, and the corner of his mouth lifts, the shadow of a dimple popping under his stubble. “They also don’t go down on each other in hallway closets. I’m pretty sure they don’t taste each other for days afterwards. And I doubt they spend every waking moment with their cock hard thinking about it.”
My lips part, my hips roll, and I glance down, where I can feel him straining against me.
But his thumb and finger grip my chin, lifting my face back to his. His voice drops, and I feel it all over me. “Dr. Roberts, look at me.”
His grip tightens, just for a moment, and his hand slides along my jaw, reaching the back of my head and tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck. His eyes are on me, and I think I might be a bit lost in them. My hips move again because the way he feels between my legs is something I can’t quite place either.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, my lips part in a tiny moan, and his grip tightens.
We’re staring, waiting, and I think I should tell him to go.
But his lips find mine, and then there’s nothing in my head at all but him.
I’m not sure it’s a kiss. It is by the definition of the word—our lips touch, his tongue finds mine.
I think it might be something else entirely.
His hand cradles the back of my head, the other splaying across my back, pushing me into him. His hips move up to meet mine, and we stay like that for quite a while.
Teeth nipping at lips, hands gripping at clothes and skin, and tongues moving against one another. My hips rolling down to his.
“Bedroom?” His words are low, rough, and punctuated by a groan catching in his throat when I arch against him.
He breaks away, mouth finding my neck and teeth scraping my skin. I tip my head back, words practically a whimper. “Around the corner.”
Beckett doesn’t wait, one hand cradling the back of my head and the other wrapping around my back, gripping the side of my waist. He stands, and my legs wind around him, desperate to be closer, ridges of his abdomen and obliques pressing into my thighs.
Like he knows where he’s going, like he’s lived here forever, he carries me out of the living room and down the hall, mouth on me, tongue never leaving mine, and he kicks my bedroom door open further.
His lips still. “Great room. Great bed. Can’t wait to fuck you in it.”
I blink, pulling back with a rasp of laughter.
He grins, eyebrows lifting before he instructs, “Down.”
“Are you always this domineering?” I place both hands on his shoulders, and Beckett leans forward so I can touch the floor.
I don’t let go of him when he stands. I don’t think I could.
Both of his hands grip my hips. He grins again. “I’m whatever you want me to be.”
I’m not thinking when his hands find the hem of my T-shirt, lifting, and his lips and teeth and tongue only leaving me for a second while he pulls it off.
Beckett drops to his knees, his mouth presses to the centre of me, and I tip my head back, a small gasp, because even through my clothes, I think he might be the best thing I’ve ever felt.
His hands find the waist of my leggings, and he’s about to pull them down when his eyes cut up to mine.
But they pass over my stomach first.
And they stop on the scar.
As far as transplant scars go, it could be worse. It’s nothing more than a pink, raised line that tapers off under the right side of my rib cage.
But it’s there. And he notices.
His hands tense at my waist before he lifts one, tentatively, and his eyes look up to mine in permission.
I nod softly, and his thumb skates over the raised skin.
He pauses at the bottom, and his eyes never leave mine. “Pretty.”
I blink and I think I might have made it up—because his hands are back at my waist, stripping me of the Lycra covering my legs, and my underwear with it.
“Bra off.”
“You aren’t going to take it off for me?” I ask, but I’m already reaching around my back for the clasp.
Beckett shakes his head, hands finding my hips, and he pulls me closer to him. “No, I’m pretty busy down here.”
His tongue is on me before I have the clasp undone.
“Fuck,” Beckett groans against me, tongue moving in lazy circles. His eyes cut up to mine.
He doesn’t say anything, but he watches me. My bra falls to the floor, and my lips part in a tiny moan.
I don’t really have a sense of time with his mouth on me like that, so I can’t be sure how long we stay there—him on his knees again, tongue moving across the centre of me and into me, his hands bruising my waist, and mine digging into his shoulders.
But he stands, breath ragged, and drops his forehead to mine, shaking his head. “I’ll fucking die if I’m not inside you.”
I think I whimper, but his lips find mine, and he starts walking us backwards until the back of my knees hit my bed.
“Lie down,” he says against my mouth.
I like it, I think—that he’s in control.
My mind is quiet, and I don’t feel this weird pang that I always do, echoing in the places where I think I’m empty.
Beckett reaches behind his head, pulling his shirt off and tossing it on the floor. His hands find the waist of his shorts. He pulls them down, muscles in his thighs tensing, black Lycra left clinging to them and leaving nothing to the imagination.
Those are gone next. My mouth dries out a bit because he’s impossibly hard and quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen. I blink when he tenses, gripping himself.
“Condom?” he asks, voice rough.
“Top drawer.” I point to my dresser, and it’s really something—a once-in-a-lifetime experience, probably—to watch someone like him, sculpted and honed from years and years of this thing I think he loves and hates, walk across your room naked, muscles tensing and tightening, for him to look only at you when he rolls a condom on.
He stares at me when he does it—and then he’s hovering over me. His voice is just this groan, rough all over but making everything else about me, all my rigid lines and rules, feel soft. “You’re sure?”
I blink up at him, nodding, and he inhales sharply, hand moving between us, scoring down my centre, pausing where I’m entirely soaked.
He flexes his hips, a strangled moan coming from him as he pushes inside me. I inhale sharply against the pressure, but it shifts to something that feels wonderful before I can give it much thought. He buries his head in my neck, teeth scraping skin, and my hands find his back.
We stay there for a moment, hearts beating through chests and sweat-slicked skin pressed together, before he lifts his head, dropping his forehead to mine.
We start to move at the same time—and maybe it shouldn’t feel as natural as it does, but it’s sort of like our bodies know each other.
He presses his lips to mine, tongue sweeping across the seam of my mouth. “Tell me what you like.”
You , I think. Everywhere he touches me feels like it’s on fire, like I might spontaneously combust and die, happily, because Beckett Davis and his tongue were my cause of death.
But I say something else.
“I like—slower.” I arch into his chest, nails digging into the valleys of muscle spanning his back.
He pauses, hand fisting the pillow beside me, his other palm finding the headboard, flexing his hips upwards. “Like that?”
“Yes,” I rasp, teeth coming down on my bottom lip. My hips rise to meet his. “What do you like?”
Beckett’s lips part, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense, voice nothing but a rough groan. “I think I’d like anything with you.”
That—the idea that maybe it’s me, me with this scar and this once-missing piece of her body, who gives too much away, that maybe I’m whole enough for him, to make his body feel the way he makes mine feel—has me arching even further, my fingers digging into his back and a moan tumbling from me.
It’s too intimate, the whole thing, but I can’t concentrate on that thought—it’s fleeting, melting away into nothing when his hand leaves the headboard to travel across my chest, down my rib cage, stopping at my centre where his thumb starts to move in small circles.
I can feel every part of him touching every part of me, and it’s too late because I think I will combust, I’ll die right here.
It’s his name on my lips, the low moan in the back of his throat, the pressure of him inside me, and the sweep of his thumb—it all turns me into nothing but kindling, and I go up in flames.
His hips roll up faster, and I feel it when he comes, see his eyes close, his lips parted with a groan in his throat before he stills. He breathes for a moment before he blinks slowly, and there they are—emerald eyes that have no business being that beautiful.
Beckett hovers above me for a moment longer, eyes dark and breath heavy, lowering his head so his lips can brush mine before he rolls his shoulders back and moves to lie beside me with a groan.
Hair matted to his forehead and eyes entirely alive, he holds a palm up with a lazy, contented grin. “Excellent business meeting. Got a lot of work done.”
And for the second time, I smile, and I raise my hand to meet his.