Chapter 22Beck. Mid November, Five years ago #2
Beck paused, his gaze meeting hers. "Please. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I’d never judge you."
She hesitated, then gave a small nod. Beck gently pulled the sock off, exposing her bruised, blistered toes. Years of training, grueling rehearsals, pushing her body way past its limits–it was all there. Etched into her feet. The calluses, the scars, the bruises that still hadn’t faded.
She shifted under his gaze, pressing her lips together. "They’re horrifying, I know. You’re gonna have nightmares."
"Never," he murmured. And before she could protest, he lifted her foot and pressed a slow kiss to the top.
Beck ran his fingers gently along the curve of her arch, his touch soft. "This just shows how hard you work," he said quietly. "It’s dedication. Talent. Strength."
He watched as her throat bobbed, as if swallowing down a rush of emotion.
Before she could respond, he reached for her other foot, slipping the sock off just as carefully. His fingers traced over the strained muscles, pressing gently against the tension there. He took his time, working slow circles into her skin
"They’re powerful," he said quietly, still working slow circles into her skin. " You are powerful."
"You just turned one of my biggest insecurities into something..." she trailed off, her voice barely a whisper. "Into something I might actually believe is beautiful."
"Everything about you is," Beck murmured, his voice rough with emotion, his hands still working over the strained muscles of her feet. Ingrid flushed, sinking deeper against the cushions.
His hands drifted higher, his touch featherlight against her calf. Ingrid sucked in a breath, a soft moan escaping her as she arched slightly against the couch. Oh fuck. That sound–he felt it straight in his cock, a sharp pulse of want that made his jeans feel about two sizes too tight.
"Beck," she whispered, her lashes fluttering closed, her body instinctively leaning toward his touch.
She had no idea what she was doing to him.
That moan, his name, breathy and broken on her lips, it was driving him wild.
His cock throbbed, hard and heavy in his jeans, straining for any kind of relief.
Still, Beck held back, keeping his touch slow, dragging his fingers higher up her legs, tracing her calves.
But then she shifted. Just enough. Her other foot brushed across his lap–right over his cock.
Beck’s breath hitched, a harsh sound, his muscles going rigid as the pressure hit him square in the groin. His cock twitched at the contact, hot and aching.
Ingrid froze for a second. Then her gaze lifted to his, sharp and knowing.
A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips as the realization sank in.
"You weren’t kidding," she murmured, sultry and smug. Her toes moved deliberately, rubbing along the thick line of him beneath his jeans, pressing right where he was hardest.
Beck’s breath punched out of him in a curse. "Fuck."
His hands clenched on her legs, grip tightening as she continued her slow, torturous game.
"You’re definitely not turned off by my feet," she teased, biting her bottom lip.
"Careful," he said, his voice rough, dark. "You’re playing with fire, princess."
Her eyes sparkled, wild and unafraid. "Maybe I want to get burned."
He looked her over, her cheeks flushed, lips parted, her chest rising fast with every breath. She looked like a dream.
Ingrid pushed onto her hands and she crawled toward him across the couch. Her eyes fixed on him. She climbed into his lap, knees sliding wide to straddle his thighs, her hips lowering onto the thick, hard line of him beneath his jeans. The popcorn bowl clattered to the floor somewhere behind them.
Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, her body melting against his.
"Christ," Beck breathed, his hands sliding up her thighs, finding the curve of her ass and squeezing, dragging her hard against him. She gasped at the contact, feeling every inch of him, thick and aching beneath the denim.
"You feel what you do to me?" he rasped against her ear, grinding up into her, letting her feel exactly how badly he needed her.
She whimpered, grinding back without hesitation, the friction making her head fall back on a broken moan.
Beck latched onto her throat, kissing and sucking a path down the delicate line of her neck. Ingrid clung to him, hips rolling against his with desperate, needy little movements that had him seeing stars.
"You’re gonna kill me," he groaned, his teeth grazing her skin.
She only smiled, breathless. "Then die happy."
He crushed his mouth to hers, finally tasting the sounds she had been making, swallowing her moans as his hands roamed under her shirt, finding bare, heated skin. She arched against him, her nails scraping along his scalp, driving him out of his mind.
He had never wanted anyone the way he wanted her. And he was going to show her exactly how beautiful she was, every goddamn inch at a time.
She arched into his touch, grinding against him with punishing rolls of her hips that had his head falling back.
"Fuck, Ingrid," he rasped. Every muscle in his body trembling with the effort it took not to flip her onto the couch and fuck her right there.
But not yet. She was in control, and he was giving it to her, every second of it, because watching her take what she wanted, watching her move like she owned his body was damn near holy.
Her fingers ghosted down his arms, feather-light, tracing the taut cords of muscle beneath his skin. She shifted again, the pressure against his cock brutal and glorious. He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking instinctively beneath her.
A slow, sinful smile curled on her lips. She leaned down, brushing her mouth over his, not a kiss–just a whisper of contact, cruel and teasing.
"You’re so gorgeous when you’re desperate," she murmured against his mouth, her voice all honeyed sin.
A savage groan rumbled low in his throat, vibrating through his chest. She answered it with a slow, filthy grind. Her nails raked down his chest, snagging on the fabric of his shirt, making him ache for the feeling of her skin against his.
He needed her. Naked. Spread out beneath him, screaming his name. But she wasn’t done tormenting him yet. She smiled as her fingers skimmed the waistband of his jeans, teasing him mercilessly.
"What do you want me to do to you?" she whispered, her breath hot against his ear.
"Anything," he growled. "Everything. Just–fuck, Ingrid."
She rewarded him with a soft, almost innocent kiss just below his ear–a lie, because there was nothing innocent about the way she owned him right now.
Then she slid off him, kneeling between his thighs, her hands braced against his knees as she pushed them apart. Beck’s breath sawed from his lungs, his body so tense he felt like he might fucking snap.
"What are you doing?" he managed, voice raw, scraping from his throat like he hadn't spoken in days.
Ingrid didn’t answer; she just smiled. The kind of smile that promised ruin and would make him beg for it.
She paused at the button of his jeans, her nails scraping lightly over the denim. She toyed with it, teasing, taking her sweet time, letting the anticipation eat him alive.
"Giving your hands a break from all those repetitive movements lately," she softly as she batted her lashes at him, looking so innocent it hurt. "Drumming."
His cock throbbed, straining against the rough fabric, desperate for her touch. She let her gaze drop deliberately to the bulge between his legs, her mouth curving into a wicked little smile that made his blood roar in his ears.
"Finger-fucking me in the studio while you ate my pussy," she whispered, soft and breathy, her voice so sweet it was obscene. His hands fisted at his sides, every muscle in his body locked tight.
Was she trying to kill him? Because it was working. He hadn't expected this side of her, the dirty mouth, the sheer, lethal confidence, and it turned him inside out. He fucking loved it.
"You don’t think I knew?" she murmured, nails dragging slowly across the button again. "How many times did you jerk off after that? Huh? Thinking about the way I sounded? Tasted?"
"Too many," he rasped, hips jerking up just as she finally popped the button and eased the zipper down. The sound of it was a metallic scream in the thick silence.
Before he could open his mouth to beg because he would have, pride be damned, she freed him from his jeans, his cock springing free.
She wrapped her fingers around him, and he gasped, his head slamming back against the couch. His thighs trembled under her touch, every muscle straining toward her, desperate for more.
"Tell me," she coaxed, her hand moving in slow, maddening strokes. "Tell me what you thought about."
"I–" Beck swallowed hard, trying to pull a breath into his burning lungs. His mind was a fucking wasteland, wiped clean except for her. "I imagined your mouth," he ground out, every word a struggle. "Your lips wrapped around my cock."
She blinked up at him, her lashes fluttering, a slow, secret smile spreading across her face like she was proud she could make him this desperate.
"Like this?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
And then, so tentative, so sweet, she leaned in, pressed the softest kiss against the swollen head of his cock. He almost came on the spot.
Then her tongue darted out, swirling around the tip like she was tasting him, exploring, figuring out what would make him break.
He choked on a groan, his hands twitching against the couch, every cell in his body screaming to grab her, fuck her mouth, lose himself in her completely. He held back. Barely.
Then she wrapped her lips around him and sucked. Deep. Hot. Wet. Fuck.
His hips bucked up, instincts shredding his restraint. She took him slow, her tongue teasing as she worked the sensitive underside, dragging a full-body shudder out of him.