Chapter 17 Beck
BECK
The cold hits me first, the bite of November air on my previously overheated skin, now pebbled with the chill of cooling wetness splashed over me and rubbed into my skin.
Then the embarrassment hits.
Brody stands behind me, his breathing steady and calm. Too calm for what he just did to me. I’m bent over the back of my car with my pants around my ankles like the world’s dumbest porn cliché. Again.
I try to pull away, my face burning. “I think I might have an extra t-shirt or something in the back seat.
“Be still.”
His voice, low and commanding, slices through me. Impossible to disobey.
I freeze.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of napkins from the dining hall. He came prepared to turn me into a sloppy wrecked mess.
“Seriously? You brought napkins?” I mutter, my stomach flipping.
“Mm-hm.” He kneels behind me as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, grabbing my hips roughly when I try to move away from him. “Stay.”
“I said I can—”
“Beckett.”
It’s one word. Only my name, but said in that tone, I shut up instantly.
He wipes me gently. Too gently, like I’m fragile. Like I’m something that needs tending, like a toddler who needs help wiping its ass.
“This is humiliating.”
“No. This is called taking care of you.” Another swipe. “Hold still.”
My legs feel weak and trembly. Every nerve feels raw.
When Brody is satisfied that I’m cleaned well enough, he tucks the napkin away and reaches for my underwear. He slides them up my thighs, careful not to jostle me, then my pants. Button by button, he fastens me back into myself.
The intimacy of it makes me dizzy.
He stands in front of me, and despite being shorter than me by a few inches, it feels like he towers above me. He looks into my eyes as he smooths the fabric of my waistband.
I swallow hard.
He grips my waist, his warm hands firm, and nudges me backwards until I sit on the liftgate. The trunk frame cradles me, and he steps between my knees like he belongs there.
He doesn’t say anything, just rests his hands on my hips before lifting one to stroke my hair.
I flinch at first, but his touch is calming. Grounding. It settles the wobbly, aching wildness deep inside that makes me want to bolt.
His praise still echoes in my head. The filthy, tender, overwhelming praise he’d whispered against my skin. My chest feels warm, like someone poured a shot of whiskey straight into my bloodstream.
He keeps stroking my hair, and after a minute I melt, slumping sideways against the interior wall of the liftgate. Brody fits himself closer, between my knees, thighs brushing mine. The smell of cold air, sweat, and sex clings to us like a cloud.
Finally, he murmurs, “Do you need me to keep talking dirty, or can we move to real talk?”
My heart seizes.
Real talk?
I’m not ready for that. Not even close.
My mouth opens and closes, pondering what to say. Something dumb falls out.
“You came on my ass.”
He chuckles, low and warm. “Hell yeah, I did.” He squeezes my hip. “I couldn’t help it. You’re so fucking sexy, baby.”
I wince, but heat floods my cheeks traitorously. God, why do I like that? Why does it feel so damn good to hear him say shit like that?
Whether I’ve said it out loud to anyone other than Caty before, I’ve always known I like guys. Or at least had a strong suspicion before the day I came face to face with Brody Miller. There was no denying it after.
I’ve never considered being anything but the top.
Letting someone take me like that? Hell no.
I’ve never imagined it. Never dared. Never even entertained the idea.
It’s bad enough that my father might find out that I’m gay.
I’ve always known there was a high chance he wouldn’t accept me.
But I can only imagine what kind of hell he’d shame me with if he knew I was the one taking it.
There was a second, a single breath in time, when I really, truly thought Brody was going to put it in me.
And I wouldn’t have stopped him.
I might have wanted it. And I know that he knows.
He leans in, nose running up the side of my throat, and whispers, “Your hole was gaping open, winking at me to take it. Then it was all shiny with cum, and all I could think about was seeing it shiny with my cum, too. Marking you. Fucking you. Making you mine in all the ways that count.”
My eyes cross. Holy shit.
He says it like it’s dirty, but underneath there’s something almost reverent in his voice. Something real. Something soft that scares me more than anything he could do with his hands.
“Make me yours?” I huff out a laugh.
His face shifts, playful but serious underneath. “You got a problem with that?”
He pulls back enough to look me dead in the eyes, and I swear it feels like he sees every version of me at once.
I panic.
“I have a girlfriend,” I blurt.
His eyebrow lifts. Slowly. Very unimpressed.
“You mean the girlfriend who pushed you to follow me at the Halloween party? The girlfriend you pretend to kiss? The girlfriend I never see you with unless your father is breathing down your neck?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
How is it that this man, who has known me for all of three months, can see through me so well? Like I’m transparent.
“My dad would disown me,” I whisper. “And I know it’s dumb, but I’ve lived…” I swallow. “I wouldn’t know how to survive.”
Brody’s face softens slightly. Enough to make something ache deep inside my ribs.
“You don’t have to come out,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to tell the team. Or your dad. Or anyone you don’t want to tell.”
He presses his forehead to mine.
“Except yourself.” His thumb brushes my hipbone. “You have to be honest with yourself.”
My voice is barely a whisper. “And you?”
A grin flickers over his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“I already know your truth, Becky.” His lips graze my jaw. “I’m just waiting for you to come around.”
As gross as it sounds, the wrestling floor on a competition day is one of my favorite smells.
It smells like victory. Like sweaty bodies, rubber, and the sanitizing spray they use to disinfect the mats every night.
It brings me good feelings the same way the smell of the ocean does, or the popovers my childhood nanny Ms. Delia used to make on holidays.
And now Brody. He smells good. Comforting. Like heat and soap.
Huntston is destroying this dual way easier than we thought. We’ve won almost every match so far, and the gym is vibrating with applause and stomping from the student section.
I walk off the mat after my win, breath still heavy, hair sticking to my forehead.
My muscles are screaming from how hard I’ve been pushing myself lately—earlier than usual lifts, extra runs, late-night study sessions and an obsessive need to check my phone for texts from a certain not-captain who gets on my nerves and takes up way too much brain space.
I’ll do just about anything to keep my brain too busy to think about all the ways he makes me feel.
My eight a.m. Corporate Finance class is killing me.
I desperately wish I could drop it. I can barely stay awake in class, and I never have that problem, but the professor drones on in this monotonous low timber that has half the class nodding off.
It’s only adding to the constant pressure on my shoulders, because I have to get an A.
My dad will lose his mind if I don’t, especially considering it’s my degree concentration.
It’s all starting to pile up on me, and now that I’ve succeeded at this one thing, I’m starting to think too hard about what’s next, what’s left to do, how to do it all one notch better than everyone else. Otherwise, I’m a failure.
Before I can spiral too far, Brody’s voice cuts through the noise.
“LET’S GO, JAY! GET HIM ON HIS BACK!”
I look over to see what’s happening. Brody’s roommate Jay Norman has his opponent in a tight hold. Brody is on the sidelines, yelling encouragement like he’s coaching the Olympics. And it works. The period ends with Jay up thirteen points, a record margin for him.
Brody’s match is up next. Before he heads to the mat, I find myself beside him.
“Good luck,” I say under my breath.
He flashes me a grin that feels like a punch. “Aww, thanks, Becky. You gonna come congratulate me later if I win?”
I roll my eyes. “I won my match. Are you going to congratulate me?”
He winks as he pulls on his headgear. “Of course.”
He jogs towards the mat, and I can’t look away. His red Huntston singlet clings to him like it’s painted on. He looks like a sculpture come to life. His shoulders, his thighs, his stupidly perfect muscular ass—he’s perfection.
If only he didn’t know exactly what he does to me. As evidenced by the cocky little wink he gives me before shaking his opponent’s hand and getting set.
The whistle blows.
I blink, and he’s already got the other guy pinned. Straight to the mat. Over in seconds flat.
What the actual hell?
He stands up, brushes imaginary dust off his thigh, and shakes the other guy’s hand like he didn’t just completely embarrass him. He walks off the mat like it’s any other day.
The whole time, his eyes are on mine. He crosses the gym, holding my gaze and telling me without words exactly what he’s thinking about right now.
My groin tightens, and my lungs struggle to get a deep enough breath.
Why can’t I look away?