16. BECKETT
BECKETT
Every time I think I’m done being surprised by Quinn, she throws another curveball my way. Maybe it would have been a good idea to give up after the restaurant ordeal because what she’s signed me up for today is straight-up diabolical.
Still, I find myself diligently following her into the old feed barn. She’s practically buzzing, head high, clipboard in hand. Bossy little thing. Me? I’m already regretting agreeing to this the second she smirks at me over her shoulder. Nothing good ever comes out of that look.
Inside, the place is transformed into more than a barn.
Floodlights blaze down, big fans whir softly in the corners, and a backdrop of weathered wood and hay bales has been dressed up to mimic some glossy western fantasy.
There’s a photographer pacing with a camera strapped around his neck, barking instructions to a pair of assistants hauling in ropes, saddles, and buckets of oil that sure as hell aren’t meant for the tack.
And then I notice the men in various stages of undress—half-naked cowboys leaning against props, flexing, laughing. Somebody’s getting baby oil rubbed into his chest while two women giggle nearby, and that’s when it hits me. This isn’t just a calendar shoot. It’s that kind of calendar shoot.
I cock a brow at Quinn. “You cheeky, cheeky girl. If all you wanted was to see me half-naked, you didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
She doesn’t even flinch, just rolls her eyes. “You’re doing this for charity. Smile, pose, look appealing. That’s it.”
I scan the room again, noting the makeup table, the piles of shirts cut open at the chest, the bottles of water stacked against the wall, and the heavily laden snack table.
“Smile, pose, look appealing,” I echo, slow and amused.
A model nearby hollers a joke about who gets the centerfold, and everyone laughs. The whole place hums with playful, borderline sinful energy.
And suddenly, I don’t hate the idea as much as I thought I would.
The photographer waves me over like I’m some prize bull at auction. “Mr. Morgan, just the man we’ve been waiting for. Shirt off, hat on. We’ll start simple.”
I point at myself, confused. “Me?”
“Yes,” he affirms.
I glance at Quinn, half expecting her to jump in and protest. She doesn’t. She just folds her arms across her chest, chin tipped high, pretending she’s completely unfazed.
“Shirt off,” I repeat, slow drawl thick on purpose. “What if I’m shy?”
“Beckett!” she snaps, but the little twitch at her mouth gives her away. She’s trying not to laugh.
I tug my T-shirt over my head, toss it at her, and her eyes do a traitorous flick—one quick sweep over my chest, shoulders, and stomach. I catch it. She’s enjoying this.
The photographer thrusts a rope into my hand. “Hold it like you’re about to lasso the camera. Yes, perfect. Tilt your chin up. Great, now flex.”
I snort, but I play along, rolling my shoulders, rope looped in one hand.
The lights are hot, the oil gleams on the other guys, and for the first time, I start to feel the ridiculous fun of it.
Half-naked in front of strangers, sure, but it’s all in the name of the cause.
And judging by the way Quinn’s pretending not to look at me, I might just milk this.
“You’re staring,” I murmur under my breath, keeping my face angled toward the camera.
“I am not,” she hisses back, cheeks coloring.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been staring since the shirt came off. Want me to flex slower so you don’t miss anything?” I curl the rope over my shoulder, dragging it across my bare skin just to watch her squirm.
“God, you’re insufferable.” She fumbles with her clipboard, refusing to meet my eyes.
The photographer claps. “Yes, that’s it! The smirk! Keep it—perfect cowboy arrogance.”
I grin wider. Cowboy arrogance? That’s just me being me.
The flash pops again as I keep giving the camera what they keep calling “brooding cowboy.” Feels ridiculous, but the reaction sure isn’t.
A cluster of makeup girls has formed just off set, whispering behind their hands. One of them actually fans herself with the cue cards, bold as anything. Another leans to her friend and mouths “holy shit.”
Their eyes track me around the room. Which, yeah, I’m used to attention, but today it’s different.
Because Quinn is watching them watch me.
She’s standing stiff by the backdrop, clipboard clutched tightly against her chest. Her lips purse tighter each time one of the women giggles. Her eyes do this little cut sideways, sharp as barbed wire, and she presses her mouth into a flat line.
This is so much fun.
I roll my shoulders slowly, giving them a good show, partly because the photographer’s shouting for it, but mostly because I can feel Quinn’s simmer from here.
“You think they’re impressed?” I murmur, low enough that only she can hear when I step closer between shots.
She snaps her eyes to me, all fire and daggers. “I think you’re enjoying yourself way too much.”
“Oh, I am.” I let my grin tilt lazy, rope still in my hands. “But not because of them.”
Her throat works, but she doesn’t answer. Just glares harder, as if that’ll shut me up.
One of the assistants dares to call out, “Looking good, Beck!”
Quinn’s jaw ticks. And damn, it’s settled—I like jealous Quinn. A lot.
“Alright, cowboy,” the photographer claps his hands, waving toward the light rig. “We need a little shine. Someone get the oil.”
Two assistants rush forward with a bottle, eager, one of them already twisting off the cap. Before they can touch me, I lift a hand. “She’ll do it.”
Every head swivels to the one I’m talking about.
Quinn blinks, pointing at herself. “Me?”
“Yeah.” My grin’s slow, deliberate. “You.”
Color floods her cheeks, and I can practically hear the sputter behind her pressed lips. “That’s not my job.”
“It is now.” I take the bottle, walk it over, and press it into her hand. My fingers linger a second too long around hers, just enough to spark. “C’mon, Atwood. Don’t leave me hanging.”
The photographer, oblivious, is thrilled. “Yes, perfect! Very authentic—let’s roll with this.”
Quinn mutters something I can’t catch under her breath, but she uncaps the oil. Her hands hesitate in the air before finally landing on me.
Cold slickness spreads across my chest as her palms move slowly, tentative at first. My skin heats under her touch, every glide of her fingers like gasoline on an open flame.
“Gotta get the shoulders too,” I murmur, leaning closer, voice pitched low for her ears only.
Her eyes flick up, warning sharp, but she obeys. Oil slicks over my collarbone, her thumbs brushing too close to my throat.
“You’re enjoying this,” she hisses, still working over my arms.
“Damn right I am,” I whisper back, letting my breath graze her temple. “Question is, are you?”
Her hands falter, just for a heartbeat, before she forces herself steady. Her lashes are lowered, mouth pressed tight, but her blush betrays her.
The photographer’s snapping away, crowing about chemistry, while the only thing I notice is Quinn’s hands gliding slow, deliberate, everywhere I want them.
Her hands skim lower, brushing the ridges of my stomach, before she suddenly jerks back like she’s been burned.
“That’s enough,” she mutters, wiping her palms down the sides of her jeans. “You’re shiny enough to blind half of Texas.”
I catch her wrist before she can escape. My fingers wrap around her, firm but easy, pulling her a half-step closer. “Funny,” I drawl, letting my grin sharpen, “’cause I think you missed a spot.”
Her eyes flash up, narrowed, defensive. “You’re just intolerable.”
“Maybe.” My thumb strokes once against the inside of her wrist, slow and deliberate. “But don’t act like your hands weren’t shaking.”
Her mouth parts, ready to snap back, but no words come. Just a quick swallow, her pulse fluttering hard under my thumb.
“I love this,” the photographer shouts from somewhere behind us. “The tension is gold. Stay right there—don’t move!”
Neither of us does.
Her face is inches from mine now, caught between fury and something she doesn’t want to name. I dip my head, so close my breath brushes her cheek. “Relax, Atwood,” I murmur. “You’re doing a damn fine job.”
Quinn flushes and looks away, but not before I see the heat creeping up her neck.
Another pose. Another flash. My gaze slides back to her. She’s chewing her bottom lip now, determined to ignore me. But when I tilt my head, slow and deliberate, her eyes lift. Snap—caught again.
I hold her stare this time, long enough for the room to thin, for the rest of them to fade into background noise. My smirk softens into something heavier, hungrier.
Her breath hitches. I see it. And damn if it doesn’t make me burn hotter under the lights.
“Careful,” I murmur, low enough only she hears. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll start thinking you want more.”
Her glare could cut steel. But her eyes tell a whole other story.
The photographer claps, satisfied. “That’s a wrap. Thank you so much, everyone. Beck, you were great. Give me a call if this cowboy thing doesn’t work out.” He smirks, handing me his card.
“Maybe,” I smirk even though we both know I’ll never call.
The crew scatters, laughter and chatter spilling toward the snack table.
I towel the oil from my neck, though my chest still gleams under the light.
My gaze tracks Quinn—always her—from the corner of my eye, her heels clicking too fast against the floor, running away from me.
Not a chance. Not after the way she looked at me—hungry, furious, undone.
Chasing after her, I snag her wrist just as she passes a storage door. With one tug, I drag her inside the dim room, the heavy latch thudding shut behind us. Shelves stacked with farm equipment loom around, shadows thick enough to hide us away.
“What the hell, Beck—“ she starts, breathless, but I don’t give her room to finish.
“You don’t get to look at me like that,” I growl, pressing closer, “and walk away like nothing happened.”
Her eyes flash, lips parting to argue, but then my mouth is on hers. Hard. Hot. Desperate. She gasps against me, fists clutching my shirt intending to shove me off, but instead she yanks me closer.
The kiss is wild, no restraint or hesitation. My hands find her waist, sliding up the curve of her spine. She tastes like stubbornness and sin, sweet and sharp all at once.
“You’re infuriating,” she pants between kisses, her nails dragging down my chest.
“Yeah?” My lips trail along her jaw, biting soft at the line of her throat. “Yet you’re the one melting in my arms.”
She hisses, but it turns into a moan when my hands dip lower, gripping her thighs. I lift her, pinning her to the wall, her legs wrapping tight around my hips. The squeak of her back hitting the shelves only fuels me.
Clothes shift, tugged and desperate. I yank her blouse open enough for my mouth to claim every inch of skin I can reach. Her fingers fist in my hair, pulling, demanding.
Every kiss, every grind of her body against mine is layers of tension unraveling in seconds. It’s messy, greedy, addictive. We can’t get enough of each other.
“Beck—“ she gasps, head tipped back.
I silence her with another searing kiss. “Fuck, I love it when you say my name like that.”
Her moan is breathless, almost broken, but she doesn’t stop. She pulls me down again, lips bruising, bodies colliding harder until thought doesn’t exist—only the heat, only her.
Her tongue slides against mine in a duel neither of us wants to win. Her nails rake down my chest, sharp enough to sting, and I groan, grinding my hips into hers so she feels exactly what she’s doing to me.
“Damn you,” she gasps when I tear away just long enough to mouth at her throat.
“Already halfway there,” I rasp, hands gripping her thighs.
Her skirt rides up high, exposing the thin fabric of her panties that’s acting as a barrier between us when I press into her. She gasps, head tipping back as I rub against her, hard and deliberate. Her body arches to meet mine, shameless in its demand.
“Say you don’t want this,” I dare her, lips dragging over her collarbone.
She glares down at me, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. “Stop torturing me.”
Then her hand shoves between us, fumbling with my belt. My laugh is low, dangerous. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Her panties are shoved aside, my jeans barely low enough, and then I’m sinking into her wet pussy—hot, tight, perfect. She cries out, muffled when I catch her mouth again, swallowing the sound. I grind deeper, slower than I should, savoring the way her body clenches around me.
“God, Quinn…” I mutter into her hair, forehead pressed to hers.
Her nails dig into my shoulders, dragging down my back as she rides me hard, meeting every thrust with reckless abandon. Each motion rattles the shelves, equipment echoing around us.
Her breath stutters, her voice breaks. “D-don’t stop.”
Like I could. I slam into her harder, faster, chasing the sound of her unraveling. My hand slips between us, fingers circling her clit until she’s clinging tighter, legs trembling around my waist.
She comes with a sharp gasp, head thrown back, and I bury my face against her neck, following her over the edge with a groan that shakes out of me raw and broken.
She slumps against me, hair mussed, lips swollen, still catching her breath. I ease her back down ever so gently. My body’s still humming, every muscle thrumming with the aftermath of her. She mutters something about it never happening again, but I don’t even bother arguing. I know better.
I watch her straighten her skirt, cheeks pink and eyes flashing at me. She wishes she could burn me alive and climb me again all in the same breath. That contradiction alone makes my grin split wide.
She signed me up for this shoot thinking she had the upper hand, thinking she could control me, maybe even embarrass me. But standing here, with her taste still on my lips and her body still trembling from what I just gave her, I think we both know who really won today.
I zip my pants back up, still grinning as she storms off ahead of me, muttering about mistakes and bad decisions. Maybe she really believes that. Maybe she wants to.
But me? I just lean against the doorframe, watching her hips sway. She doesn’t realize I can still feel them in my hands, and I let the thought settle in, slow and certain.
She can call it whatever she wants. I call it round two.