Chapter 36 Naughty Girl
NAUGHTY GIRL
ASHLEY
After possessively steering me out of the restaurant, through the soft-lit resort lobby, and onto the waiting shuttle, Beckett takes my hand—and doesn’t let go.
At security, he releases me—just for a moment—so we can send our bags through the X-ray belt and walk through the scanner one at a time.
My palm feels suddenly bare. Cold.
But the second we’re through, he takes my hand again.
Like it’s instinct.
We walk the gangway together—long, sloped, echoing slightly underfoot.
And he still doesn’t let go.
Not when we squeeze into the elevator with half a dozen other passengers, our shoulders brushing, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles into my skin that feel more intimate than a kiss.
Not even when we reach our deck.
Somehow—miraculously—he’s still holding my hand when he unlocks the cabin door.
It swings shut behind us.
The lock clicks.
And then I launch myself at him.
I kiss him like I’ve been starving for it—and I have. His hands are in my hair, on my hips, my back, tugging me closer as I fumble for the buttons on his shirt, popping one of them off in my urgency.
He breaks the kiss long enough to yank it over his head, and I kick off my sandals.
“You never should’ve told me that.” His voice is wrecked, barely more than a growl. “You have no idea what that did to me.”
My breath stutters, but I take a second to feign innocence. “Oh?”
“Naughty girl.” His mouth crashes into mine again, our teeth scraping slightly before we fall into rhythm. “You taste like tequila.”
My fingers skate over his stomach, rough and lean. His hands roam down my sides, reverent and greedy. Shockwaves are shooting through me.
He backs me toward the bed, dragging my dress down my arms. “God, Ash… look at you.”
“Look at you.” I’m tugging at his waistband, but then…
He goes still.
What?
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” His voice is tight.
And then I realize why he stopped.
Again.
“Nooooo!”
He winces, his face buried in my neck. “Fuck my life.”
“Why—why did you think that could ever be a good idea?”
Beckett laughs, breathless and frustrated. “Hell if I know.”
But then his gaze drops—dragging over me like a physical touch—and his frustration shifts. Morphs. Darkens.
He exhales, low and hungry.
“Guess I’ll have to ruin you with my mouth instead.” My husband’s voice is rough as sin. And he doesn’t say those words like he’s making a consolation. It sounds more like a vow.
I whimper. “But I want you in me.”
His eyes lock on mine.
“I’ll be in you, babe,” he murmurs, “Make no mistake—I’ll definitely be in you.”
And before I can respond, he’s already tugging the dress down my body—inch by aching inch—his mouth following the path it leaves behind. Slow. Focused. Devastating.
It brushes past my breasts, and his lips linger. Biting a little. He knows what gets me ready.
He knows exactly what I like.
By the time the gauzy fabric pools at my feet, I’m trembling.
He drops to his knees, and I reach out—clutching his shoulders, needing something to ground me. But Beckett’s not being gentle. He’s not being timid.
He’s being hungry.
And when he presses his mouth exactly where I need him, I gasp.
But only for a second.
He pulls back, grinning, like he’s fully prepared to make trouble.
And with a sudden tug, he hooks his hands behind my thighs and yanks—pulling me off balance until I fall back onto the bed with a breathless laugh. Then he lifts one of my legs, then the other, draping them over his shoulders like he’s settling in for a long, indulgent meal.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “I’ve missed every inch of you.”
And then his tongue is on me—slow at first, then in me—then deeper, insistent.
Knowing.
I try to hold myself up on my elbows, needing to see him, needing to watch this man I love loving me like this…
But it’s too good.
Too much.
My fingers are clutching at the bed, and he teases me with wicked precision. The scrape of his whiskers. The flicks. The swirling…
I can’t form coherent words.
Nothing. I’ve gone mute.
When I finally let go of the comforter, boneless and wrecked, he crawls out from between my legs, and then crawls up beside me, propping himself on one elbow. His smile is lazy, triumphant.
“Still mad at me for getting the piercing?” he murmurs.
I stare up at the ceiling, dazed and breathless. “You’re not off the hook.”
He leans in, brushing his mouth against mine.
“I know.” He’s more serious than he was a second before. “I know.”