15. Chapter 14
Darcy
Islide into the Bear Cave's parking lot like my career depends on it.
Which, let’s be clear, it absolutely does.
My black convertible screeches to a halt in a spot that's definitely not designated for me, but today, the rules do not apply.
Not when I’m running thirty-four minutes late for a meeting Colin insisted was "non-negotiable" and "Absolutely. Must. Start. On. Time."
Which, honestly, rude of him.
I stagger out of the car, and—oh.
"Shit," I mumble, holding my lower abdomen while trying to straighten up.
My legs tremble in protest, and there it is again. That fresh wave of sensation that's been shooting straight through me all morning.
It reminds me why I’m this late in the first place.
"Beck. Freaking. Morrison," I mutter under my breath, clutching the doorframe of the car for support. "What the hell did you do to me last night?"
The answer, unfortunately, is everything.
My thighs ache. My stomach aches. There are muscles in my ass I apparently haven't utilized properly in thirty years of existence. Even walking feels ambitious this morning when my vagina is approximately three steps away from falling onto the concrete.
And yet, despite the fact I'm fairly certain I'll never sit comfortably again, I wouldn't take back one single minute of it.
Because last night?
Oh my God.
I masturbated in front of Beck Morrison.
Jesus Christ.
I actually did that.
I lay naked on my bed, spread my legs and touched myself while Beck watched me with that filthy, hungry look on his face, one hand wrapped around himself as he told me exactly what he wanted to see.
And somehow, that's not even in the top five most scandalous things I did with Beck Morrison last night.
We had sex four times.
Four.
Very distinct, increasingly depraved times.
The first one apparently obliterated whatever remained of my professional boundaries, because by round three, I was the one dragging him back into bed.
Somewhere after that, I ended up on all fours with his hand fisted in my hair, his body pressed hard against mine and that deep, rough voice in my ear telling me, “Let me hear it, baby. Let me hear you scream.”
I'm pretty sure I bit him.
I don't know when. I don't know where. But Beck definitely left my apartment this morning with teeth marks somewhere on his body, and the fact I can't even narrow down the incident responsible is probably something I should unpack with Dr. Sinclair.
Aaaaand there it is.
The blush starts at my chest and races straight to my ears as I hurry toward the arena entrance, sunglasses firmly in place despite being indoors now.
Except the horrifying part is, I'm not embarrassed.
Not really.
I'm just remembering.
Because that wasn't even the worst of it.
At some point after the first time, when I was still lying there trying to catch my breath, Beck apparently decided twenty minutes was an adequate recovery period. He pushed my thighs apart again and buried his face between them, licking slowly through the evidence of what we'd just done.
Like the filthy bastard couldn't stand the thought of wasting a single drop.
Including his own.
Jesus Christ.
I remember looking down and seeing his broad shoulders between my thighs, his mouth slick and his eyes locked on mine while he tasted both of us straight from my body, completely fucking shameless about it.
Who does that?
Beck Morrison, apparently.
And apparently I let him.
I shove my sunglasses farther up my nose and limp through the concourse with as much dignity as a woman can reasonably summon when she's just discovered her previously respectable sex life was apparently the physical equivalent of eating unseasoned chicken.
"Get it together, Darcy. You have a meeting. A professional meeting. About hockey."
I can absolutely do this.
By the time I reach Colin Holden's office, I've managed to straighten my blouse, smooth my hair and rearrange my expression into something vaguely resembling the functional, capable adult woman my parents spent thirty years meticulously creating.
Perfect. Professional.
Definitely not thinking about Beck Morrison's tongue.
I knock twice, and the door swings open, but instantly, I'm shielding my eyes like I just looked right at the sun.
"Oh my God! Colin! Put some pants on!"
Colin is bent over, wrestling a pair of obnoxiously floral boardshorts that are clearly one size too small for him. His pale, flat ass is on full display, glistening faintly with what I can only hope is sunscreen.
“Colin!” I yelp, slapping a hand over my eyes. “What in the fresh hell—are those pineapples?”
“They're festive!" His voice is muffled as he hops on one leg, nearly face-planting. "It’s theme day at Goldie’s!”
“Oh God, I’m going to sue for workplace trauma,” I groan.
Finally yanking the shorts up, he throws on a faded “Surf’s Up!” tee, like that helps, before straightening himself up and looking across his office at me.
"Sorry, Darcy. I was about to catch a break." He looks through his office window. It's overcast today, and I'm pretty sure the radio announcer said something about a storm this afternoon. "Um, now. Why are you here?"
"Because you told me to be here, Colin."
He blinks at me like I'm speaking Mandarin, then glances at his phone.
"Right. Right, yes. The meeting." He grabs a towel off his desk chair, and stuffs it into a duffel bag. "Listen, can we do this later? The swell report's looking incredible before that storm rolls in, and if I don't get out there by noon, I'll lose the whole—"
"Colin."
He stops mid-zip.
"Just give me five minutes," I say, dropping into the chair across from his desk, slightly wincing when my ass connects with the chair. "I have plans tonight, and I'd rather not spend the rest of my afternoon chasing you down the coastline in my heels."
Something about the way I say plans must register, because Colin squints at me for a second too long. I cross my legs and stare back with the kind of composure that took twenty-eight years of Madden breeding to perfect.
Reluctantly, he sits. The duffel bag stays on his lap like a security blanket.
"Fine. I'll just give you the quick version." He shuffles through a stack of papers that looks like it hasn't been organized since the franchise launched. "Vegas. The Bears play there next week. And I need you on that trip."
"You need me in Vegas?"
"Yes, you will travel with the team. Observing Beck." He waves a hand vaguely, and all I can think is… I observed Beck enough last night. "Urgency is of the essence."
I tilt my head. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"Well. The Morrison trade is gathering momentum.
" He finds whatever paper he's looking for and flattens it against his desk with both palms. "Urgency is becoming an issue.
I need you close to the team, watching everything.
Practice. Game day. Travel. How he handles himself after the loss.
Whether last night was an isolated mistake, or Beck being Beck.
We need answers. You're getting answers, right? "
My brain supplies an extremely unprofessional image from last night that makes my thighs clench under the table.
Beck stretched out across my bed, those bright blue eyes locked on mine, his lean, muscular body on full display, the deep V at his hips pointing down to where his hand wrapped around his cock.
God. His cock.
"Oh, I'm getting answers, all right."
Colin nods, satisfied, completely missing the layers of sexual catastrophe packed into that sentence.
"Good. Good." He leans back. The office chair squeaks in protest. "And mind if I ask… Which way are we leaning? You know, are you still advising we keep up negotiations?"
My stomach gives an uncomfortable twist.
Because that's what I said. Isn't it?
To trade Beck Morrison.
"How far are the negotiations?"
Colin shrugs, casual as hell. Like we're discussing lunch options down on the boardwalk and not a human being's entire career.
"Far enough."
I swallow and nod, staring out through the window.
Far enough means offers have been discussed. Contract terms and deals have been floated. Somewhere out there, a general manager in another city is looking at Beck Morrison's name on a whiteboard and deciding what he's worth.
And I'm the one who put it there.
I put it there before I knew what his laugh sounded like when nobody was watching.
Before he fed me a cookie on the boardwalk and spent eighty-seven dollars on a claw machine because the stuffed bear reminded him of himself.
Before he held me against his chest after sex and breathed into my hair that I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
My mind immediately goes back to last night on the pier.
You'd really be okay somewhere else?
"Darcy?"
"His decision-making still needs work, and I'm not pretending the mistake last night didn't happen. It did. It's going in the report."
"Good."
"But so is everything else. His integration with the team is huge. The Morrison Brother's brand is a huge part of the sell-out crowds. His commercial value is just as massive as the community response surrounding his brothers. And statistically, there are areas moving in the right direction."
Colin watches me carefully.
For the first time since I arrived, he seems to have completely forgotten about surfing.
I take a breath. "I don't think we need to rush anything just yet, sir. You said we had three weeks, so I say we continue to work to that schedule.”
I stand up and smooth my trousers with my sweaty palms. I take a deep breath and try to gather every shred of Madden composure I have left.
"Your call, Madden." Colin waves a hand without looking up from where he's checking surf conditions on his phone again. "Remember, this is why I hired you. I trust your judgement."
My judgement.
I nod once and walk out before he can see the crack in my face.
The hallway is empty. I stand there for three full seconds, hand pressed against the cool concrete wall, breathing.
I pull out my phone and text Josie.
Me: Breakers. Lunch. Now. Bring Rose.