CHAPTER THIRTY #2
"They're all so obvious about what they want. Jackson wants to possess. Bo and Cameron want to protect in their own ways. But you?" She shakes her head. "I can never tell what you're really thinking."
"Right now, I'm thinking about kissing you."
Her pulse jumps again. "That's a bad idea."
"Probably."
"We're in public."
"We could not be."
She stares at me for a long moment. Then: "Your place or mine?"
My brain short-circuits. "What?"
"You said we could not be in public." Her thumb traces over my knuckles. "Your place or mine?"
"Mine," I manage. "Definitely mine."
The ride back is quiet, but not uncomfortable. Reese sits close enough that I can feel her pressed against my side, her scent cutting through the lingering smell of the road. I rest my hand on her thigh halfway home. She doesn’t move it. That’s all the answer I need.
The house is empty when we walk in. No teammates, no noise—just us. For once, I’m grateful.
I take her upstairs without a word. My room’s neater than usual, like some part of me had been expecting this. Hoping for it. She steps past me and looks out the window, arms folded loosely in front of her.
“Nice view,” she says.
I shrug. “You’re the only thing worth looking at in here.”
She turns, one brow lifting. “Are we really doing this?”
I hold her gaze. “That depends. Do you want to?”
Her steps toward me are slow, deliberate. When she stops, she tilts her chin up, eyes bright and unreadable. “I can’t promise where this goes.”
“I’m not asking for a promise,” I tell her.
“This could change everything.”
“It already has,” I say simply.
Her fingers trace my jaw, a careful sweep of skin against stubble. “You’re not as simple as you pretend.”
“Neither are you.”
Her mouth finds mine before I can say more.
The kiss starts cautious, tasting, testing, like we’re both working out the rules.
Then she parts her lips and it turns into something hungrier, something inevitable.
I lift her onto the desk, pulling her closer until her legs wrap around my waist. My hands slide into her hair, hers tangle in mine, and the sound she makes when I press harder into her chest punches through every layer of control I thought I had.
She breaks the kiss only long enough to murmur against my mouth, “Stop thinking so much.”
I laugh quietly. “Bad habit.”
“Then break it,” she says, dragging her nails over my scalp, and I swear I feel it in my bones.
So I do.
The next kiss is deeper, heavier, and the performance I usually carry around with women falls away. She doesn’t want practiced charm. She wants me. That realization burns through me as I tug her pants and panties off her legs and drop to my knees.
She parts for me without hesitation, thighs trembling as I push them wider. I run my tongue from the slick heat of her entrance all the way up, tasting her, claiming her, and when I drag over her clit she gasps like she’s never been touched properly before.
I don’t stop there. I spread her with my thumbs, holding her open so I can see everything—her folds flushed and wet, her clit already swollen, the way she clenches when I tease her with nothing but breath.
I flatten my tongue and press in broad, hungry strokes, then switch to tight circles, listening for the catch in her throat, the hitched breath that gives her away.
Every detail matters. The way her hips jerk when I suck hard.
The sharp pull of her fingers in my hair when I slide my tongue deeper, pushing into her until I can taste the heat straight from the source.
I fuck her with my mouth, tongue stroking in and out before gliding back up to flick her clit, relentless until she’s squirming against my face.
“Beckett—” Her voice cracks, desperate, but I grip her thighs harder, keeping her pinned to the desk. She’s not running from this.
I shift to a faster rhythm, tongue lashing over her clit while I slide a finger inside her, then another, curling until I find that spot that makes her whole body jolt.
She cries out, raw and unrestrained, grinding down against me as I drive her higher.
Her slick coats my mouth, my fingers, dripping down my wrist, and I moan into her like I can’t get enough—because I can’t.
Her thighs clamp around my head when she comes, shuddering violently, her nails scraping across the desk until wood splinters under her grip.
She’s gasping, pleading, but I don’t stop until I’ve wrung every last spasm from her, licking her through the aftershocks, sucking her clit until she’s sobbing my name.
Only then do I ease off, kissing the inside of her thigh before standing.
I kiss her hard, tasting her slick still on my tongue, and she moans, hands fisting in my shirt. I strip the rest of her as I carry her—shirt tugged over her head, bra unclasped and tossed aside—until she’s bare against my chest.
By the time I lay her out on the bed, she’s flushed, glistening, and perfect. I shove my own jeans and briefs down in one motion, kicking them away before joining her.
I line up and push in slow, watching her stretch around me, her walls gripping me tight from the first inch. She’s hot, slick, greedy, and the feeling nearly makes me lose it right there, but I hold steady, burying myself all the way until I’m seated deep.
Her nails dig crescents into my shoulders, her mouth falling open on a cry, and I don’t let her look away. My thumb hooks under her chin, tilting her face back to mine.
“Eyes on me,” I murmur, voice low.