23. Chapter 23
Beckett
Istay for dinner, and then I stay well past that, and at no point does either of us mention the contract on the counter, because what's happening in this apartment right now has nothing to do with it.
She changes out of her dress and into leggings and a big shapeless long sleeved shirt.
Barely an inch of skin showing and she's gorgeous.
I'm so fucked. We cook badly together in her kitchen.
There is not much in her refrigerator because neither of us thought past the operation this morning and the contents reflect that — eggs, half a block of cheese, bread that is slightly stale and perfectly acceptable for toast. She claims to know how to make an omelette.
Turns out, she does not know how to make an omelette.
I don't tell her this. I watch her fold it incorrectly and don't say a word, and when it comes out in pieces rather than thirds she looks at it for a moment and says, without turning around: "That's rustic. "
"It's eggs," I say.
"It's rustic eggs." She slides them onto a plate and hands it to me. "Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
She is right. I take the plate and eat the eggs.
They are good even in pieces, and somewhere in the middle of it she makes me laugh — the kind that does not feel managed, the kind that comes from being caught off guard by something true — and I'm aware of how rarely that happens outside of Elias.
She notices. She doesn't comment on it, which is the correct instinct, and I add it to the list of things I've been keeping about her for two months.
We eat at the kitchen island.
"Worst job you've ever run," she says.
"Jersey City. My second year. Corporate protection detail, should have been routine." I pick up my fork. "I made a call I knew was wrong in the moment and made it anyway."
"What happened?"
"Client was fine. It was close."
She looks at me. "What was the call?"
"I trusted the wrong person," I say.
She looks at her eggs. "Yeah," she says. "That one costs you."
She says it like she knows. I think about Conrad and Frey and eleven years of misplaced trust and I don't say any of that out loud because she's had enough of that weight today. I refill her water glass instead. She notices but doesn't say anything, which is the correct instinct.
She tells me about her mother somewhere around nine o'clock. Not the version she gives at parties. I've already heard that version. This is the real one.
"Lina's mom ran into her," she says. "Getting a facial, apparently.
My mother left the program — the one Conrad set up in Scottsdale — and checked herself into an actual spa.
Not a treatment facility. A spa." She turns her glass.
"Room service. Bar tab. She'll stay until she gets too belligerent and they ask her to leave, and then she'll go somewhere else and do the same thing.
" A pause. "I haven't spoken to her in two years. That's the longest it's been."
"Are you going to call her?"
She looks at the counter. "No." Then: "The thing that scares me most isn't her choices.
It's that I understand the impulse. To just stop fighting.
To decide it's not worth it." She sets down her glass.
"I've spent my whole life trying to be the opposite of her.
Useful. Present. Accountable to something.
" A pause. "Some days I don't know if I'm doing it because I believe in it or because I'm terrified of what I look like if I stop. "
I look at her. "I've watched you for two months," I say. "I know what you do with your days. It's the opposite of nothing."
She goes quiet in the way she does when something has reached her.
"Thank you," she says. Not the social version. Just saying it.
"It's true," I say.
She looks at me. "I know," she says. "That's why it helps."
At midnight I tell her the thing I've been working up to since I sat down.
"Isla, I—I want to keep seeing you," I say. "Not as a client. Not as an arrangement. Nothing with a contract attached to it."
She looks at me but doesn't say anything. I keep going.
"You're the first person in seven years who makes me want to be in a room that has nothing to do with security logistics or Elias's homework schedule.
" I look at my hands. "I'm not an easy person.
I'm contained and I'm slow to say things and Elias is the first priority and that doesn't change.
" I look at her. "I'm asking you to want this anyway.
All of it. Knowing exactly what it comes with. "
She is quiet for long enough that I start to wonder if I have miscalculated. I really hope I haven't miscalculated. But all I can do is wait.
She looks at me across the kitchen island for a long moment.
"I've been waiting," she says, "for you to say something that has nothing to do with protection."
"And?"
"This qualifies," she says. Then, quieter: "For the record. I've known what I wanted for a while. I was waiting for you to catch up."
"I know," I say.
"You're insufferable."
"I know that too."
We move from the kitchen to the couch. The leather is cool against my back as I settle into the corner, and she fits herself against my side with her legs across my lap.
Neither of us is pretending this is professional.
I put my hand on her ankle, my thumb tracing the delicate bone there, and she turns her face up toward mine.
I kiss her without any of the restraint I have been living behind for two months — not the careful thing from last night, not the landing, something more like arrival.
My mouth claims hers with a hunger I've kept leashed, and she pulls me in and I let her.
Her tongue meets mine, hot and demanding, and I taste the remnants of coffee on her lips.
My hand slides up her calf, her thigh, fingers pressing into the soft spot behind her knee.
She makes a sound against my mouth, a small gasp that sends blood rushing south. I deepen the kiss, angling her head back with my free hand, taking my time, exploring the wet heat of her mouth the way I've imagined a hundred times during briefings and security checks.
"Matt," she breathes when we break apart, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Come here." I shift, pulling her into my lap so she's straddling me. Her knees bracket my hips, her hands framing my face, and I look up at her — this woman who has dismantled every wall I built with her sharp wit and her stubborn refusal to let me keep my distance.
She rolls her hips, grinding down against me, and I groan.
My hands find her waist, then slide up her ribs, my thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the thin fabric of her shirt.
Her nipples harden under my touch, and I watch her face as I cup her fully, weighing the soft flesh in my palms.
"Off," I say, tugging at the hem of her shirt. "I want to see you."
She pulls it over her head in one fluid motion, and then she's bare from the waist up, her olive skin luminous in the low light of the apartment.
I lean forward and press my mouth to the curve of her breast, my tongue tracing the swell before finding her nipple.
She arches into me, her fingers threading through my hair, holding me against her.
I take my time, worshipping first one breast then the other — sucking, nibbling, laving my tongue over the peaked flesh until she's trembling in my lap. Her hips rock against me in a rhythm that makes me harder with every pass.
"Bedroom," I say against her skin. "Now."
I stand with her in my arms, her legs wrapped around my waist, and carry her down the hall.
She kisses my neck, my jaw, her teeth grazing my earlobe, and by the time I reach her bedroom I'm barely thinking straight.
I lay her back on the sheets and stand for a moment, just looking at her — her chestnut hair spread across the pillow, her green eyes dark with want, her body laid out like an offering.
I strip off my shirt, then my pants, and her gaze tracks down my body with an appreciation that makes my cock twitch.
I kneel on the bed between her thighs and reach for the waistband of her leggings, sliding them down her legs along with her underwear.
She lifts her hips to help me, and then she's completely bare beneath me.
"You're gorgeous," I tell her. "Every time I look at you, I want to spend hours just like this."
"Then stop talking and —"
I cut her off by lowering my mouth to her inner thigh, kissing the sensitive skin there. She gasps, her hands fisting in the sheets. I work my way higher, teasing her with open-mouthed kisses, my breath hot against her skin. I can smell her arousal, musky and sweet, and it makes my mouth water.
When I finally press my lips to her pussy, she cries out.
She's already wet, slick with need, and I groan against her as I taste her.
I start slow, long strokes of my tongue from her entrance to her clit, savoring the way she shudders beneath me.
Her thighs tremble on either side of my head, and I grip her hips to hold her still.
"Matt, God —" Her voice breaks as I circle her clit with my tongue, then suck gently. Her back arches off the bed, and I slide two fingers inside her, curling them to find that spot that makes her lose her mind.
She's slick and close around my fingers, her walls clenching and releasing as I work her. I look up her body — her breasts heaving, her head thrown back, her lips parted — and the sight nearly undoes me. I add a third finger, stretching her, and her moan turns into something desperate.
"Fuck, you taste incredible," I murmur against her flesh. "I could stay here all night."
"Don't you dare stop —"
I don't. I fuck her with my fingers and my mouth, setting a rhythm that has her writhing against the mattress. I can feel her getting close, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in soft little gasps. I suck her clit harder, flick my tongue against it, and she comes undone.