Chapter 47 #3
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Take me.” I curse into his shoulder, and Beckett finally starts meeting me, driving upward when I come down, each thrust pushing deeper until holding myself above him becomes almost impossible. “Yes. Just like that.”
Another thrust, then another, and my pussy starts fluttering around him as the orgasm gathers fast and vicious. He feels the change immediately, thumb never losing its rhythm.
“Oh, fuck.” His voice breaks. “You’re squeezing me.” He drives into me again. “Come on, baby. Let me feel you come on my cock.”
The orgasm hits hard, locking my body over him as a cry tears out of me and my pussy pulses around his cock in relentless waves. Beckett swears, both hands bracing my hips now, his thumb still working my clit as I shake above him and lose any sense of rhythm.
“You feel so good coming around me.” Another contraction ripples through me, and his fingers press harder into my skin. “Keep squeezing my cock like that.”
I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. The next pulse sends him over the edge; both hands seize my hips as he drives into me rougher, deeper, a broken curse replacing my name when he finally comes.
He pulls me down over him, face buried in my neck, body still moving through the final strokes until neither of us can do anything except breathe.
I stay sprawled over him, thighs trembling, his cock still inside me and those abused glasses wedged crooked between our faces.
Beckett’s heart pounds under my cheek as one arm comes around my back, palm warm between my shoulder blades, and for once neither of us rushes to fill the silence.
When I finally lift my head, the frames are hanging precariously from one ear, so I straighten them with great care, wait for him to open his eyes, then immediately knock them crooked again.
A wrecked chuckle rolls out of him, and I kiss him before he can complain.
We stay tangled together until our breathing settles and the sweat begins cooling on my skin, Beckett tracing idle patterns along my back as the room fills with the unmistakable aftermath of sex, clean linen and whatever outrageously expensive cedar thing lives on his dresser.
My thighs are going to punish me tomorrow, Dr. Levin might personally strangle me if my voice sounds suspicious at my next appointment, but I feel lighter than I’ve in months.
“You alive?” I ask.
“No.”
“I thought so.”
“I died happy.”
I lift my head. “Did you?”
“Considering how I went? Absolutely.”
Beckett braces the condom when I lift off him, and the sudden emptiness leaves me tender, my face betraying it the second my feet touch the floor. Satisfaction flashes shamelessly over his features.
I point at him. “Whatever you’re thinking, keep it to yourself.”
“I haven’t said a word.”
“You don’t need to. Your face just issued a press release.”
He laughs as he disposes of the condom and washes his hands, returning with water and a warm cloth.
Competent aftercare has no business being this attractive, yet here we are.
What gets me more is the absence of presumption; Beckett doesn’t reach between my legs as though access to my body simply continues because we had sex.
He holds the cloth out to me. I take it, clean myself up and drink half the water from the glass he brought alongside it before realizing how quiet he has become.
“What?”
A fingertip brushes my knee, the gesture almost tentative after everything we just did. “I’ve wanted you for a long time. I always figured if this ever happened, I’d spend the whole night trying not to fuck it up.”
Something warm and inconvenient gathers behind my ribs. “And?”
For a moment he only studies me, all the filth and teasing from minutes ago stripped away. “Turns out I spent most of it trying to remember it as it happened.”
I climb back into bed before my face can reveal how deeply that affected me, and Beckett pulls the blanket over us as I settle into his side.
His fingers drift over my shoulder for a while before I glance up and find him staring at the ceiling with the particular expression he gets when his thoughts have become louder than the room.
“What?”
He looks down at me. “Nothing useful. I’m trying not to say too much tonight.”
My chest gives one painful thud because I know exactly what he is holding back, and from the way he watches me, he knows I know.
I’m not ready to hear love in bed for the first time since my marriage ended and have some old instinct start measuring the silence afterward, wondering how quickly I’m supposed to return it or what it means if I can’t. So I press a kiss to the center of his chest. “Don’t say it yet.”
His arm draws me nearer without question. “All right.”
I pinch his side. “And don’t get smug because I gave you permission to use that phrase.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Liar.”
“Occasionally.”
He takes my hand, brushes his mouth over my knuckles and keeps it there for a quiet second. “Stay?”
“I was planning to.”
Some of the tension leaves his body, so slight I could pretend I imagined it. I do. Resting my cheek over his heartbeat, I close my eyes and let tomorrow remain tomorrow.