21. Scarlett
— ? —
Scarlett
I wake up to gray light and Beck watching me.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, and when I open my eyes he looks away like he’s been caught stealing.
“Sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t- I was waiting for you to wake up. I was going to get coffee. I wanted to ask if you wanted some, but you were asleep and I didn’t want to-”
“You were watching me the whole time.”
“I was waiting for you to wake up. You look so beautiful in the morning. I was taken aback.” He winces.
Something snaps in my chest.
All night I lay there wanting him, aching for him, throbbing with every restless shift of the sheets. Counting the seconds and hating myself for how badly I needed his hands on me. And he was right there. Probably wanting me too.
I don’t let myself think. I throw back the covers and cross the six feet of ugly carpet and push him down onto his back.
I straddle him before he can react, my hands on his chest, my hair falling around us like a curtain.
I’m still in my oversized shirt and nothing underneath.
I grind down against the hard line of his cock through his jeans and nearly moan at the friction.
“Scarlett-”
“Shut up.”
I kiss him hard, and he makes a sound against my mouth that I feel straight between my legs. His hands come up to my hips tentatively, careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break.
I pull back and look at him. He’s staring up at me with dark eyes, his chest heaving, his hands barely touching me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Letting you lead.”
“I don’t want you to let me do anything.” I grab his hands and press them harder against my hips, rolling my bare cunt against his cock. “Make me feel good. Don’t just lie there like a princess. Touch me. Fuck me. I want it.”
The careful restraint cracks.
“You sure about that?”
“I’ve been sure all night. I’ve been sure for months. My pussy’s been soaked thinking about you. So either do something about it or-”
His hand fists in my hair and pulls, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to make me gasp. Before I can react, he flips us, and my back hits the mattress with enough force to knock the breath out of me.
He pins my wrists above my head with one hand, his body pressing me into the bed, his mouth hovering an inch from mine. I can feel how hard he is, thick and heavy against my thigh, and I arch up into him, shameless.
“You want me to stop being careful?” His voice is low, a sound I feel in my clit. “You want to see what I’ve been holding back?”
“Yes.”
“Say it again.”
“Yes, Beck. Show me. I want everything you’re going to do to me. Don’t hold back.”
He kisses me like he’s starving for it. Like he’s been holding himself back for months and finally can’t.
His free hand shoves the T-shirt up and cups my breast, thumb dragging over my nipple until it’s tight and aching.
Then his mouth follows, sucking hard enough that I cry out and push my chest into him.
“So fucking responsive,” he mutters against my skin. “Been dreaming about these tits. About tasting every inch of you.”
“Then do it,” I gasp. “I’ve been fantasizing about you every night. In that empty apartment. Thinking about your hands. Your mouth on my cunt. Your cock stretching me open.” I arch up against him, desperate. “Hating myself for how much I still wanted you to fuck me.”
“Don’t hate yourself.” He releases my wrists to cup my face, and for a moment he’s tender again, the roughness softening into something that makes my chest ache.
“I’ve been doing the same thing. Lying in our bed, stroking my cock thinking about you, wanting you so badly I couldn’t breathe.
Wanting to bury my face between your legs until you came on my tongue. ”
“Then stop talking and show me.”
He shows me.
He yanks the T-shirt over my head and tosses it.
Then he’s between my thighs, spreading them wide, and the first long lick of his tongue up my slit makes me moan loud enough that the neighbors probably hear.
He doesn’t tease. He eats me like he’s been starving, tongue fucking into me, then circling my clit, two thick fingers sliding inside and curling until he hits that spot that makes my hips jerk.
“Fuck- Beck-”
“That’s it. Ride my face. I’ve missed the way you taste. Missed how wet you get for me.”
I grab his hair and hold him there, grinding against his mouth exactly the way I want.
He growls into my cunt and sucks my clit hard while his fingers pump deeper, faster.
I’m already close, thighs shaking, and when he adds a third finger I come hard, crying out his name, pussy clenching around him as pleasure rips through me.
He’s not done. He crawls up my body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark and wild. He shoves his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock, the head already slick. I reach down and stroke him, thumb swiping over the tip, and he groans like I’ve gutted him.
“I need you inside me,” I tell him. “Now. I want to feel every inch.”
He notches himself against my entrance and pushes in slow at first, letting me feel the stretch. I’m so wet he slides deep in one long thrust, filling me completely. We both moan. He stays buried for a second, forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“Fuck, Scarlett. You’re perfect. So tight. So wet for me.”
“Move,” I demand, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Fuck me like you’ve been dying to.”
He does.
He takes his time even when he’s rough, hips snapping hard enough that the headboard knocks the wall, one hand pinning my wrists again, the other gripping my ass to pull me onto every thrust.
He pays attention to every sound I make, every shift of my body. When I gasp he angles deeper. When I moan he grinds against my clit. He finds all the places he used to know and discovers new ones that make me dig my nails into his back.
“I love you,” he says, fucking into me deep and steady. “I love you, Scarlett. I should have said it every single day. Should have been inside you every night reminding you who you belong to.”
I don’t say it back. I can’t.
But I want this. God, I want all of it, the weight of him, the stretch of his cock, the way he looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters.
I let him set the pace, let him take control, let him show me everything he’s been holding back.
When he flips me onto my hands and knees and drives back in from behind, I push back to meet him, greedy for it.
“Harder,” I gasp. “Don’t you dare stop.”
He fists my hair and pulls just enough to arch my back, other hand reaching around to rub my clit in tight circles. “Come for me again. I want to feel this pretty cunt milking my cock.”
I shatter with his name on my lips, walls clamping down around him so hard. He follows me over with a groan that sounds like it’s been torn from somewhere deep, hips stuttering as he comes inside me in hot pulses, filling me until it leaks down my thighs.
After, we collapse tangled together, breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. His cock softens inside me and he stays there a moment longer, pressing soft kisses to my shoulder like he can’t help himself.
“Go sit in the truck,” I say eventually.
He laughs, surprised. “Seriously?”
“I need to shower. And I need to think.”
He props himself up on one elbow and looks at me. His hair is wrecked, his lips swollen, and he looks more relaxed than I’ve seen him in months. Come is still dripping out of me and I can feel every ache in the best way.
“That didn’t fix anything,” I say, before he can speak. “What just happened doesn’t change anything. Do you understand? That was just a biological need.”
“I understand.” He traces a finger down my arm, then lower, gently through the mess between my legs, and I shiver. “But I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t want it to happen again. You wanted it as much as I did.”
“Beck-”
“I’ll go sit in the truck.” He leans down and kisses me, tasting like me. “Take your time.”
He pulls on his clothes and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him.
I lie there for a long moment, staring at the water-stained ceiling, thighs sticky, body humming.
I came to him. I asked him for something. And he gave it to me, the way I needed. The way I begged for.
So why do I feel like I lost?
Because you forgave him with your body. The thought rises up. You gave him something he didn’t earn.
But another thought follows, quieter. Or maybe you finally asked for what you wanted. Maybe that’s not the same as being easy.
I get in the shower. Turn the water as hot as it goes. Let it wash away the sweat and come, everything except the memory of his hands, his mouth, his cock buried deep, his voice saying I love you like it was the truest thing he’d ever said.
When I get out, I look at myself in the foggy mirror.
I don’t know who I am anymore.
I get dressed and walk out to the truck. Beck is in the passenger seat, staring out the window, and when I climb in he looks at me with a gentle expression.
“Roads are open,” he says.
“So go.”
I start the engine. We drive in silence.
But somewhere around mile marker forty, I reach over and take his hand. It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him.
But it means something.