25. Beck
Beck
My hands fumble with the mother of pearl buttons on her flannel shirt. The fabric sticks to her body, revealing every curve, every part of Lyla I’ve been doing my best not to think about.
I brush my hand along the delicate line of her collarbone, pushing her top off her shoulder. Her skin is cold, and I let my breath warm her skin as I kiss her.
Goosebumps scatter down her arm, across her chest, and I follow the path of them, trailing a line of kisses up her neck. She lets her top fall away from her body, revealing her pert breasts, nipples pebbled from the cold.
I’ve imagined Lyla like this so many times. I looked forward to watching her do her yoga in those skimpy little workout sets on my lawn. It was thrilling, and with the weather the last few days, I’d started feeling deprived.
“God, I hate the rain,” I say, letting my eyes roam over her body.
Lyla’s brows pinch together as she tilts her head in question. “Because of the flooding?”
I shake my head, pressing myself to her because she’s shivering. I wrap my arms around the small of her waist. “Because I missed the beautiful view of you every morning on my lawn.”
Her plush lips slide into a smile, understanding washing over her face.
I never really wanted her to stop, it just always felt like I’m stepping out of bounds by even glancing in her direction.
The sight of her bare tits now feels downright forbidden, and my cock presses uncomfortably into the fly of my jeans.
“Yes, but then if it wasn’t for the rain you wouldn’t get to see me naked,” she says, bending down to push her leggings off her hips and to the floor. She takes her panties with them, baring herself to me.
I shake my head, taking in a sharp inhale as I reach up to rub the back of my neck.
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I love the rain.”
Lyla flashes me a cheeky smile, spinning on her heel and turning toward the walk-in shower. I swear she makes a show of swaying her hips and bending over a little as she turns on the water, and I relish the sight of the full expanse of her skin.
She flashes me a sultry glance over her shoulder
“Are you going to get in with me, or what?” Her dark eyes glimmer with something mischievous, teasing, taunting…inviting.
I undo the buttons of my shirt as Lyla steps into the stream of water. It rolls in rivulets down her body, taking with it some of the dried and caked on mud.
Lyla watches me from behind the glass, her gaze landing on the smattering of dark hair on my chest, catching and lingering for a moment on the tattoo on my pec.
She follows the line of my abs down to my jeans where I work at my belt buckle.
Her eyes widen when I push my pants down, my hard cock springing free.
Lyla lets out a laugh. “That’s what you look like under those chaps?”
I don’t know whether or not to be offended, but my size has never been an insecurity of mine, so I’m fairly convinced she means it with no ill intent.
“Just what every guy wants to hear when they’re standing naked in front of someone,” I say, with mock offence.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” she rushes out through giggles. “I just never… I never thought you’d be that hot.”
I bring my hands to her hips, joining her under the warm water. It almost burns, even though the temperature isn’t hot.
“Then I guess I’ve got one up on you there,” I say, a smirk toying with my lips.
She arches an eyebrow.
“I always knew you’d be that hot.” I mimic the way she had said the words, right down to the playful lilt of her voice, and it draws another laugh from her throat.
She throws her head back, water spilling over her face, her dark hair almost black and so shiny I can almost see my reflection in it. It falls down her back like an inky waterfall, and all I can do is admire her, this woman I’ve been in love with for decades.
“You really have been playing with fire,” she says, stretching up on her tiptoes to twine her arms around the back of my neck. “Lusting after your best friend’s sister like that.”
At the reminder, my shoulders drop, and she must feel it, because her eyes search my face.
“Don’t do this again, Beck,” she says. “Don’t put your walls up.”
“About that,” I say, my voice lowers to a gravelly pitch. “I want this with you, so badly. But I don’t want to… go all the way. Not yet. Not until I can talk to him about it.”
She leans up, kissing me on the cheek, my jaw, my neck. Oh god, my neck.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs as she pulls herself close to me, hugging me as if I might draw back on her again.
I won’t. Whatever happened the other day, it was a one off. It’s why I wanted to bring up how I feel about this, us, now. So she never has to wonder if my holding back is about her, so she never feels rejected by me.
“I get it, Beck.” She leans back and gazes into my eyes, and I could get lost in those chocolate pools. “But you did promise you’d help me get cleaned up.”
“You are absolutely right,” I say through my smile. “I sure did.”
I kiss her again and her lips part for me, letting me in. I show her everything I struggle to say with my words. I convey everything I’m feeling for her in this moment–adoration, awe, gratitude.
There’s still mud caked onto her legs where her leggings weren’t covering, and her arms where her sleeves got pushed up. A few smears of dirt are still visible on her face as well, so I do what I promised her I would. I grab the bar of soap on the ledge and I wash her beautiful, milky skin.
I gently wipe the dirt off her face, kissing every spot that I scrub clean as I go. I plant kisses on her shoulders as I clean the mud off her arms. I rub the slick bar of soap down her body, on the insides of her thighs.
It falls to the floor with a clatter when I let go of it, so I can trail my finger tips where I had previously cleaned. I tease her, touching her everywhere except the one place I know she wants.
“Please, Beck,” she pleads. “Give me something.”
I tip my head side to side, considering. I’d already decided I wouldn’t sleep with Lyla, but the line is drawn clearly in the sand, far enough away from where we are. A black demarcation on white. But this part? This is a lot more grey.
“I like you like this, desperate for me.” I don’t want to deny her, because I’m enjoying this moment way too much, the one where Lyla Morgan is finally coming undone in front of me, finally begging for me. But I’m crossing boundaries I never thought I would, and fast.
“Beck…” she groans, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.
I hold her eye contact as I slide two fingers into her wet heat.
This will be it, this will be the line that stays solid.
I can give her what she wants as long as she’s asking for it, but I won’t indulge in my own pleasure until I sort through what this means. Her breath hitches, mouth falling open.
“Is this what you want?”
She nods, a short, sharp moan escaping her lips as I slide out and push my fingers back in. “More,” she rasps.
My fingers find her slick centre, the contact on a sensitive spot making her hiss, hips bucking toward me. She breaks eye contact with me and lets her head tip back as I slide my fingers into her opening, one and then two.
I use the pad of my thumb to circle her clit while I curl my fingers inside her. I give her everything she practically begged for. I watch as the sensations overtake Lyla, her thick dark lashes fluttering as her eyelids become heavy with lust.
With a few more strokes of my fingers, she becomes more swollen and wet, her moans have turned into desperate mewls, so I pump into her, feeling her walls clench around my fingers. I slide them in and out, curling upward to put pressure on her front wall.
“Oh my god, I’m gonna–” she starts, and then cuts herself off with a cry.
She pulses around me as her orgasm rips through her, every muscle in her body contracting. She writhes as she loses control. She’s not filtering herself, not wearing a mask.
She’s her.
Her whole exuberant self, and I fucking love her like this.
I kiss her temple gently, reverently, as she comes undone in my arms, her chest still heaving.
My cock is still at full mast when I shut off the water, but I’ll have to deal with that myself, on my own time.
I can hold firm when it comes to myself. For some reason, it’s easier to justify giving her pleasure. Maybe somewhere in my mind I think if I deny myself, I’ll have already punished myself enough by the time I have to come clean to Austin.
Reaching around the shower wall, I pull a towel off the rack, wrapping it around Lyla’s shoulders. Her eyelids are heavy, with the hazy aftermath of her orgasm or exhaustion, it’s difficult to say.
“Come on, Trouble,” I murmur, leaning down and scooping her up under her knees. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I carry her into the bedroom and set her down in the bed, peeling back the covers.
She relaxes into the mattress, and I remove her wet towel, covering her back up with the plush duvet.
She mumbles something that I can’t make out, her eyes closing and then she’s out like a light, and I smile to myself.
Putting Lyla to bed like this is something I wouldn’t ever let myself dream of doing. It’s such a privilege, looking at her with her dark hair splayed across the pillow, expression peaceful and calm.
I head back into the bathroom, dry myself off, and pray that my erection goes down before I crawl into bed next to her.
For good measure, I find my boxers on the bathroom floor–the only piece of clothing that isn’t sopping or caked with mud–and slip into them.
Lyla stirs when I get into bed, her eyes cracking open. “I thought you left.”
Her voice is sleepy and low, but there’s a hint of something there.
Something like a question, or maybe confusion, or surprise.
An invisible fist grinds into my sternum, an ache radiating outward at the thought of Lyla–passionate, spirited, Lyla–thinking I would want to do anything other than stay here, next to her.
I pull her into me, tucking her against my warm body and wrapping her up tight.