Chapter 9
Ellery
BeckhamJames is a force of nature.
From the first press of his lips, I should have known that he would own me, body and soul. He floods every one of my senses. I taste the salty sweat on his skin on my tongue. Each breath I take is filled with his crisp, masculine scent. His rich baritone voice says my name like a prayer. I shiver at the feel of his rough, calloused hands roaming my curves. In a matter of seconds, he has completely obliterated the shield around my heart.
Beckham breaks our kiss and grins. “Hold on, shortcake.”
His hands stray to the curve of my backside, fingers digging into soft flesh when he hoists me into the air. I laugh in surprise. Once my legs are wrapped securely around his waist, he wades toward shore.
Every step he takes rocks his hips into mine. The soaked fabric between us is so thin that it may as well not be there. I am quickly losing my mind.
Desperate for friction.
Something to ease the ache building between my thighs.
Craving release.
As soon as Beckham sets me down on my favorite boulder, he drapes himself over me.
“You always smell so good.” He nuzzles against my neck. “Sweet like candy.”
Then his hands are sliding up along my spine, only stopping when they reach the back of my bikini top. He toys with the string holding it in place. Waiting for permission.
Never, not in a million years, will I say no to this man.
Not at this moment.
Instead, I reach up to untie the string that loops around my neck. Permission given, he gives one sharp tug that loosens the knot between my shoulder blades. Then, he peels the wet fabric from my skin. Goosebumps erupt across my skin, quickly doused with the warmth of his large hand on one breast and his mouth on the other.
Trapped between the sun-kissed stone and a hot, solid wall of muscle, I cannot escape. I would be insane to try. Each brush of his tongue, every slide of his rough hands on my skin, is better than any fantasy I could ever have conjured. I am so tightly wound, I could come just like this. One touch and I could shatter into a million pieces.
Oh, but what a way to go.
Beckham gazes down at me. There is a kaleidoscope of emotion hidden behind his eyes. Lust. Desire. Awe. Quick flashes of worry and doubt show how tightly he still clings to his self-control. His conscience is waging an internal battle, unseen except for the tension of his shoulders and the hard granite of his jaw.
“Stop thinking,” I scold. “Just feel.”
My lips graze the stubble along his jaw. I reach for his boxer briefs, and when both hands dip under the waistband, his abdominal muscles clench in shock. Gripping the fabric tightly, I shove it down past his hips.
When I run my palm up his length, he groans. “Fuck, Elle.”
His free hand covers mine, tightening my grip. Then he moves us together. Shows me just how he likes to be handled.
There is a certain sense of power that comes with being in control, from giving someone pleasure. But none of that compares to just how powerful I feel knowing that the person is Beckham.
Some small part of me knows I am tempting fate. But that temptation is too strong to resist. This man is forbidden fruit, and I want much more than just a taste.
Just this once, I want to be bad.
I want to be reckless and live in the moment.
Consequences be damned.
Beckham starts to glide his warm palm up my inner thigh. For a second, I forget to breathe. The movement of his fingers is slow and leisurely, the barest touch that tortures as much as it gives pleasure. But the pleasure is not enough, nothing more than a gentle ripple, because he is still restrained, still keeping a stubborn grip on his precious self-control.
And I want to be the one to break it.
“Make me yours,” I whisper. My hands reach up to cradle his face.
“Ellery…”
“Please. I want this. You.”
He is hovered over my body, chest heaving, his face a tortured mask of indecision.
Time for me to take the lead.
My legs bracket his waist, slotting our hips together until I feel him probing my entrance. Then I tug his head down and nip at his earlobe. “All of you.”
His resistance shatters. He lunges his hips forward in a single thrust, stopping only when he is seated to the hilt. I cry out in relief. All I can feel is him surrounding me, filling me. Our bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces.
Better than I ever could have imagined.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “How are you this perfect?”
I respond with a sigh of pleasure.
“It’s like you were made for me.”
My nails dig into his shoulders until he snaps and we crash together like waves against stone, turbulent and frenzied chaos in motion. Hands and lips and teeth that ebb and flow. Naughty things we whisper to each other.
Rough hands still the motion of my hips. He dominates me in a punishing rhythm, taking everything I offer him and more. Pleasure starts to pool in my center. It builds from the friction of our bodies, spreading up and outward, gaining speed like a tidal wave. My toes curl. My heels dig into his taut backside.
All at once, the wave crests and breaks. My back arches. I throw my head back and cry out Beckham’s name. Moments later, he shudders in release.
Seconds tick past while we float along, boneless, weightless, in a sea of calm. Spent and satisfied, we are suspended together in a world entirely our own, basking in the warmth of the afterglow. I hover within these precious moments before reality has a chance to intrude.
Beckham is the first to break the spell.
He carefully lifts his weight off of me before working to untangle himself from our intertwined limbs. His sudden absence leaves me cold. Vulnerable.
Even the ensuing silence is a tangible thing, unsettling and heavy in the air. Confusion cuts through my haze of pleasure. When I sit up on one elbow, looking for Beckham, the world around me comes into stark focus. I watch him gathering up his clothes. Slowly dressing himself with rigid, jerky movements. Avoiding my gaze.
Those last bits of pleasure clinging to me?
They fracture and disintegrate at the sight of him.
Suddenly, the tension between us has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with regret.
I can see it written all over his face.
Hurt and embarrassment start to churn in my stomach. Stupid, stupid, stupid. That word plays on repeat in my head while I fix my swimsuit. At the same time, I slip back into my coverup and boots. Then I gather up my things and hurry toward Princess.
“Hey, girl,” I whisper.
My sweet mare nickers softly in greeting. She nuzzles my neck with her nose, providing gentle comfort in a way only animals can. But my thoughts are millions of miles away, so muddled that I barely notice storing my things in her saddlebag. I am on autopilot as I go through the steps to mount up:
Untie the lead.
Rub Princess along her neck.
Place one foot in the stirrups.
Hoist into the saddle.
Vaguely, though I pretend not to, I hear Beckham call out my name. With a hard flick of the reins, I launch Princess into a gallop. Leaning forward in the saddle, I spur her on and drive her faster, the wind whipping around me as she picks up speed.
We fly through the woods. Trees pass by in a blur. Adrenaline courses through my veins. The rhythmic pounding of hooves on the ground drowns out any other noise. I push Princess to her limits, determined to put as much distance between Beckham and me as possible.
Everything else is left behind, trampled, lost in a cloud of dust.