Chapter 9 #3
“I want to fuck you every damn way you’ll let me. Every room. Every surface.” His thrusts deepen, the sound of his hips hitting mine echoing off the porch. “Will you let me do that to you, baby?”
The thought makes my stomach tighten, my body clench. “Yes,” I pant.
His laugh is a growl. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Already addicted to my cock.”
He slides a hand between my thighs, fingers finding my clit, and I nearly collapse. He works me in perfect rhythm with his thrusts that are rough, precise, and relentless. His cocky confessions fill the air around us, proving all of my assumptions that I was immune to his antics wrong.
“Scotty—oh, God—”
“That’s it,” he whispers against my neck, his breath hot. “Come for me, baby. I want to feel it.”
The words break me open. I fall apart, shaking, crying out as my release crashes through me, white-hot and violent. He curses, a raw, broken sound, and follows me over the edge, grinding deep until every last shudder fades into silence.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Just the sound of our breathing, the creak of the boards, the faint sizzle from the forgotten grill.
He pulls out slowly, steadying me when my knees buckle. I expect him to step back, to put distance between us, but instead, he bends down and presses a soft kiss to the back of my neck.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, still trembling. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He kisses me again, a little lower, then straightens. “Stay right there.”
I’m still bent over the table, trembling and trying to catch my breath, when I hear him move behind me. A moment later, his hands are on me again, sliding up my sides, pulling me back against him while he drags his shirt I was wearing between my legs.
I can feel him, still warm and hard, pressing against the curve of my ass, but this time it’s not about taking. It’s slower. Calmer. His mouth finds my shoulder, where he kisses me softly.
He kisses a line up to my neck, murmuring into my skin, “You okay?”
I nod, turning just enough that he can see my face. “Yeah,” I whisper. “You?”
He smiles. “Never better.”
We stand like that for a minute, neither of us talking, just the sound of the wind through the trees and the steady thump of my heartbeat against his chest.
Then he turns me around, hands resting on my hips, his gaze tracing every inch of me. He runs a thumb along my jaw, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “You should see yourself right now.”
“Why?” I ask, nervously.
“Because you look breathtaking,” he says before pressing his mouth to mine. “You look… content. Satisfied?” I nod. “Or did you want more?”
“Want more? Yes. Can I handle more?” I laugh and shake my head. He leans in again, his lips brushing against mine.
“I’d give you more all night if you could handle it.”
The kiss starts soft, then deepens. There’s no rush this time.
No fight for control. Just the easy, molten slide of his mouth against mine, kissing me like he’s studied how I like to be kissed.
And suddenly I get that uncomfortable feeling in my belly again at the thought that Scotty Bescher knows how to kiss because he’s kissed half of this damn town.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “I think you wrecked me, Adrienne Slade,” he says quietly.
I laugh a little, even though my voice shakes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He smiles against my lips. “Not even close.”
For a long moment, I let myself stay there in his arms, body humming, every part of me still tuned to his. This moment feels different. And maybe he feels it too, because he clears his throat, breaking the spell. “You should get inside. It’s getting late and cold.”
There it is. The soft, polite end. The invisible line is sliding back between us.
I nod, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I probably should.”
He brushes one last kiss against my temple, then steps away, gathering the empty dishes and opening the back door like nothing world-shifting just happened between us.
I follow him, still barefoot, my body heavy and loose. The kitchen lights are soft, and the air is cool. He sets the plates in the sink and turns back to me, then nods toward the living room.
“C’mon.”
I trail behind him, heart still somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
My clothes are draped over the back of the couch. My bra is tangled with my dress, my panties a crumpled scrap on the cushion. He picks them up carefully, one piece at a time, like he’s handling something fragile.
He glances over his shoulder, eyes dark but calm. “These first.”
He holds out the panties. I take a breath and step close. His gaze doesn’t drop. He kneels, and when his fingers brush my ankle, my skin prickles.
He guides the lace up my legs slowly, his thumbs grazing the inside of my thighs as he draws the fabric into place. The heat in my body flares again, slow and deep, but he doesn’t push it. He just looks up at me once, eyes hooded, and murmurs, “There.”
My bra comes next. He stands, lifts the straps from his wrist, and I turn automatically.
His fingers trace the line of my spine as he hooks the clasp, careful, almost reverent.
When he finishes, his palms rest briefly at my ribs, thumbs brushing the curve beneath my breasts before he exhales and steps back.
Then he reaches for the dress hanging over the chair, shaking out the wrinkles, holding it open between his hands.
“Here.”
I hesitate, because there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that almost feels more intimate than everything that came before.
“I can manage,” I whisper.
“I know.” His voice dips, rough but gentle. “Let me anyway.”
I step closer. He slips the dress over my head, careful not to let the fabric snag. His knuckles skim my skin as he pulls the zipper up the length of my spine. Each inch is a heartbeat. Every brush of his fingertips sends another shiver through me.
When he’s done, he smooths the material at my hips, palms lingering just a second too long. I feel him exhale behind me, the warmth of it ghosting over the back of my neck.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Perfect.”
I turn, catching his eyes. They’re softer now, almost reverent. He reaches up, tucking a stray curl behind my ear, his thumb tracing the corner of my jaw like he’s memorizing me.
And that’s when it hits me—this is his trick. This is how he gets under every woman’s skin. He’s rough and filthy when he wants to be, then turns around and does this, this quiet, gentle, protective thing.
This is why they all fall for him, I think. Why they always come back.
He’s a gentleman and a sinner, the kind of man who’ll pin you to a table and then zip up your dress like you’re something precious. He’ll make you laugh when you’re trying to be mad. He’ll kiss you like he’s worshipping you and then act like it didn’t mean a thing.
He’s everything I want. And the one thing I can’t have. He doesn’t want forever. He doesn’t even pretend to. But he’s the first man who’s ever made me wonder what it would feel like if he did.
“Hey.” His voice snaps me out of it. “You okay?”
I force a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He studies me, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. “Let me walk you out.”
He grabs my clutch off the counter, hands it to me, and presses a kiss to my forehead before guiding me through the door. Outside, the air is cooler now, sharp with night. The gravel crunches beneath our feet as we cross the drive.
At my car, he opens the door and rests one arm on the frame, crowding my space just enough to make breathing tricky.
“Text me when you get home.”
I tilt my head, forcing a teasing smile. “You always this thoughtful with your one-night stands?”
Fuck, seriously? I cringe, knowing damn well I sound like a jealous high schooler. I flash my best ‘just kidding’ smile, but I think we both know I’m so full of shit.
“Sorry, I don’t know why I keep bringing up other women, I swear, I’m not jealous.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes do. “You think that’s what this is?”
“A one-night stand? I swallow hard. “Isn’t it? I mean, sure, it might happen again, but it’s hooking up… isn’t it?”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer, one hand sliding around the back of my neck.
The kiss he gives me is slow, deep, the kind that leaves me breathless and so wound up you want to crawl out of your skin.
I kiss him back because I can’t not. Because this is the part that makes you forget all the reasons you should walk away.
When he pulls back, he whispers against my lips, “Drive safe, Barbie.”
I nod, even though my heart’s screaming a warning at me. “Goodnight, Scotty.”
He waits until I’m inside, one hand braced on the roof, the other tapping lightly against the door like he’s keeping time with my heartbeat. When the engine starts, he steps back but doesn’t move until I’m halfway down the drive.
In the rearview mirror, I catch one last glimpse of him under the porch light—barefoot, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s thinking too hard.
I tell myself not to overthink. Not to want.
But as I drive home, the taste of him still clinging to my lips, I know I’m lying to myself.
He’s everything I shouldn’t want. And while logically, I completely see and understand the red flags… I want him anyway.
It’s two nights later, and I’ve done little but replay every single second of my night with Scotty in my head over and over again. I’m sitting at Brooklyn’s dining room table with a glass of wine so full it could drown.
Amelia’s already here, curled up on the couch in leggings and a soft pink sweater, looking effortlessly perfect like she stepped straight out of one of her Blanc Winery ads. Brooklyn’s toddlers are finally asleep, the monitor humming quietly on the counter.