Chapter 30
Thirty
Madison
I smile as I lower myself to my knees.
Did I start my little revenge plan expecting this?
Absolutely not.
But did a part of me wish for it? To know what it would feel like to be ruined by a man like Beckett?
God, yes.
He’s still panting, sweat glistening along the hard, lean lines of his stomach in the bedroom’s dim light. One of his hands fists in my hair the second I wrap my lips around him, his knuckles grazing my scalp with a possessive heat that makes my stomach flip.
He hisses through his teeth. “Fuck, Madison.”
I hum low in my throat, taking more of him until my eyes water. He’s too big for this to be gentle, but I don’t want gentle. I want his hands tight in my hair. I want to ruin the composed, clinical version of the man who thinks he can regulate every pulse.
And I do.
Because when I glance up through my lashes, eyes wide and mouth full, he’s staring down at me like he’s genuinely forgotten how to breathe.
“Fucking… Christ,” he mutters, his voice a strangled rasp.
His hips twitch forward before he drags them back with visible effort. I swirl my tongue around him, and his head drops back. He looks as if he’s praying for strength he no longer possesses.
I moan around him as his thighs tighten, and his other hand braces against the dresser behind him. The wood groans under the pressure.
He pulls my head back with a rough tug, and I release him with a pop.
He stares at me for a beat, eyes dark and predatory. It’s the look of a man who’s done playing nice. Then he bends and kisses me again. The kiss is hard and full of hunger. It’s greedy. He’s done pretending restraint is an option.
I kiss him back just as hard, nipping his lower lip, and tugging his hair until he groans into my mouth. His hand slides down my body and hooks under my thigh, dragging it up around his waist. When he presses himself against me, I feel exactly how hard he is.
My skin prickles with anticipation because I think if I don’t have him inside me right now, I might scream.
“Beckett—”
I’m about to beg when he lifts me and lowers me onto the bed. My back hits the cool sheets, but my skin still hums with adrenaline. My legs fall open instinctively because I want him to claim me. But he doesn’t. Not yet.
His eyes flick toward my nightstand. Then he reaches over me, the muscles in his arm flexing as he tugs the drawer open.
“What are—”
He pauses, his hand stilling for a second before he pulls something out.
A condom.
He arches a brow. “This isn’t what I was looking for, but thank Christ you’re a smart woman.”
We’re too caught up in whatever the hell is happening, we almost forgot.
I’ve never wanted someone so badly that I almost skipped protection.
What the hell is wrong with you, Madison?
I manage a shaky, defiant smile, even as my skin hums with need. “You can never be too careful.”
After putting on the condom, he reaches back into the drawer.
I frown. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for my teammate.”.
I blink, completely thrown. “Your what?”
When he straightens, he’s holding something in his palm.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
Oh, fuck.
It’s the rose.
My eyes widen. “You’re joking.”
He cocks a brow and presses the power button. The vibration springs to life with that vicious hum that rattled my floorboards earlier.
Our eyes meet.
He doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker of dark amusement in his voice. “Violent little thing, isn’t it?”
Despite the situation, my mouth twitches. “You have no idea.”
He lowers the intensity until the hum fades to a rhythmic thrum.
“Lower setting?” he asks.
I nod, my breath catching in my throat. “Yes, please.”
He settles between my thighs with agonizing slowness, and my skin prickles wherever he touches. His knees nudge mine wider, and his jaw briefly scrapes along my neck as he kisses the sensitive skin just below my ear.
Then he pauses.
Instead of teasing or pressing in, he reaches down and wraps his hand around the base of his cock, positioning it right at my entrance but not pushing forward. He’s just a hair’s breadth away, the heat of him making me ache.
His other hand, still holding the toy, hovers over me.
He catches my eye again and places his hand over mine. “Show me.”
I swallow hard, but to hell with any doubts that threaten to ruin this. Tonight, I’m taking something just for me.
So I take his wrist and guide his hand lower. My fingers tremble as I adjust the angle until the rose hits just right. The vibration bursts through me, and I jerk beneath him, eyes flying wide.
“Please,” I whisper, the word breaking. “Beckett, I want you inside me.”
A guttural groan vibrates low in his chest and straight into mine. In the next breath, he sinks into me.
It takes a long second before the sting and fullness melt into pleasure.
My hand is still on his as he holds the rose steady.
It all feels like too much—the pressure, the stretch, the heat of him filling me and refusing to let go.
My hips arch instinctively, searching for more.
I won’t last long like this, not when he’s filling every inch of me while the vibration sends sparks through my nerves.
He thrusts once, then twice, until he finds a rhythm that has my eyes rolling back into my head.
“Jesus, Madison,” he breathes against my mouth. “You’re gripping me so tight.”
I gasp as my head falls back into the pillows.
My body is already spiraling. I’m too close, too fast. But even as he fucks me with relentless, driving strokes, it’s the contrast of his touch that undoes me—his other hand cupping the side of my face as if I’m something precious.
His thumb strokes my cheek, and his mouth finds my shoulder, leaving soft, lingering kisses instead of the bites I expected.
It’s the contradiction that’s killing me. Rough, but not detached. Hard, but completely present.
He isn’t just taking.
He’s right here with me.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice hoarse.
I try, but the haze of pleasure is thick.
“Come on,” he coaxes, his forehead brushing mine. “Let me see those eyes.”
I find him through the fog and force myself to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched, but his eyes—God, his eyes are all over me.
That’s what pushes me over the edge. Seeing him lose his clinical cool for me sends me straight into the most intense orgasm of my life. I cry out, shattering beneath him, my thighs trembling and my nails clawing at his back.
Moments later, he follows.
With a curse and a stuttering thrust, he loses it. He buries himself deep, groaning as he finds his own release. His hand still covers mine, keeping the toy against me until we can’t take any more sensation.
He lets the moment linger before his hand finally stills. My fingers fumble for the rose, shutting it off. The sudden silence is almost deafening.
I stare at the ceiling, my pulse still jackhammering against my ribs as he shifts just enough to look at me. A lazy, crooked grin spreads across his face.
“Okay,” he manages. “So much better than a run.”
There’s a beat of silence, then we both break and start laughing.
∞∞∞
I wake to the gentlest touch of fingers brushing hair from my face.
It’s still dark outside, but I can see him. He’s crouching beside the bed, his broad, familiar outline visible even in the shadows.
My body still aches in all the best ways.
“You’re still a sight for sore eyes, Doc,” I whisper.
He gives me a half-smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but hits me right in the chest.
“I’ve got to go,” he says softly. “I have work.”
I blink, squinting at the clock on the nightstand. “You hardly got any sleep.”
His thumb traces my lower lip, a ghost of last night’s heat flickering between us. “I’ve had worse restless nights.”
I start to sit up, but he reaches out to stop me.
“Stay in bed,” he says.
It’s not an order, but I sink back into the pillows anyway.
I’ve done this before—the one-night-stand thing.
I know the script. Usually, this is the part where the air gets thin and someone starts making excuses about why they have to bolt.
It’s a little different now that he’s my neighbor, but I still expect the feeling to be the same.
I expect to feel a little used, a little empty, even if I was the one who invited him in.
But then Beckett leans over and kisses me.
It’s not a “thanks for the fun” kiss. It’s deep and lingering, and it takes everything in me not to reach up, grab him by the collar, and drag him back under the covers until the sun comes up.
He pulls back, his eyes searching mine. “I thought it might be too early to make you coffee.”
I wave a hand dismissively because I can feel my armor sliding back into place before I can stop it. “You don’t have to make me coffee, Beckett. You’re a busy man. Get to work. You’ve got lives to save.”
I’m making excuses for him before he even realizes he needs them, my mouth running on autopilot because if I make it casual, it won’t hurt when it ends.
Beckett doesn’t let me get away with it. He grabs my chin and turns my face back toward him.
“I should get off at eight,” he says. “If I get held up, I’ll tell you. If I don’t, I’ll see you later.”
I swallow hard, surprised by the sudden lump in my throat. I don’t know what to do with “see you later.”
“See you later” implies a plan. It suggests this wasn’t just a physical reaction to a vibrating floorboard.
I nod, unable to find my voice.
He kisses me one last time, and then he’s gone. I hear the quiet click of my front door, and the silence of the apartment rushes back in, heavier than before.
I fall back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling where he usually runs, and let out a long, shaky breath.
“What the actual fuck.”