Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Beckett
The treadmill belt slows to a hum, and I’m fairly certain my lungs are about to burst.
God, I love a three-day weekend.
I’m halfway through dragging a towel over my face and heading for the kitchen when the knock comes.
I don’t even bother checking the peephole because I know that rhythm.
“Hi, neighbor.”
Madison doesn’t wait for an invitation. She strides past, the sharp scent of her perfume cutting through the smell of sweat and rubber.
She’s dressed for a boardroom in a black pantsuit.
Then I glance down.
Granny slippers.
“Hi, Doc,” she says, not looking back.
I shut the door and lean against it for a second to watch the chaos unfold.
She heads straight for my kitchen island and slams a heavy paper bag onto the granite surface.
“You’re not working today, right?” she asks.
“I’m off for three days.”
Her eyes widen as she turns, scanning my bare chest and damp hair. “You have seventy-two hours of freedom, and you’re in your apartment? Why aren’t you in Barbados?”
I step into the kitchen, and the sight of her in that power suit and those ridiculous slippers is doing something confusing to my heart rate.
“As much as you’re always a sight for sore eyes, Madison, what exactly are we doing?”
She ignores the question and walks to my fridge.
“For you,” she says, stocking the beer.
“And the catch?”
She pulls out tequila, limes, and salt. “These are for me.”
I glance at the clock. “It’s noon.”
She pauses with two limes in her hands. “And?”
“And carry on,” I murmur, perched on a barstool, shower forgotten.
“Celeste is away with Julian,” she mutters, rolling the limes on the counter. “They’re probably doing something nauseatingly romantic. Emmy is doing parent things. You’re all I’ve got.”
I press a hand to my chest. “I feel so cherished.”
She slides a beer toward me.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, taking a swig. “Why not.”
She shrugs out of her blazer, revealing the silk beneath, and for a second, I forget how to think straight.
After she makes her drink, she stops mid-sip and points at me. “Everything I say from here on out is hypothetical.”
I lean back, crossing my arms. “Hypothetically, go on.”
“Okay.” She starts pacing again. “Hypothetically, let’s say a person—we’ll call her… Piper. Wait, no. Let’s call her… Shmiper.”
“Subtle,” I cough into my beer.
“Shmiper,” Madison continues, ignoring me, “is engaged to an absolute, hypothetical asshole. He’s the kind of guy who wants her to give up her entire life—her talent, her career, her voice—just so he can carry her around like a shiny new accessory on his business trips.”
I watch the way her eyes burn with a protective fire. I’ve seen her be the anchor for her mother, but this is different. This is the roar of a lioness.
“And hypothetically,” she goes on, her voice rising, “this guy is so manipulative that he’s convinced her that his dreams are hers. She’s dropping out of the biggest opportunity of her life because he can’t handle not being the center of her universe for five minutes.”
“Sounds like a real hypothetical prick.”
“Right?” She slams her glass down, turning to face me fully.
The silk of her top dips low, and I have to force my eyes to stay on her face.
“The wedding is a bad idea. I’ve had a bad feeling about him since the first time I met him.
He smiles too much. His teeth are too white. He’s… he’s hollow. So what do I do?”
“Aren’t you the fixer? This one is more personal, Madi. You’re asking for personal advice, not a PR strategy.”
“I know,” she whispers, her bravado flickering. “You called me Madi.”
My beer stills halfway to my mouth. “Is that bad?”
“No,” she breathes, shaking her head and beginning to pace again. “I’m asking you, what do I do?”
I look at the way her hair is disheveled, the way she’s wearing those stupid slippers because she probably ran out of her apartment, and the way she carries the weight of everyone she loves until she’s nearly breaking.
“Okay,” I say. “You break his legs.”
Her mouth falls open. “What?”
“I mean, I can’t do it,” I say with a shrug. “I took an oath. But you can do it. I’ll stay here. I can fix his legs afterward.”
I think she’s actually considering the logistics.
“You’re a terrible doctor,” she gasps, leaning against the counter.
“I’m a great doctor. I’m just a questionable person.”
Her laughter softens. She sets her drink down and, with that effortless grace she pretends she doesn’t have, hops onto the counter.
The black fabric pulls tight across her thighs.
“I don’t know how to stop,” she says quietly. “The fixing. It’s like if I stop moving, everything just collapses.”
I rest my hand on her knee. “It won’t collapse, but you will if you don’t breathe every once in a while.”
I shift my weight, stepping into the space between her dangling legs. The granite counter is cold, but the heat radiating from Madison is enough to fog the windows.
“God,” she moans, rolling her neck. “I’m pretty sure my tension has tension.”
My hand slides from her knee to her thigh, the silk of her trousers soft against my palm, but the muscle beneath is as tight as a bowstring.
“Yeah?” I murmur, leaning in until I can smell the lime and tequila on her breath. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”
“Oh? Is that a medical opinion, Doc?”
“Absolutely.”
I grip her waist and pull her to the edge of the counter. She gasps, hands flying to my shoulders to steady herself. The slippers drop to the floor behind me.
I drop to my knees between her thighs, the sudden shift in height making her breath hitch.
“Beckett,” she whispers, her fingers digging into my shoulders. “What are you—”
“Shh,” I mutter, my hands already moving to the button of her trousers.
I work the fastening loose and peel the fabric back, along with the thin lace of her underwear, exposing her to the cool air and my very hot gaze.
I spread her legs wider and drape them over my shoulders so she’s completely open to me. I look up at her. She’s leaning back on her elbows, her chest heaving, her eyes blown wide and dark.
“Hypothetically,” I say, my voice a low growl, “I’m about to make you forget your name.”
I lean in, the first lap of my tongue making her back arch off the counter. She lets out a wrecked sound, her head falling back as I find her clit.
She tastes like heaven.
I use my hands to hold her steady, my thumbs pulling her open so I can get deeper, my tongue moving in long, relentless strokes that mimic the way I want to fuck her.
“Beckett… oh god,” she sobs, her fingers tangling in my damp hair.
I don’t let up. I increase the pressure, my tongue flickering against her as I listen to the frantic hitch of her breath. I want her completely unraveled. I want the fixer gone, replaced by the woman who screams my name in the middle of a Friday afternoon.
She’s shaking now, her thighs trembling against my neck. The tension she was complaining about snaps, one cord at a time, replaced by a desperate, pulsing need. I slide two fingers inside her, feeling how she clenches around me as I continue to work my tongue against her.
“Now,” she pleads, her voice broken. “Beckett, now.”
I give her exactly what she wants. I find that perfect rhythm, the one that sends her over the edge.
Her entire body goes rigid, a jagged cry tearing from her throat as she shatters.
I stay right there, drinking her in as she pulses against me, her fingers clenching in my hair until the last wave subsides.
I stay for a moment, my face pressed against the soft skin of her inner thigh. When I finally look up, she’s staring at the ceiling, her face flushed.
I stand up and offer her a crooked grin.
“Tension gone?”
She lets out a long, shaky exhale and looks at me. “Hypothetically, yes.”