His breath stutters. “No?”
“You drive me insane,” I murmur. “You poke. You push. You say things about yourlarge loadin my laundry room like you’re not trying to kill me.”
He huffs out a startled laugh, color blooming in his cheeks.
“Don’t play dumb,” I say, stepping closer until his back meets the counter and there’s nowhere for him to go but into me. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
He tilts his chin, brattiness flaring. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”
“Careful, little mouse,” I warn, letting my fingers tighten at his waist just enough for him to feel it. “You keep poking, I’m going to assume you’re ready for where that leads.”
“And if I am?” he shoots back, eyes dark, voice softer.
There it is—that line we’ve been dancing on for weeks.
I bend my head, hover a breath from his mouth, letting the tension sing between us. “Then you say it,” I murmur. “Clearly. So I know it’s you choosing it. Not Jaxon. Not some game. You.”
His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and my control wobbles.
“I’m here,” he whispers. “Cooking for you. Doing my laundry here. Torturing you a little. How much clearer do you want, big guy?”
That does it. The need hits like a wave, and I give up pretending I can stand in it.
I lean in and cover his mouth with mine.
His kiss tastes exactly like I thought it would: honey and spices. I take that bottom lip he was abusing and lick away the tender flesh. His fingers fist in my shirt, and my whole body lights up, a live wire running from the back of my neck down my spine. My dick twitches on its way to becoming painfully hard against my jeans.
He tastes like everything.
Fuck. What am I doing?
He asked me if we were even friends five minutes ago because I made him doubt why I’m here, and my answer is to kiss him like I’ve been starving for it. Real smooth. And if Jaxon saw this? He’d probably throw confetti and call it a breakthrough, but that’s not the point.
The point is that Beckett has already been used. Hurt. Taken from. And here I am, the guy with control issues and a fucked-up family tree, pinning him between my hands and calling it a good idea.
I am not the safe choice. I am not the soft landing. I am a bad idea in a black T-shirt.
The thought hits hard enough that my grip falters. Best kiss of my life, and I’m wrecking it in real time.
I force myself to ease back, breaking the contact inch by inch, his breath still mingling with mine.
“Fuck,” I rasp. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. That was a?—”
“I swear to fucking God, if you say mistake…”
Steam rolls off him, righteous and hurt, and I deserve every bit of it.
I can’t seem to get a full breath. Shame crawls up my throat. I wanted to show him he matters, but instead, I handed him another reason to question it.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, uselessly, and turn away before I drag us both further into this mess.
I take the stairs two at a time, get to the bathroom, close the door with a soft click, and let my head fall back against it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I lean over the sink, turning on the water, splashing my face, like that’s gonna make me see clearly. Shit, it works in the movies.
I don’t regret the kiss. Not one bit. It wasn’t a mistake. The taste of him will never be a mistake. But I need to know that I’m not taking advantage of him. That he’s in the right headspace. And Iwould feel a hell of a lot better about it if I knew what happened in LA.
Fuuuuuuuck, I could’ve soooo handled this better. What’s wrong with me? Walking away was not the best move.
