“Only if you let me,” I replied on shaky breath. I placed my hand on his belt buckle. It was a challenge.
“Fine, but just this. Nothing more,” he said.
“Deal.”
With that, Beckett dipped his fingertips beneath the lowest part of my panties and began to explore me. I arched my body into his touch, trying to remain focused on unbuckling his belt, but the flood of sex hormonesin my brain threatened to render my hands incapable of any kind of coordinated movement. Finally, I got his pants open, pushed them down a few inches and his full length sprung out between us, still covered by his boxer shorts. There was a small, wet circle on the fabric where the tip of his head was, and somehow this drove me to the edge, overcome with the knowledge that I had put it there. He worked me with his thumb and his thick, middle finger, and just as I freed his length from the confines of his boxers, I felt my throat close, my blood pressure spike, and my arousal build, until—
“Come for me,” he whispered.
I sucked in my breath and held it, biting down on his shoulder. My body unraveled like a ball of yarn into the palm of his hand. Insurmountable levels of pent-up tension rolled through me in waves, releasing me from any stress, any worry, leaving me awash in relief and joy.
“Holy shit,” I heard him say under his breath, clearly pleased with himself. But I wasted no time in reciprocating. I wanted to feel Beckett crumble, wanted to see what he looked like when he came undone. I skimmed my hand up and down, lingering at the top, cupping him underneath at the bottom. I righted myself so that I could let my other hand help too, gliding it up and down while the first one remained wrapped around his head, massaging him there. “Get a paper towel,” he urged before too long. “Be careful, I don’t want to get it on you.”
I did as he asked, placing a barrier of hotel paper cloth just in front of him, so that as I guided him through his own cresting waves of release, I could catch as much of it as possible. He leaned his head into my neck as the spasms coursed through him, audibly modulating his breath to match the swells of pleasure as they crested.
When we were both done, we froze in place, breathing through the moment. Beckett’s head was still pushed up against my neck, and my eyes opened slowly. I could feel that the paper towel in my hand was wet. Iadjusted my vision as he planted a kiss on my lips and pulled away from me slowly, inhaling a final, cleansing breath.
“God damn,” he said.
“Yeah. My thoughts exactly.”
Then we both began to giggle.
Chapter 20
When I read Beckett’s casino bathroom scene, I’m surprised to find that it’s closed door. Fade to black. It’s very sweet, don’t get me wrong, and yes, there’s still steam, but nothing like what I’m expecting. I’m grateful, for many reasons, but also incredibly surprised. I guess I shouldn’t be, considering the earlier scene in the water was handled with a light touch as well. But Evan didn’t mention it was like this. He made it sound like we wrote the same thing—I just assumed it was the same steam level, too.
Sex sells. Evan and I have talked about this more than I care to discuss. So I just find it hard to believe that this guy became so successful with a closed-door romance novel.
The good news is, now that I’ve broken the seal on the sex scenes, I feel like I can finally read this thing. No more procrastinating. I got through it, made it to the other side. I know what’s to come, because I lived it. Beckett’s words have transported me back to our trip, a place I never dreamed I’d want to be again. And yet. I turn the page and keep going.
I read until midnight, when I finally can’t keep my eyes open any longer. My hand searches for the hacky sack, locates it, gives it a comforting squeeze. It lowers my blood pressure instantly and gives me permission to fall asleep.
Mom got the hacky sack at a little specialty shop on ContinentalAvenue called Pastimes that closed a million years ago. We used to refer to it as “the hippie store” because it was all crystals and wind chimes and the lady who sat behind the counter wore a floor-length, floral skirt, loads of bangle bracelets and beaded necklaces, and no shoes, ever. It was in the coolest location. 71st-Continental Avenue is a unique street. It’s the gateway to Austin Street, where there’s tons of shopping and little restaurants. Walking from our apartment, though, you’d need to cross Queens Boulevard to get there, and the most popular entry point was at the corner of 71st-Continental at the subway station. The actual block had several banks, a bagel store, and every retail outfit you can fathom, all shoved onto one single city street. At one time, there was a movie theater (one of four in a half mile radius), a Sam Goody record store, Roy Rogers, Nature’s Elements, and a Waldenbooks. And down a little cobblestone alleyway that would probably seem incredibly sketchy to anyone not familiar with this corner of the city, there was something called the Forest Hills Mini Mall. It was a narrow, half-covered walkway that felt like its own little secret garden, albeit devoid of greenery. A secret to be sure. All the way down the alley on the left-hand side was a shop called Pastimes, where many a smooth stone or voodoo doll or piece of silver jewelry could be purchased.
She got the hacky sack for me from the tiny selection of “children’s things” at Pastimes when I was three years old. It was a fidget, a decoy for my hands to keep me from sucking my thumb—a hobby I took up once she took away my pacifier at age two. Mom didn’t want me to get an overbite because she was afraid that on a teacher’s salary as a single parent, she wouldn’t be able to afford braces.
It worked. I loved that hacky sack like some children love a blankie or a particular stuffie. It kept my hands busy. It soothed me. And one day, probably when I was about six or seven years old, I didn’t need it anymore, so I stuffed it in my sock drawer, pronouncing myself “too old for this baby stuff.”
It lived there for the next twenty-plus years.
It was a Wednesday in late September. I’ll never forget it, of course, becausethatwas the real beginning of everything, to quote Beckett’s book. I was giving a test—my first of the year for my freshman English class, fifth period. Out of nowhere, Mr. Ludwig—our assistant principal—came into the room. “Ms. Adams, can I see you in the hallway, please?” he asked.
My eyebrows knit together. I was not a get-in-trouble type, so I couldn’t imagine what he needed to see me for. “I’m giving a test,” I said.
“Please,” he asked, and something in his tone indicated that the test in question wouldn’t mean much to me after that.
“Everyone, please turn your papers over for a second,” I asked my class, mentally juggling how I was going to keep them all from cheating while also wondering what this interruption was all about.
I followed him outside. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
Mr. Ludwig looked down at his shiny black work shoes. “It’s your mom,” he explained. “She was teaching—conducting the band. She just collapsed.”
“What?” I asked, certain I could not have heard him correctly. “Where is she? Is she okay?”
“We called 911. They came right away. They just brought her over to LIJ.”
“How come nobody told me sooner?” I asked. “Is she awake?”
