“Naughty girl.” His mouth crashes into mine again, our teeth scraping slightly before we fall into rhythm. “You taste like tequila.”
My fingers skate over his stomach, rough and lean. His hands roam down my sides, reverent and greedy. Shockwaves are shooting through me.
He backs me toward the bed, dragging my dress down my arms. “God, Ash… look at you.”
“Look atyou.” I’m tugging at his waistband, but then…
He goes still.
What?
“Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.” His voice is tight.
And then I realize why he stopped.
Again.
“Nooooo!”
He winces, his face buried in my neck. “Fuck my life.”
“Why—why did you think that could ever be a good idea?”
Beckett laughs, breathless and frustrated. “Hell if I know.”
But then his gaze drops—dragging over me like a physical touch—and his frustration shifts. Morphs. Darkens.
He exhales, low and hungry.
“Guess I’ll have to ruin you with my mouth instead.” My husband’s voice is rough as sin. And he doesn’t say those words like he’s making a consolation. It sounds more like a vow.
I whimper. “But I want you in me.”
His eyes lock on mine.
“I’ll be in you, babe,” he murmurs, “Make no mistake—I’ll definitely bein you.”
And before I can respond, he’s already tugging the dress down my body—inch by aching inch—his mouth following the path it leaves behind. Slow. Focused. Devastating.
It brushes past my breasts, and his lips linger. Biting a little. He knows what gets me ready.
He knows exactly what I like.
By the time the gauzy fabric pools at my feet, I’m trembling.
He drops to his knees, and I reach out—clutching his shoulders, needing something to ground me. But Beckett’s not being gentle. He’s not being timid.
He’s being hungry.
And when he presses his mouth exactly where I need him, I gasp.
But only for a second.
He pulls back, grinning, like he’s fully prepared to make trouble.
And with a sudden tug, he hooks his hands behind my thighs and yanks—pulling me off balance until I fall back onto the bed with a breathless laugh. Then he lifts one of my legs, then the other, draping them over his shoulders like he’s settling in for a long, indulgent meal.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “I’ve missed every inch of you.”
