Chapter 29: Adela
Ican'tstopthinkingabout how tall he is.
Just the physical fact of him standing behind me. He was close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him without being touched. The width of his shoulders when I turned and had to look up further than I expected. The way the air in the library felt different with him in it — heavier, charged, like the pressure before a storm.
I recall the tone in his voice when he commented on my essay, the way he read over my shoulder quietly, and his voice right next to my ear.
I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night, thinking about a man's height, his voice, his proximity, his smarts.
I pick up my phone and text Beckett.
Come over.
He arrives twenty minutes later, and his hair is a little grown out, his blue eyes still striking. It’s been a minute since I’ve seen him, and everything about him pulls me in. He takes one look at me and something in his expression shifts. He knows my moods in a way that should probably feel more comforting than it does right now.
"It's been a while," he says.
I pull him in by the front of his shirt and kiss him before he can say anything else.
He makes a surprised sound against my mouth and then his hands find my waist, and he kisses me back, warm and sure and present in that way he always is, and I close my eyes and let myself sink into it.
He walks me backward toward the bed, and I go, pulling him with me, my fingers reaching under his shirt while his mouth moves down my throat. He's tall too. Is Cody this tall? I tiptoe to kiss Beckett’s lips, and it reminds me that Cody is tall like this, too.
What is it about tall men?
Beckett’s tongue brings me back to the moment. He's always unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and wants to use it carefully. He feels like my safe place.
His shirt comes off first, then mine, and his mouth finds my throat, and I tip my head back and let him. His hands slide down my waist, my hips, taking his time the way he always does, and I feel myself relaxing into it — the familiar warmth of him, the specific way he touches me like he's in no hurry and wants me to know it.
He lays me back, and his mouth moves down my body. I thread my fingers through his hair as he pulls my thong off. I pull him back up by the hair because I need more than this.
He pushes down his boxers and aims for me. His dick presses into me slowly. I feel every inch as he enters, and I exhale against his shoulder, my fingers pressing into his back.
He feels good. He always feels good. I match his rhythm, my hips rolling up to meet him, and for a while there's nothing except this — the heat of him, the friction, the pressure building low and slow and inevitable.
Then I shift. I want to turn around, so I hesitate.
He pulls back and looks at me, something flickering in his expression.
“Are you okay?”
I nod, pushing his chest. He exits me, and then I move. I turn around, looking back at him. He watches my face when he pushes back inside me from behind. I groan from the pleasure, gripping the headboard. This feels completely different. He’s deeper, I’m fuller, and every movement hits somewhere that makes my breath stutter.
His chest is warm against my back.
His hands find my hips and grip, and he starts to move, and I stop thinking.
He's close behind me, his mouth finding the curve of my neck, his chest pressed to my back, and I push back against him, chasing the sensation, and he gives me more — harder, deeper — and I press my forehead to my forearm against the headboard and feel it. Fuck, he feels so good.
And then he drops his mouth to my ear.
"You feel—" His voice is low. Rough at the edges. Close.
The heat of his breath against my ear short-circuits something in me.
The proximity reminds me of Theo.
Not consciously. Not as a choice. Just — the library. He was standing behind me. That specific warmth I felt before he saida word, the width of him, how I had to look up further than I expected when I turned around. His voice in my ear when he leaned down —you're implying it when you should be stating it— and the way my entire nervous system responded before I could stop it.
