“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 Iwant 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.”
Thirty-Six
Madison
I am, for lack of a more professional term, delightfully toasted.
Beckett is sprawled on the other end of the leather sofa, his long legs stretched out with his ankles crossed on the coffee table. He showered and changed into a fresh T-shirt that’s tight enough across the shoulders to be a distraction.
But the best part? Talking to him is easy.
My perception of men has become warped and defensive over the years. Usually, I’m doing one of two things: overcompensating with a sharp tongue and a power suit to show a room full of suits that I’m thesmartest person in the room, or I’m shrinking. I’m making myself smaller on dates, softening my edges, dampening my light so I don’t bruise some guy’s fragile ego with my “intensity.”
With Beckett, I’m just Madison. I’m the woman who plays knock-and-run with kids and the woman who wants to be pressed against a kitchen counter. I’m a mess of control and softness, and he hasn’t blinked at either. It’s scary as hell. It’s also the best thing I’ve felt in years.
We’ve spent the last few hours dissecting the ridiculousness of our lives. He told me about a residency prank involving a cadaver and a stolen golf cart that had me nearly choking. I told him about the time I had to convince a senator that his “accidental” midnight skinny-dip was actually a bold statement on water conservation.
We laughed until my ribs ached, and for a while, the looming disaster of Piper’s life felt like something I could actually handle. I haven’t solved it yet, but the static in my brain has cleared.
I set my empty takeout container on the table with a satisfied hum. Beside me, Beckett does the same. He shifts and turns toward me, one arm draped over the back of the couch.
