We stay like this, just kissing and exploring each other with our hands and our mouths, for several minutes. I have no idea how long; it’s too easy to just get lost in his kisses. A tiny voice inside my head is chastising me for wasting so many yearsnot kissing Beckett. Had I known this was the kind of magic he was capable of, I might have given in a lot sooner.
No, that’s a lie. I wasn’t ready. I still don’t know if I am, but he’s managed to lower my defenses enough that I’m ready to risk it.
Eventually, Beck pulls back and with one final soft press of his lips against mine, where I feel his mouth curved up in a smile, he says, “We should eat some dinner.”
My hands fall from where they had been resting on his shoulders as I let my head lean back against the cabinet. I probably look a mess, given how his hands were tangled in my hair, and I’m guessing my skin is pink from the rough scrape of his scruff that I could feel all over my skin.
He gives my thighs one final squeeze before stepping away and turning to start dishing up our food. I watch him for a minute or two, just absorbing the change in our dynamic.
Feeling it out.
Waiting for the panic to filter in, the need to run or push back.
But it doesn’t come.
All I feel is content. And horny.
Somehow, Beckett manages to steer the conversation away from us, and we eat dinner quickly, talking and laughing about all sorts of random shit. Just like we used to. Just like friends do.
But there’s an undercurrent of somethingmorein every graze of his hand across my body, in the small smiles and winks, in the casual kiss he presses to the top of my head when he clears our plates.
And later, after I brush my teeth and put on some pajamas, I go to his room, only to find him in his bed with the blanket pulled back beside him. His gaze drifts over my body, slowly but intensely.
“You don’t need pajamas if you’re sleeping in my bed, babe.”
My hands immediately go to the hem of my shirt. I tilt my head at him for confirmation and a sexy smile stretches across his face as he nods.
Slowly, I peel the fabric up and over my head. When I catch his gaze again, there’s no mistaking his reaction for anything other than pure arousal.
Even though it’s agony — for both of us, I assume — I take my time shimmying my shorts down my legs, never breaking connection with his eyes. When I finally kick them free and stand up tall, and very, very naked, he lets out the sexiest growl I’ve ever heard.
“Get over here, wife.”
A wave of heat crashes through me, and I feel my sex dampen.
Guess I really am a fan of possessive husband Beckett.
To no one’s surprise, the world does not implode now that Beck and I are friends with bennies. Granted, the term friend isn’t entirely accurate anymore, but is there a term for friends who got married to claim an inheritance and then start having sex?
Complicatedis what I’m calling it when I choose to think about it. Which, admittedly, isn’t very often, seeing as Beckett has discovered a devious way of distracting me when I start overthinking.
All he has to do is peel off his shirt and beckon me with the crook of one finger, and I’m basically Pavlov’s dog with the way I automatically respond.
Thinkingturns off,feelingturns on.
And oh shit, does he make me feel.
The cold drip of paint down my arm startles me out of the very sexy memories I’m reliving of last night. “Shit.” Grabbing the rag out of my pocket, I wipe up the worst of it as I mentally chastise myself.Focus, Cam.I can’t fuck this up. This mural feels important in a lot of ways. I’ve started seeing it as a symbol of a fresh start for me. The opening up of my freedom to create my life however I want from here on out.
Even though I’m only working on the base layers of colour right now, with all the scenic detail to come later, every step is important. Every stroke of my brush has meaning and intention behind it.
Kind of like how every touch of Beckett’s hands feels different now, as if there’s a new meaning and intention behind every move he makes.
When he hands me a cup of coffee in the morning and blows on it first, winking at me and saying, “Perfect temperature.” When he rubs my feet in the evening and lets his hands trail up to my ankles. When he pulls me in for a long hug before he leaves for work each day. It’s all so exquisitely familiar, and yet, so achingly different.
It’s thedifferentthat is making me nervous. I’ve had enough change lately, enough emotional upheaval. I really don’t know if I can handle more.
I shake my head again as the insecurities and fears creep up on me.Paint now, panic later.I mean, I’d prefer panic never, but I know enough to hedge my bets.
