Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
I just shrug helplessly. “No clue. Some things you just don’t question. Why do I like ink?” I brush the pad of my thumb over the red lion on his chest, and he shifts subtly closer. “Why do great eyes do it for me?” When I hold his gaze, he trembles. “Why does stubble get me going?” When I run my thumb along his bristly jaw, he turns his chin into my hand, catching more of my touch.
“Fair enough,” he says, then he flicks his hand toward the closet, where he tossed his black button-down when we made it into his room post-sex. “I wore that shirt tonight for you.” His confession sounds like it surprises even him. Maybe he didn’t plan to tell me.
“The one you had on at the agency?”
He winces. “I wore it to make you jealous. Since it showed off my ink.”
I laugh, shaking my head in amusement. “You’re such a dick.”
“Did it work?”
I roll my eyes. “Thinking of you with someone else is all I need to get jealous. Not your fucking tattoos,” I say, then press my lips to his lotus flower again and bite.
“Yesss,” he says, murmuring his appreciation for my teeth.
I let out a low rumble. “There. I marked you.”
“Good.” He sounds . . . happy. Like he doesn’t want to move from his bed.
I don’t want to either, for a long, long time. I brush my fingers over the lotus once more. “What’s this ink for? I’ve kind of been dying to know.”
Beck studies me closely as if trying to read my motives. “Why?”
“You put it on your body. It’s important to you, I presume. But if it’s too personal, you don’t have to tell me,” I say casually, watching his expression for a sign. Sometimes Beck is hard to understand. One minute, I think he wants to share with me. The next, he wants to shut down.
Now, he doesn’t hesitate. “For me, it represents peace and calm,” he says, brown eyes bright and completely vulnerable. “That’s why I got it. Sometimes I need that . . . often, I need it,” he corrects.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he always wants to share. He just needs permission. He wants to know his truths will be handled with care.
My heart thumps a little harder as I touch his ink with new eyes, looking for the unspoken story he’s telling. He hasn’t always felt peace. He hasn’t always felt calm.
I sense he doesn’t only struggle with grief for his brother. The day I met Beck, he was vibrating with nerves at the podium. The other week on the phone, he was tense over a loss, then worried sick about the prospect of facing me in front of an audience.
I choose my words carefully. I don’t want to pressure him; I only want to understand. “Do you get nervous before games?”
He breathes out hard, then nods, looking away.
“I couldn’t tell,” I reassure him.
He scoffs. “C’mon. It’s obvious.”
“I mean it. You don’t play that way,” I say. “You don’t play nervous.”
He looks back at me. “You mean it?”
“I do,” I say firmly, tapping his chest for emphasis.
Beck lifts a skeptical brow. “You watch me play?”
I roll my eyes. “Dude. Of course I watch you play. It’s called game film.”
“Well, obviously,” he says, backpedaling. “I watch game film too. I thought . . . you meant . . .”
His cheeks pinken, and I have to bust him. “You thought I watch your games like a fanboy?”
He hides his face in a pillow, muttering, “Yes.”
I crack up. This is too rich.
“Shut up,” he says into the bed.
I poke his side. “Nope. I can’t. You totally fucking forgot it’s our job to watch game film. That is adorable. What, you thought I was watching your games because I’m crushing on you? God, you’re fucking cute.”
Lifting his face, he stares at me like there’s a price on my head, and he’s the lineman who’s going to collect the bounty.
He’d be scary on defense. I hold up my hands in surrender. “Whoa.”
“Cute is your dimple. I’m not cute right now,” he hisses.
“You’re right. You’re terrifying. Are you going to charge me like a bull?”
He moves like a superhero. In a flash, he jerks my hands above my head, pins me, and straddles my chest.
Stares savagely at me.
He might have me at his mercy, but I’ve got a mouth, and I’m not afraid to use it. “You’re cute to me. And hot. And sexy,” I say, then I nod at his lips. “C’mon. Get those lips on mine. You know you want to kiss me. Especially since you like my dimple.”
He lets out a sexy sigh, then drops the grip on my wrists and kisses me, all passionate and dominating, making me wonder what else he wants to do to me in bed.