Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 504(@200wpm)___ 403(@250wpm)___ 336(@300wpm)
Closing my eyes, I let the scene play out again to the soundtrack of my beating heart.
The hallway carpet beneath my bare toes. Pushing open his door. Whispering his name—a question. His silhouette in the dark. His deep, quiet voice giving me the answer.
Come here.
I’d run toward the bed like a runaway train, crashing into his hard, warm body so violently it had knocked the breath out of me.
My stomach muscles tightened as I recalled our impatient hands tearing at clothes, our eager tongues desperate to taste, our feverish pent-up desire demanding we race to the finish line without stopping—as if we were scared the chance might be taken away from us at any second.
Rolling onto my back, I put my hands over my belly, breathing in deeply. How long had it been since a man had touched me that way? Kissed me that way? Ravaged me that way—like he had to have me or he’d lose his mind, but also like he actually cared about what I was feeling?
It might have been over fast, but I was used to fast. What I wasn’t used to was feeling like what I needed mattered.
My husband had not been faithful. But because of the way I was wired, I couldn’t stop trying to please him. This meant disconnecting my hurt feelings, numbing myself to the psychological pain of feeling like I wasn’t enough. But that emotional detachment spilled over—in the end, I couldn’t feel a fucking thing during sex, and I stopped pretending I could. When Sam stopped bothering with me, I didn’t blame him. And I no longer cared. At that point, I associated sex with insecurity—and who needs more of that?
But Beckett—sighing softly, I curled up on my side again.
It wasn’t just that he had the strongest, hottest body of any man I’d ever been with and knew how to use it. It was knowing that I meant something to him. It was giving into something that had been there all along. It was sharing myself with him in a way I’d only fantasized about, and discovering the real thing was even better.
It was allowing myself to feel.
I wasn’t an idiot. I knew Beckett wasn’t in love with me. I knew he was probably lonely here with only his dad for company. I knew whatever this thing was between us was temporary fun.
But standing there in that kitchen with his big, strong arms around me, feeling warm and safe and protected and wanted, like everything was going to be okay . . . that was a good feeling. I wished it didn’t have to end.
Out of nowhere, an unwelcome voice from the past spoke up, tarnishing my glow.
You can’t rely on a man, Magdalene. You can’t expect someone else to take care of you.
I frowned into the dark. I’m not expecting anything, I argued back. I just had a nice time with him.
But the voice wouldn’t let up.
Just make sure you keep your head on your shoulders and not in the clouds. You have a child to think about now. You can’t afford any irresponsible mistakes.
I grabbed my pillow and put it over my head, attempting to drown out the noise.
I wasn’t being irresponsible, I was being human. I’d just wanted to feel close to him tonight. It’s not like we were hurting anyone.
Just be careful. Don’t get so caught up in fuzzy feelings, you forget what’s fantasy and what’s reality. You’ve always struggled to tell the difference. That’s why you get hurt.
I rolled to my other side, jerking the covers over my shoulders, annoyed that my mother still reigned over some part of my subconscious. That her warnings should still have sway. I wasn’t an anxious kid anymore—I was a grown-ass woman. Like Beckett said, I knew what was best for me.
Not that I wasn’t going to be careful, because I was.
But I was going to enjoy this too.
Ten
Beckett
I overslept—I’d been dreaming about her—and it was close to six by the time I opened my eyes and checked the time.
“Fuck,” I muttered, tossing the covers aside. But as I rolled out of bed, I couldn’t help grinning. I felt like a guy who’d been buying lottery tickets all his life and finally hit the jackpot.
I threw on some clothes and hurried downstairs, noticing that Maddie’s bedroom door was ajar. My heart tripped faster at the thought of seeing her.
She was in the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee. I stopped short at the sight of her back, remembering the way she’d arched it for me. The scent of her neck. The curve of her hip under my palm. The crotch of my jeans grew tighter.
She turned around and smiled, making my heart lurch. “Good morning,” she said.
“Morning.” Once I managed to get my legs working again, I went right for the coffee pot. “How’d you sleep?”