Page 49 of Near Miss

His lips still. “Great room. Great bed. Can’t wait to fuck you in it.”

I blink, pulling back with a rasp of laughter.

He grins, eyebrows lifting before he instructs, “Down.”

“Are you always this domineering?” I place both hands on his shoulders, and Beckett leans forward so I can touch the floor.

I don’t let go of him when he stands. I don’t think I could.

Both of his hands grip my hips. He grins again. “I’m whatever you want me to be.”

I’m not thinking when his hands find the hem of my T-shirt, lifting, and his lips and teeth and tongue only leaving me for a second while he pulls it off.

Beckett drops to his knees, his mouth presses to the centre of me, and I tip my head back, a small gasp, because even through my clothes, I think he might be the best thing I’ve ever felt.

His hands find the waist of my leggings, and he’s about to pull them down when his eyes cut up to mine.

But they pass over my stomach first.

And they stop on the scar.

As far as transplant scars go, it could be worse. It’s nothing more than a pink, raised line that tapers off under the right side of my rib cage.

But it’s there. And he notices.

His hands tense at my waist before he lifts one, tentatively, and his eyes look up to mine in permission.

I nod softly, and his thumb skates over the raised skin.

He pauses at the bottom, and his eyes never leave mine. “Pretty.”

I blink and I think I might have made it up—because his hands are back at my waist, stripping me of the Lycra covering my legs, and my underwear with it.

“Bra off.”

“You aren’t going to take it off for me?” I ask, but I’m already reaching around my back for the clasp.

Beckett shakes his head, hands finding my hips, and he pulls me closer to him. “No, I’m pretty busy down here.”

His tongue is on me before I have the clasp undone.

“Fuck,” Beckett groans against me, tongue moving in lazy circles. His eyes cut up to mine.

He doesn’t say anything, but he watches me. My bra falls to the floor, and my lips part in a tiny moan.

I don’t really have a sense of time with his mouth on me like that, so I can’t be sure how long we stay there—him on his knees again, tongue moving across the centre of me and into me, his hands bruising my waist, and mine digging into his shoulders.

But he stands, breath ragged, and drops his forehead to mine, shaking his head. “I’ll fucking die if I’m not inside you.”

I think I whimper, but his lips find mine, and he starts walking us backwards until the back of my knees hit my bed.

“Lie down,” he says against my mouth.

I like it, I think—that he’s in control.

My mind is quiet, and I don’t feel this weird pang that I always do, echoing in the places where I think I’m empty.

Beckett reaches behind his head, pulling his shirt off and tossing it on the floor. His hands find the waist of his shorts. He pulls them down, muscles in his thighs tensing, black Lycra left clinging to them and leaving nothing to the imagination.

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