Page 54 of One Last Encore

Her mind blanked completely. For a solid three seconds, she forgot what shirts were. She forgot what words were. The lean muscle, the tattoos, the way his body shifted so effortlessly. The abs. Her heart did a little jump, and she was suddenly aware of how sweaty her palms had gotten.

"You don’t have other shirts?" she asked, clearing her throat like that would somehow reset her brain. She bent to take off her heels, placing them neatly beside his boots, pretending she hadn’t just been ogling him.

Beck handed her his still-warm t-shirt, his smirk downright evil. Ingrid snatched it, fisting the fabric in her hand.

"Of course I do," he said, reclining onto his elbows, his muscles flexing just enough to be absolutely obnoxious. His gaze stayed locked on her, slow and amused. "I just wanted to watch you squirm."

"Seek. Help," Ingrid muttered, storming out and pretending her face wasn’t burning hot.

Halfway down the dimly lit hallway, her steps slowed.

His teasing smile still lingered in her mind. The way his voice curled around her name. She was two seconds away from doingsomething catastrophically stupid. Reaching the bathroom, she shut the door and leaned against it, exhaling.Get it together.

She surveyed the room. One sad, limp towel hung on the rack, looking like it had given up on life. The shower held a single crusty bottle of generic 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner–an actual crime against humanity. God, these men were animals.

After washing her hands, she let them air dry, because of course there were no hand towels and she wasn’t about to gamble with thethinghanging on the rack. And then, in the true spirit of rock-bottom survival, she dabbed toothpaste onto her finger like a barbarian.

As she glanced at her reflection in the mirror, her face was flushed, hair slightly wild. Behind her, the glint of a vodka bottle wedged behind the toilet caught her eye. She sighed. Deeply. This was one beer pong table away from being a frat house.

She peeled off her dress and it felt like an Olympic sport. Every pull yanked at her skin, taking a few strands of hair as a parting gift. By the time she finally wrestled it off, she felt like she had just won a cage match.

With a sigh of relief, she pulled on Beck’s oversized white t-shirt, the hem brushing mid-thigh.

And then the scent hit her. Masculine. Warm. Beck. She inhaled before she could stop herself, the familiar smell heady and dangerously intoxicating. Without thinking, she brought the fabric to her face, breathing him in. This man was aseriousproblem.

As Ingrid made her way back to Beck’s room, she noticed he’d changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

She hesitated in the doorway, feeling weirdly… unsure. What was the etiquette here? Was she supposed to knock? Announce her presence? Say,Hey, I’m back in your clothes, let’s ignore the sexual tension and be normal about it?

Beck looked up from his phone, immediately noticing her hesitation. His mouth curled into that signature smirk.

"Quit loitering and get over here," he said, stretching out on the bed. Then, with zero shame, he added, "Don’t be shy now. You were rubbing that sweet ass all over me thirty minutes ago."

Ingrid leveled him with a look. "Excuse me?"

"It was mutual rubbing," he clarified. "I was very respectful about it."

She shook her head, but still, traitorous body that she had, she walked over anyway. Her steps were slow and measured, pretending her pulse wasn’t bounding. The dress she’d carried from the bathroom slipped through her fingers onto the desk as she perched on the edge of the bed.

Beck, being Beck, simply grabbed her waist and pulled her closer. Like it was nothing. Like they did this all the time.

The bed dipped as he drew her closer, turning her until they were face-to-face, only inches apart. His gaze moved slowly over her features, drinking her in, soaking up every detail. He looked at her as if she were the answer to every question, the cure for every wrong in his world. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear. And like the weak-willed fool she apparently was, she leaned into his touch.

"Your hair is so beautiful," he murmured, his fingers lingering in the strands. "You never wear it down."

"It gets in the way," she replied automatically, trying to ignore the goosebumps.

Beck smiled, twirling a loose strand. "Yeah, I get the vibe that you might be a bit of a control freak."

She snorted. "What gave it away? The stuck up attitude or the perpetually slicked-back bun?"

"Oh, definitely the bun," he deadpanned. "That thing is tighter than national security."

She huffed a laugh despite herself.

"You should let yourself go sometimes," Beck said, his voice softer now.

"What about tonight?" she shot back, arching a brow. "I think I sufficiently ‘let go.’" Dry humping in front of an audience definitely qualified in her book.

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