Page 52 of Beckett
I fisted my hands in his shirt, anchoring myself to his solidity. He groaned—relief and want tangled together—and deepened the kiss. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, requesting permission I eagerly granted.
Heat pooled low in my belly, spreading through my limbs like warm honey. My body remembered this dance even if my mind had forgotten the steps.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against my mouth. “If it’s too much?—”
“Don’t stop.” I pulled him back down, swallowing his response. “Please.”
His hands mapped my body through the thin shirt, reverent in their exploration. When his thumb grazed the underside of my breast, we both gasped, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
“Audra.” My name emerged like a prayer. “Are you sure?”
My body screamed yes, desperate for his heat, his touch, this connection that made me feel human again. But my mind compiled dangers—the risk I brought to his door, the target I might paint on his back.
“I won’t let fear win.” The words came out fierce, surprising us both. “It’s taken everything—my home, my job, my peace. It doesn’t get this too. It doesn’t get you.”
His expression went serious, intense. “Whatever you’re running from, whoever hurt you—they’ll have to go through me to touch you again.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Watch me.” The quiet menace in his voice raised goose bumps. “I’ve faced down worse than whatever’s chasing you. And I don’t lose fights I care about.”
I believed him. This man who’d survived war zones and carried ghosts that would break most people—he’d stand between me and danger without hesitation.
“Make me forget,” I whispered. “Make me feel something besides fear.”
He kissed me again, deeper now, with intent that curled my toes. His hands grew bolder, sliding under my shirt to find bare skin. I arched into his touch, desperate for more.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against my throat. “Strong. Brave.”
“I’m not?—”
“You are.” He pulled back, hands framing my face. “You survived. Whatever it is, you survived. That takes courage most people never need to find.”
Tears burned my eyes. When had someone last seen strength instead of victim in me?
I kissed him to avoid crying, pouring everything I couldn’t voice into the contact. He responded immediately, rolling us so I straddled his waist. The position gave me control—pace, pressure, everything.
“Too many clothes,” I informed him, tugging at his shirt.
His laugh rumbled through his chest. “Fixable.”
He sat up enough to pull the shirt off, revealing a geography of scars across solid muscle. I traced each mark—the puckered bullet wound near his shoulder, the surgical line down his ribs, countless smaller wounds that mapped his survival.
“Do they bother you?” he asked.
“No.” I pressed my lips to the bullet scar. “They’re proof you’re here.”
He made a broken sound, hands tangling in my hair. But when his fingers brushed my neck, I froze. The brand. If he felt the raised scar tissue?—
“What’s wrong?” He immediately gentled his touch. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, I—” I caught his hands, guided them to safer territory. “Just out of practice.”
“We can stop.”
“I need this.” I pulled my shirt off before courage failed, grateful darkness hid my too-prominent ribs. “And more than that, Iwantthis. I wantyou.”
Beckett looked at me like I was art, hands worshipping every inch they could reach. Gently caressing my breasts, thumbs gliding over my nipples, causing me to gasp at the sensation shooting down between my legs. He avoided my neck after my reaction, focusing instead on making me forget everything except his touch.
