Page 105 of The Wildest One
I couldn’t believe this.
I couldn’t fucking understand it.
I didn’t care if?—
“I want to be yours.”
My feet halted at the sound of her words. My heart stopped throbbing.
I backtracked and faced her. “What?”
“I care about you, Beck. I think about you nonstop. God, I even dream about you.” She held her chest, her fingers shaking. “The whole reason you brought me in here is because you knowI’m positively wild about the wildest one.” She gave me a soft smile. “But my entire life, I’ve wanted nothing more than to work for my father and make him proud. To one day take over his company.” She banged her head against the door, and when she did it again, I realized it was on purpose. “How can I do this to him? How can I disappoint him this way?”
I gripped both sides of my head. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing right now.”
“This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The hardest thing I’ll ever do.”
“What is?”
Her eyes were completely filled, and the first tear dripped. I went to step closer so I could wipe it from her face, and she said, “Walking away from you.”
Then the door opened, and she was gone.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Jolie
That smile. The slicked-back chestnut-brown hair. His beard, just starting to really thicken since it had been shaved at the start of the season. The most alluring hazel gaze. A body, professionally conditioned, capable of doing absolutely anything and everything to mine.
That was what I saw every time I closed my eyes.
I wasn’t sleeping.
I wasn’t focused on work the way I should be.
It was as though my doctor had written me a prescription:Stare at Beck Weston during the day to entice you, to turn you on, to torment you into full misery mode, fantasize at night about what he can do to you, and live vicariously through those dreams.
I was taking that prescription every day.
And every day, it was an internal battle to stay strong and not throw myself into his arms or reach for his hand or slam my lips against his.
But each day proved to be harder.
When the team had beaten Florida during the second home game, I’d gone into the locker room after with my father, and Beck was shirtless, celebrating with the guys. I wanted nothing more than to put my hands on his hot, sweaty, chiseled chest, wrap my legs around him, and have him carry me straight into the shower with him.
Instead, all I could do was admire. Tell him how well he had played, that the goal he’d scored was outstanding.
While deep down inside, I had secretly been losing it.
Each practice that followed, the same tension seared through me. The same needs pulsed while I looked at him. The same words, the ones that lived on the tip of my tongue, wanted to be admitted.
His weight training sessions were no different.
Neither were the run-ins in the parking lot.
And the elevator.
I swore, this man was making me suffer on purpose.
