Page 110 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Until he mentions it, I didn’t feel cold, even without a coat and shoes. The wind chooses that moment to whip around the building.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Come in.” He holds the outer door with his empty hand, following me. Inside, he toes out of his boots and looks around.
“Love your blanket fort.”
I glance at the pile of fleece blankets on the couch. “It’s a cocoon.”
He holds up a hand and chuckles. “My bad.” Without waiting for an invitation, he sits on a cushion, pushing the blankets to the side, making room for me. Or I assume that’s what he’s doing. Maybe I’m hoping he’s making a spot for me. Maybe he simply wants the blankets out of his way.
“So, a miserable fuck,” I prod.
“It’s not self-explanatory?”
“If I had to guess, someone who is miserable. Why does she call you that?”
“If I had to guess, because I am. Fucking miserable. Know anything about that?”
I could lie. I could tell him it’s been sunshine and rainbows. That my life is so great now, and I’m not miserable.
“For the past month, Clem might have called my days ‘les miserables.’” I shrug. My fingers curl into a fist so I don’t touch him. I force my feet to stay planted so I don’t maul him.
“Want to know why I’m miserable, Willa?”
“If you want to tell me, Beckett.”
“I miss you.” He lays it out so simply, so astute, so casual.
My shoulders sag with the weight of the past month. “Same. So much.”
He lets out an audible breath, his chest rising and falling with the motion. “Then what are you doing over there?”
I practically leap to the couch and onto his lap, crashing my mouth to his. He anticipates my action, grabbing the back of my head to be in charge of the kiss.
Our mouths meet familiarly, our tongues dueling for control, his the victor, as always.
It’s a kiss of remembrance, of missed connections, of needing more.
What does his being here mean?
Where do we go from here?
Is there an us to fight for?
Beckett pulls away, his bottom lip swollen from where I tugged it into my mouth. “Out of your head, in the present. We’ll question it later.”
His use of “we’ll” sets my heart into motion.
But I can’t help myself. “What if?—”
He cuts me off. “Later we’ll play the ‘what if’ game. After you feed me. Your vagina or food, I’m not picky.”
Said vagina somersaults.
I pinch myself to make sure this isn’t a dream or some fictional world. I fall into those pretty easily, especially these days.
“You’re really here?”
“I’m really here.” A smile so big, his dimple breaks through.
