K. Bromberg - Slow Burn

When I take a step back, a soft “Fuck you” falls from her mouth in an unsteady tone as I notice her knuckles turning white from gripping the counter on both sides of her.

I’m curious if she’s holding on to keep herself from grabbing me and forcing me to finish her off or because she wants to slap me. Either one would be hot as hell because at least I’d know I’d gotten a reaction. And that she’s pissed enough to want more.

But her hands remain clenched.

I chuckle, low and taunting, her obstinacy turning me on so much, I have to leave now before I cave under the weight of desire and my ache to take her. “I believe that’s the point.”

I look at her one more time before I turn to go and watch her head fall forward as she tries to rein in everything—emotionally and physically—that I just brought out in her. Good. I got to her.

I walk toward the patio doors and can’t resist bringing my fingers to my lips. I slide them in my mouth momentarily to get a taste of her, of exactly what I’m craving, and have to fight the urge to stalk back and just say screw the plan and instead just take her right here, right now.

Goddamn Macallan.

So fucking addictive I’m going to need AA meetings if this shit keeps up.

Chapter 19

I lace up my shoes, desperate to get out of the house and away from waiting for the phone to ring, Dr. Blakely calling with blood test and biopsy results that I’ve been informed most likely will take another few days. Regardless, I stare at my phone each time I pass it.

When it does ring, it’s usually Rylee checking up on me, asking why I seem out of sorts, to which I reply I’m just stressed about this Scandalous deal and the impending BRCA1 test results. That answer usually quiets her down, and she comes through with the moral support that I desperately need but for something possibly much more devastating than a gene test result.

Or it’s Cal, checking in with me looking to see what rabbit I’m going to pull out of my hat to make the last event bigger and better than the first two. And despite the fact they went off without a hitch and had a larger draw than he’d ever hoped for in our initial discussions, I’m calling in all kinds of favors. Because I need this rabbit to be huge to make up for the disappearing act I pulled at the last show.

Or rather the one Becks pulled when he hauled me off like Neanderthal man. I’d told the client I’d fallen ill. I didn’t feel guilty because I really didn’t miss much of the event. We were nearing last call for the night, and the clients and A-listers had been taken care of flawlessly, but it did not go unnoticed by Cal that I wasn’t there at closing time. At least I’m not lying since I did find the lump that night, but I don’t think he buys it … so now I’m left to produce magic from a wand that’s lost its power.

I shrug the thought off, knowing I need this run to help me do just that. I grab my phone and, out of habit, glance at the screen.

Out of habit . More like out of a sick obsession to see if the man I keep pushing away is pushing back or if he’s called and I missed it. Or texted. Or smoke-signaled, for Christ’s sake. God, I’m emotionally fucked-up. I push him away, leave him after incredible sex without another word, and have a fight over it? And his comeback is to work me up into a goddamn frenzy over Jell-O shots and his masterful fingertips with a crowd of friends outside. Then he leaves me one rub short of detonation with promises to keep me awake from that ache he created last night but with a dominant threat to prevent me from sating it.

Slow and steady, my ass. The man’s got a side to him that I never knew existed, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. And that pisses me the fuck off because I don’t want to be thinking about him, can’t be thinking about him.

Run.

Like I’m not used to doing that.

I need the exercise to get my head clear, to push my body beyond feeling so that I can focus on getting the final details for the Scandalous event next week taken care of. Focus on that; obsess over that.

I grab my phone and, of course, glance at the screen for the umpteenth time today before opening the front door. I swing it open and cry out in surprise when I see Becks standing there. I immediately move my hand up to my chest to try to still my raging heart.

I should really be covering my crotch though because it feels like all the blood my heart is pumping has gone straight there. I swear the bowling ball of aching need I’ve felt during the last few days sitting atop the apex of my thighs just got heavier at the sight of him and his half-cocked smirk.

“Becks! What are you doing here?” I try not to sound like a breathy, needy woman, but damn if I don’t sound like a bad porno when the words come out.

“Had? You okay?” Before Becks can even answer, I hear Dante’s voice and the sound of his footsteps in the hall behind me.

I’m looking at Becks’s eyes when Dante speaks, so there’s no way I can miss the flicker of irritation that flashes through them. Hm. Things might get a tad interesting here.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say over my shoulder, hoping he’ll leave it at that and go back to whatever he was doing. But I know I’ve got no such luck when I hear him clear his throat behind me and notice Becks’s eyes stare over my shoulder and turn to ice.

I turn so that I can see both of them, and when I see Dante, I understand why Becks is visibly bristling with disdain. Dante stands in the hallway with a white towel wrapped around his naked, dripping-wet, ripped body while he haphazardly scrubs another towel over his head. His eyes whip to mine, and I see a vague irritation and a whole lot of possessive machismo reflected there, his shoulders squared, body vibrating with testosterone.

“Oh.” I quickly avert my eyes back to Becks. “Becks, this is Dante, my house guest for a short while.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain. Possibly because the bowling ball he’s created needs to have its holes filled with some fingers soon so that the pressure can be released, but I also find it interesting that I don’t explain to Dante what exactly my relationship with Becks is.

Maybe it’s because I’m still figuring that out.

Becks doesn’t say anything, nor does he look away from the visual pissing match that the guys are waging in front of me. He just nods his head in acknowledgment of Dante, and I’m too busy staring at Becks and holding my breath to look to see what Dante does. Whatever it is, though, he’s not moving because after a beat Becks raises both eyebrows in a silent Do you mind? The silence lingers for a few more seconds—the claim being staked—before I hear Dante pad off without another word.

Becks’s gaze remains trained over my shoulder for a few more moments, his jaw clenched and muscles tight. I give us both a few seconds and then step outside and shut the front door behind me so that he has no other option than to return his focus on me.

“Hey,” I say, a cautious smile on my lips.

He clenches his jaw one more time so that the muscle there pulses in that sexy-as-hell way before his eyes find mine again. I watch the tension fade as his muscles relax. I can see the questions on his lips, know he wants to ask what the fuck Dante is doing here or what he was to me, but I give the man mad props because he doesn’t utter a single word about him when he speaks.

“I have somewhere I need to be, and you’re coming with me.” His voice is steady when he speaks, the timbre of it pulling at every part of me. It’s the first time I’ve heard it since the party, since he was telling me he wanted to own me, lick me, slam me, suck me.

Fuck. I’m already a desperate ball of need, and the man hasn’t said more than a sentence to me. And the fact that I almost immediately agree to go with him, no questions asked, is even more desperate and embarrassing.