K. Bromberg - Slow Burn

He leans in and uses his mouth to silence my thoughts. Our mouths meet in a soft whisper of a kiss before his tongue touches the seam of my lips, asking for access. I deny him, fists clenched in restraint, libido protesting my resistance, but I know if I let him kiss me, let him own my every reaction like he so mind-blowingly can, I’ll come undone here on the porch in a matter of seconds, my desire so tangible, I feel like it’s rolling off me in waves.

I think he’s going to be angry at my refusal. I can feel his fingers tense when I hold steadfast. That strained laugh of his surprises me yet again when he leans back, his eyes dancing with victory. “I call your bluff, Haddie Montgomery. You didn’t come, and I’m going to have so much fun proving it.”

And hell if he didn’t just gain the upper hand, but thank God, he did because I don’t mind being the low man on his totem pole, either.

Chapter 20

The sun is strong above, the ground uneven beneath my feet, and I steal a glance at Becks wandering slowly beside me. I’m still trying to process how I ended up here and how Becks showed up at my house, told me I was going with him, and then dared to call my bluff.

And of course being the stubborn, pigheaded, “don’t you dare tell me what to do” woman that I am … I caved.

Fucking caved like a whipped woman, but the funny thing was that in the whole exchange with Becks on my doorstep, not once did I think of the biopsy or the pending results. Not one single time because I was so busy trying not to get lost in him.

So when he told me to go inside, change my outfit, and grab an extra pair of clothes, I didn’t ask any questions. I turned and grabbed my things, and hopped into his truck to find a pile of fur and thumping tail that I couldn’t help but smile at.

Yep. I wasn’t fooling myself, either. When I climbed into his car, I hoped like hell that wherever the Beckstination we were going to, there would be a requirement of a lot fewer clothes and a lot more of Becks. Naked. On me. In me.

I pull myself back to the present. To the expanse of land that holds Becks’s parents’ old but absolutely gorgeous farmhouse. To the barn with its horses and the brace of ducks driving his dog, Rex, crazy when they walk near him and then fly up onto a loft area, where he can’t reach. I take in the field of long grass we are walking through, but mostly it’s the simplicity of it all—clean air, bad cell reception, the sparkling water of the pond ahead in the distance—that I savor.

This is what I expected of Beckett Daniels the night I was at his condo and thought he didn’t fit: laid back, simplistic in needs and in what impresses him. I glance over at him and question his nonchalance. The silence between us may be comfortable, but the sexual tension is so goddamn charged, I fear that if someone lit a match, the space between us would catch fire.

And then I wonder what his point is in bringing me here today, besides calling my bluff. I know that there’s more to it, that he must have an ulterior motive in taking a drive to clear his head, as he so kindly explained. The small talk we made on the way here after I decided not to be angry at him anymore has been less than informative about his state of mind … so I’m just trying to figure out what gives here.

Because the thing that needs to give more than anything right now is the zipper of his damn shorts.

Rex comes bounding up and distracts me as Becks takes his ball and throws it ahead of us, where it gets lost in the grass. I sigh with a shake of my head, finally deciding to break the silence of our walk. “Oh, Becks, what is this between us, huh? You are so not my type.” I don’t mean the comment as an insult but rather just an observation, and I realize what it sounds like the minute it’s out of my mouth.

I see him nod his head in acknowledgment of my comment. “Is that another one of those rules of yours?” he asks, amusement woven in his tone. I laugh aloud at the reminder of my bumbling rules, which I couldn’t even think of the last time he called me on the spot.

We walk a bit more, my head trying to recollect my rules because sure as fuck I know I’m breaking about five of them right now being here with him.

“Seriously, Haddie,” he says, and reaches out and takes my hand in his, our first physical connection since we left my house and my body hums anew with his touch. “What’s your type? Dante?”

And the way he says Dante’s name—like an insignificant and yet irritating blip on the radar—has me fighting the smirk on my lips. I keep my head down, watching my Converse move over the dusty earth beneath me, when he squeezes my hand to inform me he’s waiting for an answer. A part of me wants to change the subject, make this conversation easier since it seems I just keep hurting him, but at the same time, I find I want to tell him. Maybe if I do, he’ll realize he’s not my type and then will back off and stop pushing for things I want with him but can’t give.

“Yes. No,” I tell him, and then my feet falter as I begin to explain. I stop for a moment and just look out at the vast field and trees beyond us, not sure where exactly I should go with this answer. “Shit, I usually go for the rebel. The one who has the least stability and does everything unexpected. Everything opposite of you.”

He snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “Well, then you sure don’t know me very well, now, do you?” I slide a glance over at him, trying to figure out if he’s being serious or joking, but he cuts off the moment when he continues. “Besides, Colton is off the market.”

“Well, Colton only has eyes for Rylee, so I would have never even attempted that route,” I respond immediately, a little irritated at his assumption I would have made a play for Colton. “Besides, there are plenty more out there.” And it feels weird to be having this conversation with him when I’m holding his hand.

“So you like getting your heart broken, then?” He tugs my hand so that I’m forced to face him. There is amusement in his smile but something a tad more intense in his eyes, and I can’t seem to get a read on it.

“That just comes with the territory.” I lift my eyebrows to reinforce my answer.

“Well, maybe you need to relocate and claim some new space, then.” His eyes dare me now, taunt me to ask what space that might be. And damn I know where I want it to be, but I just tug my hand from his and start to wander away from him, grabbing a wildflower here and there and silently playing “He loves me. He loves me not” as I pick the petals off.

He loves me .

I hear his footsteps behind me, but I keep walking, wandering over to the shade of a tree where there is a small clearing. I sit down and prop my hands behind me. Becks steps in front of me, and I’m forced to look up at him. And of course when I do, I’m treated to the sight of his bare abs and chest—he must have taken his shirt off as he followed me—and I’d be lying to myself if I denied the fact that my mouth falls a bit lax.

I recover quickly, mad at myself for my ridiculous reaction, and avert my attention elsewhere. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t seen him naked before so why does just the sight of his sweat-misted bare chest make my stomach feel like it’s flip-flopping?

Becks tosses his shirt down beside me and stands there for a beat while I look anywhere but at him before he sits down beside me with a loud exhale of breath. Warning bells go off in my head, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s going to make me talk, or if he’s going to make me want him more and then deny me, or if he’s going to give me what I want and I’m not going to be able to walk away again and save the both of us.

He loves me not .