Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
She nods, stopping a few feet away. “Makes sense. She looked beat.”
“Her body’s working hard to heal. And some of the meds don’t agree with her.”
She nods again. “Yeah. Good. I mean, not good that she’s exhausted and the meds are messing with her head, but healing is good. Really good.” She winces, nibbling at her bottom lip before muttering something I can’t make out.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I was just wondering how many times I said ‘good’ in that sentence.” She exhales another breathy laugh, her gaze locked on the back of the couch. “I didn’t think this would be so hard, but…it is. Everything feels hard right now.”
“It does,” I agree.
“So, I guess I’ll just jump right in and…” She trails off, her throat working. Finally, she looks up, her gaze crashing into mine with an intensity that makes it harder to breathe. “I read them. All of them. Over and over again. So many times. I could probably recite some of them to you verbatim if you want.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting the urge to apologize. “Sorry” doesn’t mean much when you don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but she’s clearly upset.
Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears as she adds, “They were wonderful.”
I exhale a ragged breath. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she confirms, sending a wave of relief hitching through my chest. “Exactly what I wanted to hear.” She pauses, frowning as she adds, “I mean, not exactly what I wanted to hear. I obviously didn’t want to hear that you have a shitty relationship with your father that messed you up more than you thought it had until you found out you were going to be a father. That wasn’t great.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure how much to share. I wasn’t making excuses, I promise. I just wanted you to know that it wasn’t—”
“No, I didn’t mean that,” Bea cuts in. “I know you weren’t. I just meant that I was sad to hear that you’re estranged from your dad. That sounds painful, and I don’t like thinking about you in pain.”
“I don’t like thinking about you in pain, either. And I hated myself for making you suffer.”
Her lips wobble into a smile. “You didn’t. I mean, yes, I was sad at first, but in the end, Scotland was good for me. Really good. I grew up so much while I was there. That’s probably a dumb thing for a twenty-nine-year-old woman to say, but I still had some growing up to do.”
“We always have growing to do. No matter how old we are.” My shoulders creep closer to my ears. “I did some growing up, too.”
“I could tell,” she murmurs. “It was there in your messages. And when I saw you on TV in Scotland. I could see it. In your face.”
My brows lift. “You saw the opening game?”
“Yeah. I saw the game, and I saw you get hit. That’s why I came home.”
My chest tightens. “Really?” I whisper, not sure what’s coming next, but keenly aware of the potential energy gathering between us, until it’s as thick as the humid October air outside.
Before I can think of what else to say, to do, she drops her crutches and reaches for me.
My arms are around her before the metal hits the floor.
I pull her close, cupping my hands under her ass to lift her higher on my chest, the way I did that night in April, but the fit is so much different now. The firm curve of her belly slides over mine as we kiss, the heft of it shocking.
There’s nothing soft about this part of her.
Her stomach is dense, solid, and I’m suddenly struck by how heavy it must be. How much she’s carrying. How much she’s been carrying—not just the weight of doing this alone, but the actual physical weight.
“I’m sorry, Bea,” I murmur against her lips, but I’m not sure she hears me.
She’s too busy kissing me like she’s as starved for this as I am. Her fingers dig into my scalp, pulling at my hair, the stinging friction sending another jolt of need rocketing through my core.
Soon, I’m so hard I can barely think, barely breathe.
But that’s the way it is with Beatrice. I’m a man who prides himself on his self-control, but one touch from this woman, and I’m like an addict shaking for a fix. I want her so fucking badly. I more than want her, more than need her. As our tongues slide and stroke, the taste of her is medicine. Sacrament.
She’s the only thing that can heal the ache in me, body and soul.
“The way you taste,” she pants against my lips. “I love the way you taste. Nothing tastes as good as you.”
I moan my agreement as I drive a hand into her hair, molding my fingers to the curve of the bone beneath. I angle her face, tilting her head back so I can stroke my tongue deeper, harder. A sound of approval vibrates low in her throat as she meets me thrust for thrust, assuring me she needs me like this, too.