The Beat Match

by Kelly Siskind

  His forehead nearly hit the table in relief.

  “I told you I give the best advice,” Rosanna said.

  He massaged his chest and faced her, still surprised by their growing friendship. “For a woman who hates relationships, your female intel isn’t half bad.”

  “For a stuck-up suit, you’re a real softy.”

  He wasn’t sure about that. He wasn’t sure he was ready to open himself up to Annie, but he knew he’d pull an all-nighter on his couch, watching his front door for a sign that the most important person in his life was willing to trust him again.

  16

  Annie paced in front of Wes’s front door, her movements stiff and jerky. She was freaking out, unable to knock on his door or use her key to sneak in.

  Since tonight’s dinner, she’d reread his messages twenty-one times. Not twenty or twenty-two. Exactly twenty-one times to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood his intentions. She read them again now. Time twenty-two. Just to be sure.

  I lied at your apartment. You’re all I think about. Get rid of Duncan as early as possible. I’m coming over to your place tonight.

  I’m sorry. I won’t come over. It’s up to you how this moves forward. I’ll be up at home if you want to stop by later.

  Why couldn’t she knock on his stupid door?

  Drawing dinner out while waiting for Wes and Rosanna to leave first had been a challenge. Not because Duncan had been a bore. They’d had fun in the end, as she’d expected, and he’d been cool with them parting ways from the restaurant. Not before he’d said, “FYI: friends with benefits are more fun than battery operated toys,” which had made her laugh.

  She’d felt giddy hailing a cab, excited to get gone and meet Wes, but the ride to his condo had felt too short. Once there, she’d stared at his building, unable to go inside or take a full breath. For reasons she hadn’t fully understood, she’d chosen to walk around the neighborhood instead, stopping periodically to reread his texts, stalling when what she really wanted was to dive into Weston’s bed, find out what it would be like to kiss him with her eyes open, knowing he was the man gripping her body, turned on, their tongues tangling with intent.

  But, no. She’d read his words one more time, had walked around the block one more time. She’d delayed so long he was probably asleep and snoring. And she was overheated, like she was having hot flashes at the tender age of twenty-seven. A rare case of early-onset menopause. Or Wes-o-pause. That must be her current affliction: she was desperately grappling to hit pause.

  She loved Wes. He obviously had feelings for her. Once she stepped through that door, for better or for worse, everything would change. Bigger changes. No returning to their “normal” changes. This was their final frontier and blasting into outer space seemed less daunting than opening Weston’s door.

  Hand trembling, she fitted her key into his lock. She took a massive breath, which did zero to assuage her nerves, then turned the key while trying to keep quiet. She didn’t want to wake Wes or Felix, or find out Wes had acted out of rash jealousy and had changed his mind about this invitation.

  She eased the door open. The lights were still on in the kitchen, but darkness weighted the rest of the condo. Her armpits and forehead felt damp.

  “Took you long enough,” a rough voice said.

  She yelped and dropped the key. Wes was on the leather couch by the windows, heavy thighs sprawled, hands clenched into fists. The dim lighting slashed shadows across his face as he sat. Not for long. He stood and stalked toward her, resolute, single-minded, like he was going to grab her, devour her, kiss the Wes-o-pause out of her.

  She abruptly said, “Bathroom,” and skittered in her heels across the hardwood floor, away from all the erotic maleness gunning for her. She closed the door and locked it. She wasn’t sure if he’d followed her. She couldn’t hear much besides the loud thud of her heart. She had no clue why she was running from the one man she wanted.

  She did have to pee, though. Walking and stalling hadn’t done her bladder any favors. It must be why she’d dodged the sexual animal in the other room, but she didn’t leave after flushing the toilet and washing her hands. She grabbed two luxurious hand towels and pressed them under her armpits to absorb her sweat. “Get it together,” she whispered to herself.

  A knock sounded. “Everything okay in there?”

  She was far from okay. “That’s a pretty rude question to ask a woman in a bathroom.”

  “You’re not just any woman.”

  “And you’re not just any man.” He was the man. The bar. A previously unreachable level. “I’m not decent.”

  “As in undressed?”

  “As in gross and unattractive.”

  “You’re stunning, tonight and always. And you forget I’ve seen you at your worst: drooling when you sleep, snot hanging out of your nose on that cold sailing trip through the harbor, hungover and stuffing your face with salt and vinegar chips. I’ve seen it all, Annie.”

  Not even close. But…stunning. She looked in the mirror, tried to see beyond her hysteria. Although her dress was still lovely, white towels protruded from under her arms, her neck was splotchy, the hairs at her temple had frizzed slightly, and her hazel eyes were wide. Wary. More brown than green. This wasn’t how she’d imagined their night beginning.

  “You should go to bed,” she said. “I’ll let myself out. We can meet up tomorrow, talk about whatever this is.”

  “Not happening.”

  “But—”

  “You are not leaving, Annie.”

  God, his tone. Rough. Adamant, with a hint of desperation. This still wasn’t at all what she’d imagined. “Weston…”

  “Anthea…”

  She groaned. “I’m standing here with your perfectly plush towels stuck under my arms, drowning in stress sweat because the idea of what might happen between us, which is exactly what I want to happen, might actually happen and it’s turning me into a human fountain. STRESS SWEAT, Wes. I’m practically dripping this nonsense all over your marble floor. Trust me, you haven’t seen it all.”

  A pause. It lengthened painfully. Maybe she should’ve held back a morsel of truth.

  “Open the door, Anthea.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “Open it or I’m picking the lock.”

  “You know how to pick a lock?”

  “Leo taught me a few tricks.”

  She huffed out a watery laugh. She loved that visual, those two as teens, huddling over a lock, thinking themselves master criminals. She loved Wes, and if he was truly interested in her, he wouldn’t care that she was blotchy and frizzy and a general mess. Steeling her frazzled self, she forced her feet toward the door and turned the lock.

  Weston pushed the door open slowly, revealing the woman he’d once only seen as a child, his best friend’s little sister, annoying and cute. Then just annoying. Then strong and resilient and the most astounding person he’d ever known, even if she never finished her Sudoku puzzles and refused to tidy her apartment. Now she was this. Mine.

  He didn’t reach for her like his body demanded. This was all too new and difficult for them both. He still had to confess about Leo, explain about his relationship issues.

  He flexed his fingers, forced them loose at his sides. He hated that he wasn’t kissing her, that she’d ever kissed any man but him. This visceral possessiveness felt unfamiliar, but maybe it wasn’t. He’d always felt protective of her. He’d just never let himself look hard enough to analyze why and see the feminine allure glowing under her skin, through those soft curves, her rainforest eyes, the plump bow of her bottom lip.

  She really did have his towels stuck under her arms. Her eyes were glassy, as though she’d been crying, or she was about to cry. The skin around her neck, up to her ears, looked red and irritated. All he could think was: love. I love this woman.

  A solid punch straight to his heart.

  “Nothing will happen between us until you’re ready,” he said. Until they were both ready. “I
just want to talk tonight, or just sleep. I need to give you a full apology and better explanation of…things, but we can go to sleep and deal with this in the morning, when we’re fresh.”

  She squeezed her arms tighter to her sides, those ridiculous towels poking out. “Like sleep, as in together?”

  “If it’s up to me, yes. I…” Why the hell was his throat closing up?

  Seeing Annie out with Duncan had twisted something inside of him. Rosanna’s advice to be truthful and apologetic had given him the push he’d needed to reach out. But it had been this week’s utter loneliness that had knocked his head straight. He hadn’t known heartbreak until he’d hurt Annie with his petty lies and had a taste of how painful it was not talking to her.

  “I’ve been messed up since that scrapbooking night,” he said, forcing the words out. “I’m tired of denying how I feel about you, to myself and to you. So, yes—I want you next to me tonight. But if you’re more comfortable in the guestroom, that’s fine. As long as you promise not to leave without talking to me in the morning.”

  “I’m scared,” she whispered. “I just…feel so much, and I’m suddenly terrified this will backfire. I can’t lose you, Wes.”

  Exactly why he’d been a spineless jellyfish. He understood her better than she realized. “We’re both scared because we know how huge this is.”

  Her eyes dropped to his crotch. “I mean, it looks big, but not that big.”

  He laughed. Tossed his head back and let go until his cheeks ached from smiling. Yeah, he understood her. Losing Annie wasn’t an option, which meant he had to prove his worth. Offer her complete honesty and, if she actually forgave him, try not to let his past ruin his future. Make himself into the prince she deserved.

  He grabbed the towels under her arms and tugged them free.

  She relaxed and mumbled, “So gross.”

  He laughed again. “The grossest. Now get over here.”

  When she didn’t move, he closed the distance between them and pulled her against his chest. He wrapped one arm around her back, dragged his other hand through her hair until she melted into him. His body stirred. There was no controlling this pulsing need. He still wouldn’t touch her until they’d talked. “My bed or the guestroom?”

  She purred lightly, brushed her nose and lips against his neck. “Your bed, as long as we only sleep. I need to take this slower than I realized, and I need to shower first.”

  He wasn’t sure how he’d manage knowing she was naked in his shower, water sluicing over her breasts, between her legs. He was barely containing himself now, which Annie no doubt felt. Her breath caught. She shifted her hips. “Jesus. Where do you buy underwear for that thing?”

  Chuckling, he stepped back and jerked his chin toward his bedroom. “Get in there, get showered, and get into bed. I’ll make sure this thing keeps to his side of the bed.”

  Annie glanced at his crotch again, his erection straining the fine wool of his Armani suit. He hadn’t bothered changing since dinner. He hadn’t done much besides stare at his front door, waiting for Annie. Now she was here, staring at his clothed body like the sight of him had hypnotized her.

  She blinked, swayed slightly. “I, um…”

  He smirked. “You were going to shower.”

  She looked up, a slow grin curving her lips. “Right. Shower. Then we have a slumber party on the respective sides of your emperor-sized bed.” With a sultry look, she turned, hips swaying as she sashayed toward his room. Rosanna was right to question his business savvy and mental prowess. He should never have suggested they sleep in the same bed, but he wanted her as close as possible. Once they talked, he could lose her for good.

  A cold shower of his own later, he walked down from his upper level, turning off lights as he neared his bedroom. Hopefully Annie had had enough time to calibrate, relax and settle. Accept that she wasn’t running from him, and he wasn’t running from her. They would finally face the intensity between them.

  He knocked on the door. A loud snore erupted, fake and obnoxious and all Annie. He pressed the door open and leaned on the frame. “Careful, or you’ll wake Felix.”

  Annie was in one of his V-neck T-shirts, the front dipping low, all of it too large on her. Her blond hair looked darker, wet and loose around her shoulders. Her skin was clean and fresh. A vision on his crisp, white sheets.

  She eyed him, nose to toes, and frowned. “Please tell me you don’t sleep in that.”

  He glanced down at his T-shirt and linen pants. “It’s better than my usual sleep attire.”

  “You look like you’re going yachting. All you’re missing is a dollop of caviar and a glass of expensive Scotch. How is this better?”

  “I sleep naked.”

  She took an eyeful of him, cheeks blushing, like he was naked and she was starved. Exactly how he wanted her. Hungry. Ready for him. When he finally got his hands on her, slow wouldn’t be an option.

  “I bet the women you’ve had love that,” she said, a slight break in her voice.

  Was she jealous of his past? Not that he was much better, considering his vicious jealousy tonight. Even when younger, the boyfriends she’d talked about had irked him. He’d assumed his reactions had been of a protective nature, a big brother looking out for his little sister. How blind he’d been.

  “I’ve never slept with a woman,” he said.

  She raised a skeptical brow.

  He pushed off the door frame and stalked toward the bed. “Let me rephrase—I’ve never slept with a woman overnight. I sleep alone, and I sleep naked.”

  She watched him approach, tracked his every move. She was sitting up, his shirt on her revealing a swell of beautiful breast, the sheets gathered up to her waist. He flipped off the main light and slid into his side, resting his head on his palm. He looked up at her from his lower position. Giving her height, power, control—Rosanna’s advice still in his mind. He waited for her to speak.

  “If you don’t sleep with women, why’d you ask me to sleep over?”

  He wasn’t sure. Even with Lila, during their three month relationship that had ended with him ghosting on her, they had never slept together overnight. He liked to run early, work late. Easy excuses. The night she’d whispered I love you, she’d been grasping at straws, unsure why he wouldn’t stay over, thinking the declaration would be a turning point for them. It had only emphasized how messed up Weston was.

  That was then. This was now. This was Annie, looking down at him with big vulnerable eyes. He wished he could see their color better—untrusting brown or vibrant green, or a swirl of both as she tried to figure him out. “I want you to sleep over because it feels right,” he said. “I want this because I’ve never had it with anyone and can’t imagine sleeping next to anyone but you.”

  True closeness. The thing that scared him most. The thing he might lose.

  “Wow. That was…wow.”

  She might not think so shortly. “Do you want to talk now or in the morning?”

  She scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. “Morning?”

  Relief had his breath rushing out. He did want this night, a simple sleepover, something he’d never shared with anyone. The vulnerability of waking up, unguarded and pliable, next to a woman he loved. A test to see if he’d panic in the morning. No sex on the table, just intimacy.

  She scooted lower, pulled the sheets up to her neck. “So you’re really sleeping in linen pants?”

  “Absolutely.” He wouldn’t survive tonight if Annie accidentally brushed against him.

  “We need to get you flannels.”

  “I don’t wear flannel.”

  “You won’t become a lumberjack. Or a hipster.”

  “I’d become hideously unstylish.”

  She mock shuddered. “The horror.”

  He shifted closer to her. “Would you like me in flannel?”

  She reached over and traced his eyebrows, the length of his nose. “I like you all formal and buttoned up, knowing there’s a secret DJ under all tha
t expensive wool.”

  He plucked her hand from his face, kissed her palm, and pressed her hand against his sternum. They linked fingers, and she sighed. They didn’t talk again. He watched her eyes get heavy, her limbs sinking heavier into his mattress. Her breath slowed and deepened until her lips parted slightly. Heat flared in his chest, so hot and fierce his bones ached. Mine. Every inch of this woman was his. Until he shattered her image of him.

  17

  Annie woke with a start. It took a moment to remember she was in Wes’s sumptuous bed, her head resting on his cloud-soft pillow. His cozy duvet was draped over her lower body, the thing likely stuffed with swan feathers and unicorn hair. A heavy arm was latched over her waist.

  A handsome arm. Wes’s arm.

  Nothing had ever felt so right.

  His hand was locked around her ribs, the tips of his fingers brushing the underside of her breast. The way her shirt was twisted around her waist, all that separated her from the man of her dreams was her underwear and his ridiculous linen pants. I sleep naked. I’ve never slept with a woman before. I can’t imagine sleeping next to anyone but you.

  She shifted slightly, fluttery tingles slipping through her body, traveling lower, tugging on her belly and every sensitive nerve. Wes groaned softly, tightened his grip on her until she felt him against her backside, crazy hard and ready for her. She wasn’t far behind, wetness gathering. She had no choice but to move. She pushed back slightly and wriggled.

  His hot breath rushed against her ear. “Don’t do that again.”

  She did exactly that again.

  “Annie.” Wes’s body turned to stone, his arm a vise around her. “If you rub against me again, I’m not sure I’ll be able to remain a gentleman.”

  “Who said I wanted a gentleman?” True, she’d been a hesitant mess last night, but sleeping next to Wes, hearing his confession, seeing the sincerity in his eyes as he’d admitted a fraction of his fears had both calmed and aroused her. “I want you, Wes. I’m done waiting and second-guessing everything.”