Stand & Deliver

by Rhenna Morgan

  “What did you do?”

  He huffed out a sharp chuckle. “I might have been a bruiser, but I wasn’t stupid. My dad never had decent jobs because he was a dropout. So, I met the therapist.”

  “And?”

  His hands stilled, but his fingers tightened. Braced. “He said I’ve got SPD. Sensory Processing Disorder.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure anyone really does.” He pulled his hands away, resting one elbow on the couch back and fisting the other on his thigh. As though the last thing he wanted was to break contact. “You ask me, it’s a hodgepodge catchall for anything to do with senses. Some people can’t stand strong perfumes or odd smells. Some people can’t stand the way certain things feel or being where there’s too much noise. Has to do with the way your brain processes input.”

  It couldn’t be sense of smell. She’d seen him in too many environments where that would’ve put him over the top. The same for loud places. And from the second she’d woken up after her drunken confession, he’d been very hands-on. Heck, he was always touchy-feely with his dates and they were always the same with him. So much so she’d been tempted to break a few wrists over the years.

  He opened his hand and rubbed it along his jean-clad leg.

  Back and forth. Back and forth.

  Her gaze drifted to his T-shirt. Soft. Always soft. And she’d often seen him rubbing his hand across his stomach, an act she’d always thought meant he was either terminally hungry, or just had an odd tic for when he mulled things over in his head. “This processing thing. Does it work in the opposite?”

  Bingo. The answer was right there in his eyes the second her question met air. “No touch for a long time makes me bat-shit crazy. Like someone’s piping electricity under my skin. Gets worse when I’m agitated about something. But I’ve figured out ways to deal. Soft stuff. Massages. Wrestling.”

  “Fists,” she added, but just barely clamped her mouth shut before she added, Touchy-feely women. She pulled her feet out of his lap and shifted closer to him. “Beckett, I don’t know your mom. I couldn’t pick her out of a lineup if I had to, but I can tell you her leaving isn’t on you or the fact that you need touch. It was pure selfishness and irresponsibility. Nothing more and nothing less.”

  His gaze stayed rooted to the ottoman in front of them.

  Instinct more than wisdom lifted her hand to his face. You couldn’t say he had a beard. More like perpetual morning-after stubble. But on him it was sexy as hell. It tickled her fingertips as she traced his harsh jawline.

  He snatched her wrist, stilling her with a firm grip. “I’m not a freak.”

  Four words, but the pain and humiliation in them sunk jagged claws inside her. Snagged on emotions and struggles she understood all too well. Granted, her demons were completely different and nowhere near as stigmatizing as his would have been growing up, but they were still demons. Ugly, unforgiving monsters that kept her bound into a prison of her own making.

  “I don’t think you’re a freak.” She swallowed hard and twisted her wrist until he loosened his hold. Even then, he still hung on. “I think you’re just like the rest of us. Doing your best to reach for what you want and shouldering whatever challenges you end up with.”

  This time when she touched him, her fingers trembled, the enormity of what he’d just shared—of the ridicule it could earn him with the type of people they worked with—forging something she didn’t dare study too closely. “Thank you for sharing with me.”

  His gaze dropped to her mouth.

  Her heart lurched, so eager for the heated promise behind his eyes it didn’t care if it killed her with its exuberance.

  “You wanted my trust. I just gave it to you.” He cupped the side of her face, his thumb skimming along her lower lip. “No one knows what I just told you. No one but my family.”

  And by family, he meant Haven. She’d been around his brothers, their women and Axel’s and Jace’s mothers enough to know they were everything Beckett’s parents hadn’t been. Everything she’d wished she’d had in her own family. “And no one will ever hear it from me. Ever.”

  He lowered his head. His warm breath whispered over her skin and the space between them coiled as tight as a trigger just before release.

  A muted chime broke the silence.

  Beckett hesitated, his grip tightening a fraction. “Knox has shit timing.”

  She chuckled, a low but sharp sound that blossomed to full-blown laughter the more her brain reengaged and pointed out the hilarity of the situation. “You know it’s Knox by the tone?”

  Beckett grunted and lifted his head, but rather than go for his phone like she’d anticipated, he hauled her across the few inches that separated them and firmly planted her sideways on his lap. “Don’t knock it. Defined tones tell me who to ignore and who to answer without looking. He’d never mess with me tonight with you here. Not unless it was important.”

  He shifted and reached for his phone in his back pocket, tucking her tight to him as he did.

  She should tease him. Something along the lines of where he drew the line on who to ignore and how many ringtones it took to set up his audible priority system, but her mouth wouldn’t work. There was too much closeness. Too much muscle. Too much Beckett.

  Wait.

  He’d never mess with me tonight with you here.

  “Knox knows I’m here?”

  He frowned at the screen. “Course, he knows.” He paused only long enough to glance at her then went back to scrolling through the text. “All my brothers know.”

  Part of her wanted to rail at the information. To move into damage control and insist he put a cap on tonight being shared further than it already had been. But another, far more vulnerable part of her, gloried in it. As if in brushing the edges of his family—even if only in conversation—she’d been included in the tight-knit group.

  His frown shifted to barely suppressed fury and the arm he had banded around her waist squeezed tighter.

  “Beckett?”

  At the bottom of the text was a link. Before she could angle for a decent view of the bolded header, he lowered the phone and studied her. “Gorgeous, we gotta talk.”

  All the warmth and anticipation he’d built in her through the night fizzled like slow-encroaching waters on smoldering embers. That voice didn’t spell anything near the realm of conversation. More a precursor to one of those ugly info bombs that rattled reality. “What’s wrong?”

  His lips flattened, obviously bitter words squatting on his tongue. “The thing at the range yesterday...someone got a clip of it.”

  No, not a bomb. More of a shotgun being chambered and aimed directly at her. Being a woman, she already had to fight twice as hard to shore up gigs on her own. Negative social media would kill her. She held out her hand, demanding the phone without saying a word. “Where’s it posted?”

  He handed it over, but looked like he’d rather take a knife to the gut. “YouTube. It hit about three hours ago. Knox got an alert.”

  Hitting the play button, she tried to stand.

  Beckett clamped down hard and held her in place. “You’re not going anywhere. If you’re watchin’ it, we’re doin’ it together.”

  Distorted crowd noises punched from the speaker followed by the all-too-clear mention of her full name for the spectators.

  She wanted to argue. Wanted to take the damned phone and lock herself away someplace private. Someplace where she could pace and fume and maybe hit a few inanimate objects for good measure.

  “Load and make ready.”

  The range master’s cue sucked her into the carnage. The discharge. The scrambling crowd. The shouts and subsequent outrage. But worst were the clips of her, stoic to the point she came across uncaring.

  “That’s not raw footage.” Beckett’s voice rumbled with an anger
that mirrored her own, a threat of barely contained violence. “That’s heavily edited.”

  “I know what it is.” The sharp quip was the last thing he deserved, but she could no more contain it than she could calm the adrenaline jetting through her body. She shoved the hand he’d anchored her in place with off her hip and scrambled to her feet, heading toward the kitchen. “It’s also going to tank my business.”

  Beckett followed her. “It’s a shooting competition on YouTube, G. Not a reference database. No one out to hire security is going to pay attention to that.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.” She set his phone aside on the kitchen island, snatched her purse and dug for her own phone. “Our business is all about reputation. Hard to have credibility when there’s evidence on the internet I don’t know how to handle a gun.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Too hopped up on outrage, she spoke without thinking. “Calling a cab. I need to get on this.”

  Two seconds at most and her purse was back on the counter, her phone tossed on top of it and her back firmly pressed against the island. Beckett caged her with arms on either side and leaned in close, a modern-day dragon breathing fire and ready to stake its claim. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  On another day it would have been sexy as hell. Every dominant dream come to life. Tonight, it just pissed her off. “Don’t fuck with me, Beckett. If I want to go, I’ll go.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. You’re running.”

  The barb stung, hitting a little too close to home, but she rolled to her tiptoes and got nose-to-nose as best she could. “I’m taking care of my business. It’s called damage control and you’d do the exact same thing.”

  “Knox already is.”

  She opened her mouth, waited for a fresh retort to jettison free, then snapped it shut. “What?”

  Pure male smugness tilted his lips. “He’s already tracking the source and getting it taken down.”

  “Knox can’t hack Google.”

  “Knox doesn’t have to. He’s got friends. He’ll know the source and have it down before you get your panties unwound.”

  He could’ve let the fire die down. Could have used the information to divert the conversation back to steady ground, but noooo. He had to go and play the woman card. She gripped his wrists, making sure he felt her nails as she squeezed. “You really don’t have a very strong sense of self-preservation, do you?”

  His blue eyes lit with pure anticipation. “Either that, or I’ve got a keen sense you want to take a strip out of someone’s hide and need an outlet.”

  “And you’re volunteering?”

  He grinned, quick and dirty. “Try not to break anything.”

  Decency and good judgment tried to rein her in, but it was too late. She was already in motion. Punches fueled by anger. Dodges fueled by fear. Grunts and accusations charged with years of frustration and loneliness.

  Beckett matched every one of them, blocking and meeting her need for outlet.

  But there was no offense. Only careful defense and clever guidance that kept them contained in the loft’s most open space. As soon as the two embarrassing facts clicked into place, she disengaged, her breaths coming even more haggard than she probably looked. What the hell had gotten into her? Fighting? In his loft? And she was in a dress for crying out loud. Could she be any more of an idiot?

  She shoved her hair out of her face and stomped to her purse, embarrassment lighting a flash fire across her cheeks. “I’m going home.”

  Beckett’s hand clamped around her wrist before she’d made it a third of the way to the island. He spun her, dipped and hauled her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

  “Beckett!” She tried to lever herself upright, but with him in control of how she was balanced on his shoulder and using it to his advantage, she couldn’t stay upright. “Put me down. I need to go.”

  “Yeah, that’s not going to happen.”

  Even if she’d been more familiar with the other unexplored parts of the loft, she couldn’t have seen where he was headed. Not with her loose hair blinding her to anything but his ass and his bare feet on the concrete floor.

  Humiliation, as cold and unforgiving as the blood rushing to her head, slammed into her. She’d never live this down. Not any more than she’d get past the discharge and the fallout from social media.

  For a second, she gave up. Simply let the ugly reality of the moment lug her along the way her dead weight hung on Beckett’s shoulder.

  Then she was up and moving through the air, dimmed lights and neutral earth colors blurring past her swirling perspective. Beckett’s hand cupped her head a second before the rest of her whooshed into a thick, welcoming mattress.

  Beckett loomed over her, one hand holding him propped in place, his wide shoulders blocking out the source of the soft glow behind him and his knees anchored on either side of hers. “You gonna stay put on your own, or do I need rope to make that happen?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  Okay, so he probably would. Who could blame him, though? She’d acted like a complete loon and gone ape-shit in his house. She swallowed hard and forced herself to meet his slightly amused gaze. “I’ll stay put long enough to apologize. I shouldn’t have lost it like that, I just...”

  He waited, no judgment whatsoever on his face.

  “I’m not like most women.”

  His lips twitched. “I think I got that a long time ago.”

  She exhaled hard and shifted her gaze to the ceiling. “No, I mean, when I get mad I need an outlet. Some girls cry. Some girls go shopping.”

  “You need something physical,” Beckett finished for her. He shifted his weight and stretched out beside her, his big body pressed tight to hers and one leg comfortably resting between hers. “Just told you not fifteen minutes ago that I can’t go a single day without some kind of touch to ground me. You really think I’m going to judge you because someone posted something you took seriously and you wanted to let off a little steam?”

  “I did it in your house.”

  “This place is huge. Lotsa room where you’re safe and with someone who could take it.”

  There it was again. So tempting to believe. She focused on his sternum and the indistinct outline of the dog tags he always wore beneath his soft cotton tee. “I’m embarrassed.” Admitting it out loud was twice as bad as losing control.

  “You’re missing something here, gorgeous.” He slipped his hand out from under her head and cupped the side of her face, forcing her attention to his. “I like who you are. You’re smart. You’re tough. You don’t take my shit. I’ve got height and weight on you and you still aren’t afraid of me. I can talk guns, computers or criminal jargon and not lose you in the conversation.”

  “You can’t talk food with me.”

  He grinned and pressed his thumb to her lips. “Don’t need you to talk food with me. Just need you to eat what I cook.”

  She couldn’t help it. Her mouth parted and her tongue slipped out for a quick taste.

  His eyes heated, a languid panther who’d just perked to the promise of a tasty treat. “Gia?”

  God, she could look at him like this for hours. Days if she could get away with it. “Mmm?”

  “You got anything else you need to get off your chest?”

  Nothing he hadn’t already figured out. Namely that she was terrified of failing in her chosen profession, and that he was right. She was afraid. Polarized by how she wanted things to go between them and the risks that came with it. “No.”

  “Good.” His gaze dropped to her mouth and the hand at the side of her face shifted to the back of her head, his fingers spearing through her hair and holding her in place. “Then it’s time we both get our fix.”

  He claimed her mouth. A head-on attack that robbed h
er breath and left every self-defense stunned and helpless.

  And holy hell, could Beckett kiss. Deep, long and without mercy. His tongue dueled with hers. Demanded its due even as his slick lips teased and glided against hers. Not a prelude to something bigger and better. Not a requisite step on a predetermined path, but a glorious event all on its own.

  She smoothed her hands up along his triceps and over his shoulders, the powerful heat and strength beneath her hands ripping a moan up the back of her throat. So long, she’d wanted to touch him like this. To explore and roam without limit. She stroked higher, dragging her palms along the tightly cropped hair at the base of his skull and further to spear her fingertips through the longer strands on top.

  “Damn, baby.” Beckett lifted his head, eyes closed, and arched his neck, seeking more of her touch. “You keep petting me like that and I’ll be the pushy tomcat who won’t leave your front stoop.”

  Fascinated with his response, she gently raked her nails along his scalp then trailed a path down the back of his neck. “I thought cats only hung around if you gave them milk.”

  He opened his eyes, but it wasn’t an innocent tomcat staring back at her. It was a predator. One tethered by a strained and threadbare leash. “It’s not milk I want.”

  Her sex clenched. A fluttering fist and release that said her body was on board with anything he wanted so long as it ended with the feel of him inside her.

  He lowered his head, holding her gaze as he licked her lower lip.

  “Beckett.”

  His eyes slid closed and he skimmed his mouth up along her jawline. “Mmm?”

  “This is dangerous.”

  He nipped her earlobe hard enough she jolted under him.

  “Beckett, be serious.”