by RC Boldt
“Oops.” His dark-brown eyes dance with amusement.
I arch an eyebrow. “That seemed a little premeditated.”
“I was just helping you.”
“With what, dare I ask?”
“You wanted to get close and snuggle me.” As soon as he speaks the words, my body goes rigid.
“I don’t snuggle, Becket.” The tightness in my chest, the sudden onslaught of panic takes the place of my earlier light amusement. I press my palms flat against his chest and push up. I need to get out of here.
“Hey, easy.” Becket places his hands on my waist and speaks softly. “I’m sorry. I was only kidding.”
I swallow visibly, and I can see the flicker of emotions on his face. He wonders what the hell my deal is with snuggling.
“No snuggling,” he says gently. “I promise.” He holds my gaze for a beat. “Please stay and hang out a little while longer?”
After a pregnant pause, I finally nod slowly. He cups the side of my face and plants a gentle kiss on my forehead. Then he guides us both into a sitting position.
“Great. You can come out back and help me with my wood.”
“When you mentioned me helping you with your wood, I thought you meant something entirely different,” I say with a laugh.
His jaw slackens, and he stares at me in faux indignation. “I’m offended you’d think that.”
I shake my head at him before skimming my fingers over the leg he just finished sanding for the rocking chair.
“Who’s this for, again?”
“For Blue—er, Emma Jane.”
We’re sitting on stools in his large work shed while he carves the arm. Luckily, it’s air-conditioned, or we’d roast.
“I already made a little one for when her baby gets a bit older.” He continues shaping the wood with careful, even strokes. “Made one for Violet that she still loves. And for Emilia, too.” A smile tugs at his lips.
I watch him as he works. “I can easily see you making these for your own kids one day.”
“I could only be so lucky.” He lowers his head and blows gently, dusting off the wood shavings from the chair arm. “How about you?”
“Oh, no,” I answer quickly. “I don’t plan on having kids.”
He whips his head around to stare at me, clearly shocked by my emphatic response. “Never?”
“No.” My tone brooks no argument.
He turns back to the piece of wood, evidently troubled by my answer, and I’m hoping he’ll let the subject drop.
“What about your brothers and sisters? Do you have any nieces and nephews running around?”
So much for that hope.
I don’t immediately answer. When I do, my tone is hushed, subdued. “I have a sister—a foster sister. And no.”
I study him, observe the way his motions stutter ever so faintly. It’s as though he’s battling against the urge to pause his work, suspecting that doing so might make me more skittish. I forge on to change the subject.
“Does she know you’re making this?”
He shakes his head. “No. Blue doesn’t know. And…” He trails off, and I get the sense he’s trying to inject some playful teasing back into our conversation. “If you ruin the surprise, I’ll make you do something you hate doing.”
“Such as?” I taunt back, my voice lighter than a moment earlier.
“Maybe I’ll force you to snuggle with me. God knows you hated that idea.”
An awkward silence descends within the large workspace aside from the sounds of his woodworking. When it lingers, he rushes to apologize. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.” He shakes his head in disgust. “It’s just my inner petulant kid who got his feelings hurt because a beautiful woman finds the idea of snuggling with him abhorrent. I just—”
“I’m sorry.” My words are hurried, overlapping his, and I slip off the stool, eager to put some distance between us. He hazards a glance in my direction. I slide my hands in the back pockets of my pants and do everything I can to avoid meeting his eyes.
“It’s okay. I was just being a dick.” He returns his attention to his work, and his laugh sounds forced. “It’ll probably happen again because, well, I’m a clueless guy. Just a heads-up.”
“I had…a bad experience once.”
Becket freezes and slowly turns, centering his attention on me. “Please don’t tell me someone forced themselves on you.”
When my blue eyes flicker up to meet his, he drops the tool from his fingers, and it clatters onto the work table. His eyes no longer possess that usual happy, mischievous glint. Instead, fiery hot rage appears to have taken its place.
“They tried, but they didn’t succeed.”
I know my words are troubling for him, and I sense he wants to pull me to him and wrap me in his embrace. Instead, I dart to the far side of the workshop to admire one of the carvings hanging from a simple hook on the wall.
“That’s Violet’s work right there.” Becket cautiously slides off the stool as if afraid he’ll spook me with his approach. He steps beside me, following suit and admiring the small piece of carved wood. “I showed Violet how to do some simple woodworking. I guided her hand on the chisel to help her create the piece she wanted. Then she sanded and painted it to make this.”
I turn to find Becket staring at Violet’s carving, yet almost unseeing, as if lost in the memory from that day. “When I asked her if I could display it here in my workshop, her smile was one of the biggest and proudest I’ve seen.” He chuckles softly. “I was so afraid of hurting her feelings because I had no clue what this was supposed to be. Luckily, she took me by the hand, and with the utmost serious expression, she said, ‘Uncle Becket, this is you and your little girl playing together.’”
The words spill from my lips before I even realize it. And even though I know I’m in dangerous territory, my sentiment is unequivocally true. “You really are amazing.”
He looks over at me, our eyes lock, and he declares in the same softly spoken manner, “I think the same of you.”
I hold his gaze and search his features. Every additional moment I spend with Becket and the more I learn about him, the more conflicted I feel.
Finally, I turn to face him fully, and he mimics my movements. Our eyes remain locked, and slowly, as if I were a skittish animal, he opens his arms wide. He waits, and I waver internally before I finally take the single step separating us. Once I do, he enfolds me in his arms, and I wrap mine around his waist.
We embrace, and his palm moves to my nape to gently smooth down my hair in soothing strokes. We stand like this for God knows how long before I finally break the silence. And when I do, my voiced words are jarring because I’m certain they’re just as unsettling and confusing to him as they are to me.
“You scare me.” I murmur this against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. His heart beats steadily beneath my ear.
Becket intimidates me, sending fear propelling through my entire body, and not because of his size or obvious strength. He scares me because he’s a good man, a kind man, with a heart bigger than he is tall.
And he makes me consider things—want things—I’ve never wanted before.
He stiffens, clearly upset by my words. “How do I scare you, Ivy?”
I press my lips thin, pinch my eyes shut, and war with myself. The controlled, guarded Ivy is screaming at me to get out of here and never talk to him again.
The other one, the one I didn’t think still existed, is encouraging me to open up to him. Telling me that it’s safe.
That he’s safe.
“Ivy?” he prompts gently.
The way he strokes my hair, smoothing his palm down in slow, languid strokes comforts me.
I tighten my arms around him before I speak. In turn, the hand at the base of my spine presses me closer, securing me to him, as if he senses I need it.
“I don’t do this kind of thing.”
“You don’t…hug?”
“No.”
> There’s a pause. “Can I ask why?”
“Honestly, my foster families never really showed affection. They were okay, but there was never any hugging. I guess it just”—I offer a slight shrug—“rubbed off on me.”
“And the cuddling thing?” There’s a shade of hesitance in Becket’s question.
“That happened before foster care.” I don’t have it in me to discuss that. Not right now.
“I’m sorry I made light of it,” he murmurs softly against my hair.
We stand here in silence with nothing but the faint whirring of the air-conditioning, and the awkwardness feels like it’s closing in on me.
“Becket?”
“Ivy?”
“Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Can we please not talk about my childhood again?”
He presses his lips to my hair. “I promise,” he vows softly.
17
Becket
“So is this a typical weekend for you?”
Ivy’s seated at the large island in my kitchen, watching me prepare the salad for our dinner.
My gaze meets hers. “It can be. Depends, really.”
I wipe my hands on the dishtowel draped over my shoulder. Moving to the platter where two large pieces of grilled salmon lie on it, I carefully transfer one piece to each of our plates. “When it’s preseason or during training camp, things aren’t as intense.”
“When does training camp start?”
“At the end of the month.”
She rests her chin on her propped hand. “What does that entail?”
“It means my spare time is a bit limited. More team meetings, drills, and some preseason games. Once the season starts, things ramp up more. Our schedule’s set and my days will be accounted for—with the exception of Tuesdays since that’s our day off. I’ll travel with the team to away games and make some public appearances at a few fundraisers and whatnot.” I grab a glass from one cabinet and set it by her place setting. “Water okay? I’m sorry I don’t have more to choose from.”
“Water’s fine.”
I turn to open the refrigerator and snag two bottled waters. I uncap one and pour the contents into her glass. Ivy glances around my kitchen, as though she’s searching for something.
“You don’t have any beer or wine?”
My eyes rise to meet hers. “No, sorry.” I walk around and slide onto the chair beside her. Once settled, I add, “I don’t drink.”
Ivy studies me curiously. “You don’t drink?”
Slowly repeating myself, I say, “I don’t drink.”
She furrows her brow. “Ever?”
“That’s right.” I settle my gaze on her. “Just not my thing.”
“Huh.” She refocuses on the delicious salad topped with salmon.
Uneasy with her odd reaction, I ask, “Is that going to be a problem?”
“Not at all.” Ivy’s eyes meet mine, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear she almost appears impressed.
“Dig in.” I reach for my fork only to be stopped by her hand reaching for my arm to stop me.
Confused, I look back at her in question. She merely winks and withdraws her hand to fold her hands together. “You’re supposed to lead us in Emilia’s form of grace before we eat.”
I laugh. “You want me to sing the rhyming prayer she learned at her preschool?”
She nods, her features alight with humor. “I do.”
I squint at her in challenge. “You have to sing it with me.”
Her eyes widen in what appears to be panic. “Oh, but I—”
I reach for her plate of food and start sliding it away from her. “So sad. No dinner for you then.”
“Okay!” she agrees hurriedly with a laugh.
After we practically butcher poor Emilia’s prayer song—with Ivy’s off-key voice accompanying mine—we dig into our food. While we talk over our dinner, I know I want more of this with her. Even though she doesn’t want anything to do with a relationship, I’m determined to change her mind.
God knows I’ve never backed down from a challenge before in my life.
“I really need to head home.”
“It’s late. You can just go home in the morning.” I don’t dare meet her eyes because I know she’ll see right through me. I can’t bear the idea of her leaving just yet.
“Becket.” She breathes my name with a sigh. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Nonsense.” I turn to look over at her. In the corner of my sectional couch, she looks as relaxed as I feel. She’s lying on her side, head propped on a pillow. “I would’ve let you know if you had.” I pause and tip my head to the side. “You should stay.” With a small smile, I add, “Daisy insists.”
“Oh, really?” Even in the light from my large flat-screen television, her amusement is evident. Yet I can also detect the signs of fatigue.
I drop my feet from where I’ve propped them on my coffee table and rise from the couch. “Let’s get you situated for the night, and you can experience my breakfast surprise in the morning.” Stepping over to her, I hold out my hand to help her up. When she smiles up at me sleepily and places her hand in mine, I guide her to stand.
Moments later, I’ve turned off the TV and lights, and I lead her upstairs. I flip the switch for the light in the bedroom Blue would occasionally use. I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss her being around as much, but I’m happy as hell for her and Knox.
“There’s an attached bathroom there.” I gesture toward the set of open doors off to the far side of the room. “Under the sink is a variety of soaps, shampoos, toothbrushes, and toothpaste. Should be everything you need. If not, just let me know.”
“Wow.” Ivy stares in the direction of the bathroom before setting her gaze on me. “So do you—”
“No.” I step forward and cradle her face in my hands. “I don’t normally have women stay here.” Dusting a soft kiss on her forehead, I let my hands drop and take a step back. “Good night, Ivy.” I place a hand on the doorknob. “See you in the morning.”
Carefully, I pull her bedroom door closed with a soft click.
The pulse of the water from the showerhead cascades over me as it rinses off the body wash. I brace my palms against the tile wall and attempt to redirect my thoughts from Ivy. Judging from the way my dick is throbbing between my legs—and hard as hell—I’m failing.
Shit. I’ll never get sleep if I don’t take care of this. Thank God our bedrooms are on opposite ends of the hall.
I pour some body wash in my palm and wrap my fingers around my length. With a long stroke first, I pump my cock slowly, imagining Ivy was here with me. On her knees, she’d take me in her mouth while those incredible blue eyes watch me. Taking me as deep as she could, she’d suck hard and use her tongue to toy with the head of my cock.
“Fuck.” I grit my teeth and brace one hand against the shower wall. I speed up my rhythm, pumping faster as I work my hard length. The telltale tingling starts, signaling my fast-approaching climax. My eyes fall closed, and I imagine if Ivy was here…
“Ivy,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m close. If you don’t want me to—Fuck!”
She creates a firmer suction, indicating she wants me to empty my release in her mouth. But that’s not all. She reaches a hand between my legs to gently toy with my sack, running her fingers along the seam.
That’s what sends me over the edge. I pulse my release into the wet warmth of her mouth, and she accepts it all, sucking me dry.
Once I open my eyes, I stare down at the drain, waiting for my breathing to calm, my heartbeat thudding erratically in my chest.
Wait a minute…
Oh, shit. That’s not my heartbeat thudding.
That’s the sound of knocking on my bedroom door.
18
Ivy
I could have sworn I heard him say my name…
“Becket?” I knock again. There’s no answer, but the light shining beneath the d
oor leads me to believe he’s still awake.
God, I feel like an idiot. Standing here, freshly showered, I’m clad in only the plush bathrobe that hung on the back of my bathroom door. The idea of sleeping nude in Becket’s guest room seems a little indecent.
Unless I was sleeping beside him, of course.
The thought plagues me, further proving this man manages to send me down the proverbial rabbit hole. Because I never stay the night at a guy’s place; never share the same bed.
“I just need a T-shirt and some boxers,” I mumble to myself before I reach to gently rap my knuckles on his bedroom door one more time. Except I don’t make contact with the wood door.
Becket draws it open, and he’s standing before me, clad in only a towel wrapped around his waist. I take in the sight of him, allowing my eyes to travel up his body. A few droplets of water cling to the tanned skin of his chest and his broad, muscled shoulders. There’s a small tattoo over the center of his chest I can’t quite make out. His hair is damp from his shower, appearing even darker in color. But it’s his eyes that catch me by surprise, the mischievous sparkle within the depths.
“If I had a penny for every time a beautiful woman wearing a bathrobe knocked on my door…”
I slant him a look and raise an eyebrow.
He just laughs. “I’d now have a penny.” Sobering, he tips his head to the side. “What do you need?”
“I, uh, wanted to see if I could borrow something to sleep in.”
He immediately looks remorseful. “Sorry, I’m an idiot.” Backing away from the doorway, he waves a hand, gesturing for me to step into his room. “Come on, I’ll find you something.”
Tentatively, as if I’m stepping into the lion’s den, I enter. Becket turns and heads toward a large dresser, and I take advantage of this moment to appreciate the play of the muscles in his back as he moves. Even beneath the towel, there’s no disguising his powerful glutes.
