It’s almost like he’s the one in the driver’s seat now, and somehow, I don’t mind that much. I thrust shallowly, so I can devour his mouth at the same time. His dick is trapped between us, hard and leaking onto my skin. And I never want it to end.
We kiss fast, and then slow. Like there might be a quiz later, and we need to review every detail. He makes desperate, horny sounds, and I swallow down every single one.
He manages to grunt, “So. Close,” into my mouth, and when he says it, it’s suddenly true for both of us.
I pull myself up and grab his legs, one in each arm. “Touch yourself,” I pant. “Do it.”
Beck, face red and lips swollen, wraps one big hand around his cock and stares up at me with heated eyes. He’s so fucking beautiful. It’s hard to believe that he’s ever felt undesirable a minute in his life.
“You look at me like that, and you’re gonna make me come,” I growl.
His hand flies on his cock, and he tips his head back against the pillow, seeming to unspool in front of my eyes. “Fuck yes,” he slurs. Then he bites his lip and shoots all over his own chest.
I follow him about a nanosecond later, because how could I not. All the tension leaves my body in several pulses of pure joy. And a few seconds later we’re left staring at one another’s sweating, wondrous faces.
Beck lets out a shuddering breath, and I feel like a god.
In the morning, I wake up slowly, consciousness filtering through layers of warmth and drowsiness. There’s a weight against my side, the sound of breathing that isn’t mine, and—fuck—a hand threading gently through my hair. The touch is so pleasing that for a moment I forget where I am. Forget all the reasons this shouldn’t be happening.
“Is it okay if I make some coffee?” Beck’s voice is rough with sleep, barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” I manage, the word slurring past my lips. My head feels heavy, full of lazy, peaceful thoughts that I haven’t allowed myself in months. Nobody ever touches me like this—gentle, reverent, like I’m something worth savoring.
I haven’t done sleepovers since… My blurry mind takes a minute to consider it. Hell, since I was married. Ruby and I used to have lazy Saturday mornings in bed, back when we pretended we could still make it work.
Beck’s hand abruptly disappears, and I hear his bare feet padding across my hardwood floors. Soon there’s the distant sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, followed by soft whistling. I let myself drift again, floating in that space between sleep and waking where everything feels possible.
The whistling gets closer, and I force my eyes open. Beck appears in the doorway, fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes, holding two mugs. His hair is sticking up on one side, and there’s a crease on his cheek from my pillowcase. He looks rumpled and beautiful and completely at home in my space.
I struggle into a seated position against the headboard, and he hands me one of the mugs. It’s the blue ceramic one with World’s Greatest Dad printed on the side—a Father’s Day gift from Charlie three years ago that I never use because it feels too presumptuous. Too hopeful.
The coffee smells good, but my heart starts pounding the moment the mug touches my hands. A bad memory hits me like a meteor—the last time someone made me a drink in my own kitchen, I woke up twelve hours later with my life in ruins.
The coffee turns to acid on my tongue. Suddenly, I’m painfully awake, fully present, and confronted by the reality that this sleepover probably shouldn’t have happened. Beck in my kitchen. Making coffee. Acting like he belongs here. Like this is normal. The panic running through my veins is not normal.
Why the hell didn’t I send him home like I’d planned last night?
“Want to go out for breakfast?” Beck asks, settling cross-legged on the foot of my bed like he’s done it a thousand times before. “Your fridge is kinda bare. I know this great diner about ten minutes away. They make these pancakes that are basically diabetes on a plate, but in the best possible way.”
“I can’t,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended. I set the mug down on my nightstand without taking another sip.
His offer isn’t outrageous, but that’s part of the problem. I can’t even afford to take myself out for brunch, let alone someone else. How pathetic is that? A thirty-four-year-old man who can’t spare twenty bucks for eggs and coffee.
And riding hard on the heels of that thought is the larger problem of where this is headed. I don’t want to lead him on.
“I’ve got errands.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and get up, reaching for yesterday’s jeans. “It’s my first day without Charlie in a week. Laundry, groceries, oil change. Boring adult shit.”
Beck gives me a sideways glance, his coffee mug frozen halfway to his lips. “Okay, dude. It was just an idea. Don’t get freaked out.”
“I’m not freaked out,” I lie, shoving my arms through the sleeves of a flannel shirt.
“No, I’ll go,” Beck says quietly, setting his mug down and standing up. There’s something resigned in his voice that makes me hate myself. “There’s only so much of the Beck Show that any one man can take.”
The words hit me like a slap. “Hey, that’s not it.” The expression on his face—shuttered and trying so hard to be okay with rejection—makes my chest ache. I’m so bad at this stuff, but I try anyway. “If I didn’t like you, you wouldn’t have made it past the front door.”
Beck rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand, not meeting my eyes. “Nah, I get it. I’m a lot.”
Something clicks into place as I watch him retreat into himself. The way he assumes he’s the problem. The way he’s already apologizing for existing.
