“I know you don’t.” He swallows. “And I know the drill, man. I was listening when you explained your terms. But sometimes I get the distinct impression that you’re managing me. Like you keep me at arm’s length so that I won’t forget my place.”
My heart drops into my gut. “Beck.”
“Makes me feel like a loser and maybe I should just let go.”
“You’re not a loser,” I say immediately. “Not one day in your life. You’re right. I’m shitty at replying to messages. Always have been. But I’m also not a dude who has his life together. That’s what you should take away from all this. And then you should fucking run.”
He gives his head a shake. “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he says. “Because of this.” In one smooth motion he moves closer on the couch and grabs the flannel of my shirt. Then his mouth crashes against mine with zero warning, and my brain just… stops.
Holy shit.
The kiss is somehow desperate and slow at the same time, like he’s trying to prove a point with his tongue. And fuck me, it’s working. My hands find his face without permission, fingers threading into his hair as he licks into my mouth like he owns it. Like he’s trying to show me something I’ve been too stubborn to see.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, and there’s something fierce in his expression that I’ve never seen before.
“That’s why,” he says, voice rough. “Because every time we’re in the same room, I forget how to think. Because you make me feel like I’m actually good for something besides stopping pucks. Because when you look at me like that—” He gestures vaguely at my face. “—I’d drive through a blizzard just to see it again.”
I stare at him. My heart is hammering against my ribs, and there’s heat pooling low in my gut that has nothing to do with the string lights casting everything in a warm glow.
Then I’m on him again, kissing him like I mean it. Which I do. Because it’s like this every time. “Just sex” with Beck happens on a deeper level than I like to admit. Sure it’s physical—hands sliding under his shirt. My tongue in his mouth. But as I flatten my palms against his chest, I can feel his heart hammering to the same rhythm as mine.
We’re so in tune, and I don’t even know what to do with that. Meanwhile, the music pulses through my bloodstream and straight to my cock. “Fuck,” I breathe against his mouth. Because now I understand the problem. It’s not just Beck who needs this—it’s me.
That’s why I don’t answer his texts. Not because I’m managing him, but because I’m managing myself. Because every message from him makes my chest do this stupid fluttery thing that has nothing to do with my dick.
I told Scully it was just sex, as if Beck were just some hookup from my past. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell myself, too.
Except it’s not like that. Not at all. And I don’t know what to do with this attachment we have for each other. I don’t know how to process it. So I just haul him closer, my hands adventurous on his body. I tug his shirt off so I can see more. Touch more.
It’s not just that he’s gorgeous—though, Christ, he is. All lean muscle and sharp angles, with those blue eyes that see right through my bullshit. And the way he makes me laugh when I didn’t even know I was capable of that anymore.
He makes me feel like I’m not just some washed-up bartender counting pennies. When I’m with Beck, I feel like the man I was before I learned to be scared.
“Forest,” he whispers against my jaw, and I pull back just enough to look at him, at his flushed face and kiss-swollen lips. At the way he’s looking at me like I’m everything he’s ever wanted.
I’m so screwed. And I’m probably making a huge fucking mess of everything.
I just can’t seem to stop.
Twenty-One
Big Sexy Grizzly Bear
Beck
As I unbutton Forest’s shirt with fumbling fingers, I’m trying to decode—for the millionth time—the intense expression in his dark-brown eyes. This man confuses the hell out of me.
He ignores my texts for days like he couldn’t care less about me, but now, when we’re together, he’s kissing me like he’s memorizing the taste of me, filing it away in some secret part of his brain labeled Things Worth Keeping.
What’s a guy supposed to do with that?
Luckily, my brain shuts off again when he drops his mouth to my neck and starts sucking on it. It’s a whole-body experience—like he’s figured out the exact heat and pressure that makes my brain melt, weaponizing his mouth to prevent all coherent thought.
This must be how addiction feels—like there’s only one important thing in your life and you know it’s probably killing you, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll do anything for one more taste.
