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She hiked up one rounded little shoulder.
It irked him that she didn’t tell him more.
Hell it irked him that she was going to get married.
He sat on the bed and watched as she sat back too and pulled up the covers to her neck, covering the luscious little body he had enjoyed so much only hours ago.
“Why are you here, Sandy?” He meant ‘Houston’ and not really ‘his bedroom’, but he ended up signaling to his bed, noticing how messed-up they’d left it.
“Closure.” She avoided his gaze, hopped onto her feet, and pulled her panties all the way up her legs. “You were a living breathing fantasy of mine…I couldn’t seem to love him like I wanted to. I broke it off and came back for closure.”
“Closure.” He laughed. They'd never had anything, never began, always fought it, were still fucking fighting it even as her naked body stood half naked in his bedroom. Ahh, fuck, but he’d feasted on her body, hadn’t he? Hell he’d been hankering for so much more than what they got last night. He wanted to talk dirty as fuck to her, push her buttons until they flew right off her.
“How did that work out for you?” he asked.
Because it wasn’t working well with him, at all.
She hiked up one small, rounded little shoulder again, walking to his bathroom.
“Do you have somewhere I can dry this?” She raised the hot little number she’d worn yesterday up in the air. Her dress was a wet mess and dripping as she lifted it off the floor.
He told her where, and then watched her reach out and wrap the bedsheets around herself and pad down his hall. Strange emotions flitted through him, and he didn’t even know how to sort them, but among them was a strange tightness at the thought of her having a fiancé. He’d thought nobody would ever stand her. He’d thought she only wanted…Beckham.
What was wrong with him?
You’re a selfish prick, that’s what, man. You want her to pine for you. You don’t want to have to deal with her but you don’t want anyone else to be near her. Yeah, you’re fucked up, Beckham. A real fucking dick, man. Sandy’s got your brains more scrambled than your favorite eggs now. You wanted to fuck her out of your system and guess what? Those buttons of yours that somehow only she pushes? She’s still pushing them.
When her dress seemed moderately ready, she came back wearing it. “How do I get out?”
Confused as fuck over the feeling of protectiveness sitting like a ton of bricks on his chest, he rose and followed her to the door. He didn’t need to, he could’ve just pointed her in the right direction, but he wanted to. At the door, he deliberately took his time pressing the code to open the door, once again pressing his body into hers—his chest to her backside. Cause she smelled good—felt warm. Fragile, almost…
He couldn’t hold back from bending his head and taking in a deep inhale of her scent because…despite his best interests, his mental warnings, and the fact that she was a woman almost on her way to the altar, he wanted her again. He wanted her before she went to kiss and make up with her fiancé with the same mouth she had just been using to devour Beckham. He wanted to get her out of his system…um, again.
Instead he bit back the impulse and opened the door, his eyes staring almost blankly straight ahead. She said nothing when she left. He said nothing to her.
Maybe it was better. They never seemed to be able to have a decent conversation without fighting.
So much for closure.
He slammed the door and gritted his teeth, grabbed his phone, and flung it aside. It clattered and the sound of the glass cracking promptly appeared. Now what the fuck did he do that for? He grabbed the pieces and came back to the door, and that’s when he noticed she’d taken his damned car keys by the entrance.
Yeah. Well.
So much for closure.
Sandy stared at Beckham’s car key’s, elated at the feel of them in her hand, then dismayed in realizing she’d brought them with her for she’d have to send them back to him somehow. She’d fought the impulse to take his wet shirt with her, too, but then he would have obviously noticed, and yet it had been so hard to leave! It had felt as if a piece of her had somehow ended up scattered around in Beckham’s apartment and she couldn’t find it or get it back. She’d had to have something of his, something to ease the pain of…separation. Separation for good, this time. So when she’d spotted the key chain…
Why was this happening again? Why was the impulse to steal so strong and only appeared with him?
She rubbed the keys between her fingers and both the leather keychain and the car key itself felt good. Like his hands. Oh my. His hands. He was better than she’d imagined. He was everything she didn’t have with Glenn. Passion…ecstasy…even rage. She thought she’d realize he had no power over her anymore. He was a figment of her young imagination and an old fantasy she’d had to make a reality in order to overcome it, but she’d—in actuality—been putty in his hands.
She’d meant to dismiss him from her mind once and for all. Instead she would remember last night forever.
Four
He found her in a familiar gray sweatshirt and a pair of men’s socks when she opened the door of her motel room. “Go away,” she said, instantly trying to shut the door on him.
He stuck his foot in to prevent that from happening.
