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The bus is empty. The door is closed.
And we may never get this chance ever again.
No.Can’t let myself think about that. Can’t think about morning coming, and this bus driving off to another city, leaving me behind in the parking lot in yesterday’s clothes. Every time my brain goes there, my chest caves in on itself and tears burn my eyes.
“Get this jacket off.” I shove at his lapels, bunching the fabric around his shoulders. “Get it off.”
One night stand vibes. I can do this.
I can pretend one night with Beckett won’t crush me.
He loses the jacket and tie, and leans back over me, shirt half-buttoned. That sliver of his pale, toned chest—that’s my handiwork. Want to lick him, so I do.
“Ngh.” Beckett grunts, cupping the back of my head as I kiss and nibble at his chest, his thumb stroking through my short hair. “Resa, I—how far do you want to take this?”
All the way, baby. To the moon and back.
My lips curve against his chest. “As far as you’ll let me.”
Quietly, barely on the edge of hearing, Beckett lets out a heartfelt: “Fuck.”
When he rolls off me, all my air seizes in my lungs—but it’s okay. He’s stripping his shirt, tugging his belt open, kicking off his shoes. Undressing with jerky motions, one eyebrow raised at me as if to say, “Well?”
And I could lie here in a puddle, could wait for Beckett to come back and undress me himself, but I’m too greedy for skin-to-skin contact for that. Too afraid that he might change his mind at any moment.
My top whispers against my skin as I tug it off, and Beckett makes a growly sound. My bra and skirt follow suit, all sailing through the air to smack against the thin bus wall.
Beckett stares at me, chest heaving.
The curtains are open a tiny slit, stars winking in the night sky—and my legs part so naturally as Beckett crawls back up my body, settling his hips between my thighs. We’re both still in our underwear, two layers of fabric between us, and mentally, I’m cursing the shyness that held me back from stripping all the way.
If I were braver, Beckett could be pushing inside me right now. Holding my thighs apart and sinking deep. He could—
“These tits.” Beckett shakes his head, palming my left boob in his hand, the sudden heat and friction all tickly against my nipple. I squirm, but he doesn’t seem to mind that they’re so small. He’s freakingthrilledwith me. “Your fucking body, Resa. Your eyes. All of you.”
Looping my arms around his neck, I kiss his chin. “Back atcha.”
Because he’s somuch.So big and lithe and toned, somehow even more so out of his clothes, with that deep voice tingling through my insides and his hot breath puffing against my cheek. The way Beckett cups me, palms me, testing how I feel… it’s sopossessive.Like I’m his private plaything.
I love it.
And Iam.I am his.
More than he even realizes.
“You’re soaked.” When his fingers delve beneath my panties, Beckett’s voice turns gruff with approval. My handsome writer touches my body like he owns it, cataloging the effects he has on me: my flushed cheeks, my ragged breaths, how slick I get after the merest kiss. He’s pleased by what he finds. “You need this, don’t you, sweet girl? You’re desperate for it.”
Hips lifting to chase his touch, I nod so fast my teeth clack together. “Uh-huh. I need it, Beckett.Please.”
Me? Too proud to beg?
Nope! No way.
Besides, he likes it. Beckett’s pupils are blown wide, eating up the ring of icy blue, and now he’s like some dark-eyed, British-voiced demon looming over me. Coasting his fingertips through my folds; brushing my clit and smirking when I whine.
A car door slams nearby in the parking lot, and the muffled sound of the Soul Obsession gig seeps through the bus window. Should probably care about skipping the show I declared I’d rather die than miss, but things have changed. There’s no place on Earth I’d rather be right now.
It’s hot in here, stifling hot, and when I lick my lips, I taste my own salty sweat.
