Page 79 of In The Weeds
It’s strange, watching him in the glass. Everything is a little bit off. I feel his breath against my knee before I see him brush a kiss there. Feel the calloused pads of his fingers before I see him drag my underwear down my legs, wrap them around his fist and put them in his pocket. I watch myself spread my legs wider before I’ve even realized I’ve done it, his head disappearing between my thighs, only the top of his hair visible in our reflection.
“I like this,” I breathe out, surprised by the heat surging through my veins. He makes a sound against my inner thigh and his hands squeeze tight, inked fingers flexing. One palm guides my leg up and over his shoulder, my thigh pressed tight to his ear.
He watches my face as he puts his mouth against me, his eyes drifting closed in agonized relief with his first slow kiss. I watch him in our reflection as he rolls his tongue against me, a steady pulse that has me scrambling for purchase against the tabletop. A long, thorough drag. A gentle hum of satisfaction.
The watering can goes clattering to the ground. His garden shears, too. The lavender is spared but only because my hands find the low shelf at my back, Beckett’s grip steadying my hips. I look away from our reflection, more interested in the reality of it instead. His head bowed over me, one arm banded low over my stomach to hold me in place. The other disappearing below us, the clink of his belt against the cement floor letting me know exactly what he’s doing.
It pulls and pulls and pulls—this feeling—low in my belly where his forearm rests against me, my hips desperately rolling up and into him. Chasing that beautiful feeling that I only ever get with Beckett. His hands and his lips and his deep grumbling groan of relief against me when I gasp his name and arch up, my release stealing the breath from my lungs.
He drags his mouth back and forth against the inside of my thigh, the prick of his beard making my legs jump. He rests his forehead there briefly. “More?” His hand slips low over my belly and his thumb curls down where I’m wet and sensitive. Another jump in my hips that has him grinning into my leg. He taps there once and I almost slip right off the table to the floor. He’ll have to collect my pieces in a basket and cart me back into the house.
While the idea of Beckett giving me another orgasm on this table with his hands and his mouth is tempting, I want something better. I shake my head and use the hand still in his hair to urge him up. It’s a wonder he has any strands left at this point. I rub my fingers against his scalp and he makes that rumbling sound again, deep in his chest. Like a cat in the sunshine.
“Can I have you like this?” I ask, curling my legs at his hips, the heel of my foot at the small of his back. I want to look at him, watch the way his whole face relaxes as he slips inside me. Relief and desire and … something else, too. Something that pounds in my chest to the same beat as his. He palms at my thigh, hand flexing, and swallows hard as he gazes down at me.
“You can have me anyway you want me, honey.” His hand cups the side of my face, cradling my cheek. “You know that.”
He drags his thumb over my bottom lip and I pull it into my mouth. He makes another deep sound, a heavy exhale of breath.
I slip my hands under his shirt and scratch my nails up his chest, back down again when his body falls deeper into mine. I curl my hands in the material of his jeans and push them down over his hips, the button and fly already undone, the band of his briefs pulled low. The thought of him touching himself as he touched and tasted me, it sends heat flooding through my body. A pluck of arousal in all the right places.
“Good,” I say with my teeth at the base of his throat, scraping until he shivers and his hips jolt forward, hard where I’m soft. The metal of the table bites into the back of my thighs, the surface cold against my bare skin. “Because this time I want you to watch.”
The hand on my cheek slips into my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth finds mine. It’s a rough kiss, possessive, and I hold onto the sides of his torso as he bends me backwards over the tabletop. A perfect curve, his hands holding me up. He pulls back and drags his nose against my jaw, dips down and presses a single, lingering kiss on my shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything as he presses into me, a thick slide of heat that has me shifting my body against the table—trying to take more. Trying to take it all. He watches with his head tipped down between us, a low groan that sounds like my name. I close my eyes and feel him everywhere he’s tucked against me. One hand in my hair. The other on my thigh, guiding my leg wider. His deep, panting breaths against the sensitive skin behind my ear. The tiny restless movement of his body against mine when our hips tuck together, like he wants to move but can’t quite yet. Like he needs a moment to collect himself.
He pulls out slightly and pushes back in, a short stilted movement that still, somehow, manages to steal my breath. He curses and does it again, a messy grind on his retreat that rubs against me in all the right places. My hand slips down to his jaw, fingers curling against his rough stubble. I guide his face until he’s looking at us on the glass wall to our left.
“Watch,” I tell him.
We look like something from a dream. A filthy dream that I’ve had a million times where I wake up still tangled in the sheets. My heart in my throat and a thin sheen of sweat on my skin, a drumbeat of wanting between my thighs.
My legs are curled high around his hips, my back arched in a delicate bend against the tabletop, anchored with his hand twisted through my hair. His body, strong and tall above me. His jeans caught halfway down his legs. I look at him in our reflection and the storm raging in those green eyes. Banked desire. A wordless promise.
He pulls out slowly. Thrusts back in so hard the entire table shakes. A planter goes crashing to the ground and I cling to him.
And I don’t hide a single thing from him as I fall apart.
“Evie.”
I grumble and swat at the warm pressure at my back, a heavy hand at my waist over the thick quilt. Beckett huffs a laugh and his hand squeezes, rubbing over the flank of my thigh and back again. I have marks on my legs from the metal of the table last night, light bruises from when Beckett pulled me from the edge, turned me around, and bent me at the waist.There, he said with his mouth at my ear, his hand between my legs.Now we can both watch.
I shiver as I remember, and Beckett gives a knowing chuckle above me.
“Why did you wake me up?” I whine into the pillow, pulling the blankets further over my shoulder and burrowing down. His bed is perfectly warm, his body my own personal space heater.
Except his body is currently fully dressed and above the covers, a baseball hat pulled backwards over his messy blonde hair. I blink at him over my shoulder, confused.
“Why are you dressed? Is everything okay?”
His thumb traces over my bottom lip, a half-smile on his handsome face. “Everything is fine. Kind of. They delivered our saplings to the wrong farm. Barney and I have to drive up to upstate New York and grab them.”
“New York?”
He hums in the affirmative.
I blink some more. “Right now?”
