Page 28 of Finding Peace
His mouth crashes back onto mine, stealing my breath as he backs me up once more until my hips hit the edge of a desk cluttered with papers, pens, and legal pads.
I barely have time to register that this isn’t his desk before everything goes flying.
Paper, a mug, and a tray full of paperclips clatter to the floor as Beau sweeps it all aside with one arm without even breaking our kiss.
I break away just long enough to murmur, breathless, “Lincoln is going to kill you.”
He huffs a laugh against my mouth. “I don’t give a fuck. I’ll clean it up later.”
Then his hands are on me again—urgent, decisive—as he shrugs my coat off my shoulders, then my sweatshirt, then my shirt, each layer discarded as carelessly as the contents of Lincoln’s desk.
His eyes dip, just for a second.
And the look on his face tells me that he needs this just as badly as I do.
His warm palms skate over my bare skin, thumbs brushing just enough to make me shiver without quite giving me what I want. I make a frustrated sound into his mouth, and Beau grins against my lips, seemingly pleased with himself.
“That noise,” he groans. “It’s gonna get me into trouble.”
“With who?” I breathe, tilting my head so his mouth can slide along my jaw.
“Me,” he says promptly.
His lips trail down my jawline, slow and deliberate, as he maps my skin with his mouth. Kissing. Lingering. Teeth grazing just enough to make my pulse stutter before his mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath my ear and lightly bites at the skin.
I gasp, and he groans right back—deep and unrestrained—and the sound vibrates against my skin. “Jesus, Darlin’,” he mutters, forehead pressing into my neck like he quite literally needs a second to gain his composure. “You taste like you’re about to ruin me.”
I smile, breathless. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
His laugh is soft and wrecked. “It’s aproblem.” I must tense at his words because he clarifies, “All I want to do is spend every minute of every day trying to get you to make those sounds. Trying to taste you. Trying to get you to just smile in my direction. I’d happily forget about anything and anyone so long as I’m lucky enough to breathe your air.”
Dragging my mouth along the line of his throat, I feel him tense beneath me, his hands tightening instinctively at my hips. His words make my head spin as he tilts his head back just enough to give me access, and I don’t hesitate to take it.
When I pull back, his eyes are drowning in hunger.For me.
He straightens, just slightly, and that’s when I see them.
The scars.
I’ve noticed them before, fleeting glimpses when his shirt rode up or that night with him and Lawson, or even on Christmas Eve. But this—this is the first time I really see them. They’re pale against his skin. Old. Some thin and faint, others thicker. One in particular catches my eye, though. It’s longer. Angrier. And it sits just beneath the ranch brand tattooed over his chest.
Without thinking, I sit up a little and reach out.
My fingers brush the scar gently, and Beau flinches.
It’s not violent, and he doesn’t pull away, just a sharp intake of breath and his jaw tightening for a split second before he forces himself to relax.
I still my hand immediately. “Hey,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. Did that hurt?”
His eyes flick down to where my fingers hover, then back to my face. He shakes his head as his large hand wraps around my wrist, guiding my hand back to his chest.
“How did you get this?” I ask softly.
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer.
Instead, he reaches out and traces a small scar on my biceps—one from one of Maxim’s worst temper tantrums. His thumb moves over it with a gentleness that makes my throat tighten. “Probably the same way you got yours,” he responds quietly.
Something unspoken and heavy passes between us.
