Page 70 of Under Pressure

My next exhale escapes me in a rush, tainted with a barely there moan. The door moves slightly against my back when the handle turns. It doesn’t press forward, though, like he’s still waiting for me to give him permission.

“Your choice, baby. Either tell me to leave or move away from the door and let me inside,” he rasps.

I swallow, hating myself just a bit for how little self-control I have around this man. Letting him in would be stupid, careless. The moment I do, I’ll lose the upper hand. He’ll learn that I’m nowhere near as closed off as he thinks I am toward him, and whatever safety cushion I’ve left between us will go poof.

“Did you mean what you said before? That it wouldn’t need to be a relationship?”

The slight delay has nerves tangling in my belly before he finally speaks, settling them. “Yes.”

“It could be . . . simple?”

My pussy’s pulsing around my fingers, clenching angrily as I hold myself still, refusing to continue. I don’t want to make myself come. For the first time in what feels like forever, I want someone else to do that for me. I want Beck to do it.

“The only one who would need to believe anything different is Ruthie. Other than that, we can do this how you want, gorgeous.”

It’s enough for me. Before I can second-guess my decision, Istep away from the door. A small breeze caresses my bare back, letting me know that he’s opened it. I lift my arm to shield my breasts as I close my eyes and wait. The moment is more vulnerable than anything I’ve faced in a long time. I’m not completely naked, but I may as well be.

Fear shreds at my belly, making me tremble beneath his gaze. His cologne fills the air around me, followed by his heat and the subtle brush of his arm against mine. My inhale is shaky, too shallow. I’m instantly angry with myself for feeling like this. I’m not a self-conscious person. I’ve long since stopped caring what other people think when they look at me. The only opinion I give any weight to is my own, and I accepted my body a long time ago.

So why do I feel the need to run from the room as Beck looks at me, seeing the rolls on my back and stomach and the thickness of my love handles?

My fingers remain in my shorts, frozen like the rest of me. I’m not expecting the knuckle that curls beneath my chin, tipping it. A calloused fingertip traces the shape of my bottom lip before drawing a soft line across my cheekbone and the tip of my ear. The gentle exploration melts away my tension and stills my trembling. I inhale a full breath but keep my eyes shut.

“Do you know how beautiful you are? How possessed I feel when I look at you, not only now, but always? It doesn’t matter if you’re wearing your apron and a pair of baggy jeans or one of your slouchy shirts and a pair of tight shorts. And right now, I don’t think I deserve to see you like this. Nobody does.”

My lungs seize, trapping my breath inside. I open my eyes, needing to see him, to know for sure he’s telling the truth. The last thing I find in his electric-green eyes is dishonesty. How could I, when he’s staring down at me like he wants nothing more than to close the gap between us and press our lips together in a kiss that I’d be a fool to believe wouldn’t change my entire life.

His hair is still wet, with droplets of water hanging from themessy strands curling at his forehead and behind his ears. The naked torso in front of me is beautiful. Sculpted to perfection and thick in all the right places. I remember how his abs felt beneath my touch the other day, rigid and so hot to the touch I was shocked I didn’t find burn marks afterward. I’ve never felt muscles like his before or even had a guy like him want me to touch him like that.

And certainly not like his heart would have given out if I took my hand away too soon.

The white towel he has tied at his waist is almost too small. There’s a slit in the thigh where there isn’t enough fabric to close. His groin is hidden, though. The wrap job is tight enough that I can see the outline of him beneath it. I trap a whimper when I remember how thick and long he was in his hand . . . how the water cascaded down his big, powerful body as he stroked himself, never looking away from me until he came?—

He grazes the backs of his fingers up my arm, trailing them along the curve of my shoulder and to the base of my throat, where my pulse races furiously. I arch toward him, unable to fight the pull any longer. The contact feels so, so fucking good, and I need more of it.

His eyes flare with liquid heat when I lower my arm. I watch in awe as he lowers his gaze to my heavy breasts and the flushed pink tips that feel like they could shatter at any moment. He shifts his hand between us, and I expect him to grab my boobs, but he circles his fingers around my wrist instead. I hold my breath, watching him free it from my shorts and lift it. My core clenches when he focuses his attention on my glistening skin and groans.

I’m not expecting him to drag my two fingers across his lips and then push them inside, sucking them into his mouth. My eyelids fall to half-mast, arousal burning in my veins. His tongue glides between them a final time before he pulls them free and presses my slick hand to his bare chest.

“What do you need, Quinn?” he asks, his voice nothing more than a winded whisper.

“Touch me.”

A full-body shiver works through him. “Please let me kiss you.”

I drop my chin to nod, but he catches me before I can. With the green light, he cups my face in his hands and bends to press his lips to mine.

The kiss turns my brain off. It powers down my thoughts and frees me from the endless list of worries and frustrations that I’m plagued with every single hour of every day. Suddenly, he’s the only thing that matters.

This moment.

I let my moan flow into his mouth and part my lips for him the moment his tongue glides across them. He doesn’t go too hard or fast. The pressure is soft, more exploratory than desperate despite the firm hold he has on my cheeks. I let our tongues meet and sigh into him when he follows my lead instead of setting his own.

Everything about this kiss is perfect for me.

It’s the kind of kiss you write songs about. Or dedicate a novel to. It’s the kiss you reminisce on when you’re three glasses of wine deep with your girls and need to share why you haven’t been able to move on from that one guy you fell in love with years ago.

I finally defrost my limbs and drag my hand up and over his shoulder, holding on to it for balance when I push onto my tiptoes, deepening the kiss. He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and sucks on it before releasing it and going back for more. I plaster my breasts to his chest and push him backward, toward the bed I’ve been sleeping in.