Page 49 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
“I know … but I just can’t commit to anything right now, and while using him for sex again is an incredibly appealing option, that’s not fair to him either.”
“Not fair to him or not fair to you?” she asks over her shoulder as she releases me and heads back to the island. “Huh?”
“Well, it seems to me the problem is about being fair to you. You like him and you are afraid to feel more. Becks is persistent, Had…. How are you going to keep him at bay until you figure your shit out?”
I know she’s right, know all of her points are more than valid but don’t really want to admit that to her because then she’ll start in on how I should just let things play out when I can’t break promises I’ve made to myself.
I’m so sick of thinking about everything. How did this easy conversation get so heavy when all I want to do is relax with my friend and not think?
“Fuck a duck.” I sigh, slinking down into my chair and lifting my face up to stare at the ceiling for a moment of clarity that doesn’t seem to want to come to me.
“Speaking of fucking …” She draws out the last word, my head snapping up as she folds her arms across her chest and leans her hips back against the counter with a knowing smile. “We need to address that department.”
The combination of wine and Rylee randomly switching topics has jostled my thoughts as I try to keep up with her thought process. When my mind finally catches up, my mouth falls lax momentarily and then spreads into a cat-ate-the-canary grin, a little shocked at the role reversal between us still and a whole lot relieved at the levity that I so desperately need.
“So … how is he?” She flashes her eyebrows up, and her eyes dance with suggestion.
Incredible. Incomparable.
They are the first words to flicker through my mind when I understand what she’s asking but I’m able to stop the reflex reaction before the words slip off of my tongue. Thoughts and memories f
licker through my mind at a rapid pace, my core reacting with that sweet ache between my thighs.
I close my eyes for a second to reminisce and feel the soft glow of wine and good friendship, the buzz easing my momentary emotional discord so that I can do what I always do best. Something I’ve been missing about myself. My ability to have a little fun and give Rylee a good run for her money.
“Well,” I begin, fighting my own libidinous smirk, “he’s definitely triple-A material.”
“Oh really?”
“Mm-hmm,” I hum appreciatively, “anyplace, anytime, anywhere. Hell, life’s all about the amount of laughs and orgasms you can have, and damn if that man didn’t up the ante.” The grin feels good as it spreads on my lips.
Rylee throws her head back and laughs before shaking it at me. “There’s my girl! You’re lucky I didn’t ask you if he fucks like he drives,” she says, repeating the question I asked her after she slept with Colton for the first time. Her smile is smug as she lifts her glass to finish off her wine.
“Ha. I believe your husband is the one who drives.” I relax for the first time since we started this conversation, knowing that it wasn’t just Rylee’s curiosity that made her change the subject. She’s made her points; she isn’t going to push them any harder now that she knows I actually heard them. Now she’s leaving it up to me to mull them over and figure out what to do with Becks in the meantime.
And the answer is nothing until I get results. I know I’m stubborn, but I just can’t bring myself to cross the imaginary line I’ve drawn in the sand.
I pull myself from my thoughts, returning my attention to my best friend and the grin on her face. “All I’m going to say is it’s a damn good thing he works with his hands for a living,” I confess with a flash of my smile, “because I’m sure as fuck a lot to handle, and this girl is most definitely not complaining when he has those hands full of me.” I raise my eyebrows up at her and leave that as the only explanation she needs for now.
Chapter 17
The smile on my face feels good as I carry the empty platter into the kitchen for Rylee. I set it in the sink half-full of dishes and begin putting some of the condiments on the counter away so that they don’t spoil.
I hum along to the music floating in from the deck outside, where about a dozen or so of Colton’s crew members are milling around, talking or standing in the pool with beers in their hands. It’s the most relaxed I’ve felt in forever, and I hope this is a sign that things are going to be okay. That I’m going to be okay.
I shake my head, hating the sense of battle that’s always a constant in me. I want to feel hopeful, but the fear never quite goes away.
I adjust the top of my suit to make sure it covers the bandage over the incision and check myself in the reflection of the window above the sink. I nearly jump out of my skin when I see Becks’s reflection there. I yelp and spin around to see him standing on the opposite side of the kitchen, in board shorts and a baseball cap, his arms folded across his bare chest. I only have a second to take in the whole, incredible package because when I meet his eyes I can’t look away.
Figures, just as I was starting to feel like myself again—Ry’s talk helped pull bits of myself from the dust, brushing them off to take their place again as hope tried to raise its weary head—the appearance of my biggest weakness and number one complication brings it all back in an instant. My heart falls into my stomach at the sight of him, turning my relaxing afternoon into an obstacle course of pitfalls.
Our gazes lock. Although his eyes are intense, they’re shadowed by the brim of his hat, so I can’t quite see if the anger I deserve is there or not. I exhale the breath I was holding as nerves slowly flicker to life under his quiet scrutiny. I glance toward the patio doorway and then back to him in a move that earns me a low, condescending chuckle from him.
“You gonna run out that door too without saying a word? Seems par for the course. Or are you going to stand here and explain just what the fuck happened?”
The bite in his tone stings but I deserve it. I work a swallow down my throat as I stand before him feeling completely vulnerable. I fiddle with the string on the hip of my bikini bottoms, which causes his eyes to flicker down momentarily before coming back up to my eyes without even stopping to take in the deep V of my cleavage.
And I know that means he’s really pissed.
