Page 102 of Almost Enough

“I’d bail you out, babe,” I say cheerfully. “Want me to feed you while you drive?”

He glances at me, that intensity back in his gaze. “Don’t think I’m not going to make you pay for that later.”

A shiver runs down my spine. “Promises, promises.”

He groans in response. I take a bite of my burger, licking a bit of sauce off my thumb slowly, because if I’m already playing with fire, I might as well pour gasoline on it. “You growl a lot, but you like it.”

He doesn’t deny it. His eyes flick over me every few seconds, likely plotting his revenge. So basically, mission accomplished.

When we finally reach his place, he kills the engine but doesn’t move immediately. Just sits there, staring straight ahead, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The next thing I know, he’s slamming the driver door behind him, the food forgotten as he comes around to my side and hauls me out of the truck. His movements are urgent, almost desperate as he fumbles with the keys, cursing under his breath when they slip from his fingers.

I laugh, and he silences me with a bruising kiss that steals my breath.

We’re inside for about half a second before he has me pinned against the wall. His eyes are dark with hunger as they rake over me.

“Think that was funny?” His hands slide up my thighs, bunching my dress around my waist.

I grin. I can’t help it. “Yes, sir. I do.”

His responding groan is downright filthy. There’s something unhinged about Beau when he lets go like this. And the best part? I’m the one who does that to him.

It’s as if some internal override switch gets flipped and suddenly the man who communicates in grunts and silence around other human beings is whispering things in my ear that would make a sailor blush.

Specific, devastating things. It’s honestly kind of poetic. Shakespeare could never.

“Still feeling arrogant?” he murmurs against my throat.

“Define arrogant.”

He nips my collarbone in response, and I nearly black out. His hands grip my ass, lifting me until I’m forced to wrap my legs around him or fall. I do, clinging to his shoulders as he carries me to the kitchen. The countertop is cold under my thighs, but his hot, rough palms make me forget everything else.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He lifts my dress around my hips to find me already bare.

“Well, Beau. Have you ever deep throated a hardworking man in public? Turns you on a bit. Maybe you should do something about it.”

He parts me with his thumbs and leans down, his tongue lapping up everything he can find like he needs it for survival. My head tips back, a burst of pleasure detonating low and deep.

He devours me like he’s starving, and when I come undone, it’s with a scramble of fingernails on a butcher-block counter and a cry I can’t even begin to muffle. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He just holds on through the aftershocks until I have to push him away, knees trembling around his head.

“Mercy,” I pant, and he grins up at me—feral, cocky, proud.

He comes to a stand before me with his mouth glistening and kisses me, letting me taste myself on his tongue. It’s obscene. It makes me want to melt into him and never leave.

Beau doesn’t give me time to regroup. He spins me off the counter, steadies me when my knees buckle, and walks me backward until the backs of my thighs hit the arm of his couch. He tips me so I fall, sprawled and open, my sundress now raised up even higher and sitting just above my waist.

He stares down at me, chest heaving. “You look so fucking pretty like that.”

“Like what?” My voice is a ragged whisper. The way he’s looking at me, all hungry and reverent and possessive, makes my skin go hot and prickly.

His strong, capable hands grip my knees, spreading them wider.

“Drenched.” A pause. “Needy.”

No denial here. I am both of those things. I’m also possibly dehydrated. Definitely running short on functioning brain cells. And teetering on the precarious edge of falling in love with a man who just said drenched and needy to my face with steady eye contact.

I am cooked.

thirty