He wanted her to want to tell him.
“Beckett?”
“I’m here.” He pushed off the door, paused to make sure it was locked, and then walked down the short hallway to the kitchen and living room. Samara stood at the stove, her hair piled on top of her head in a haphazard bun, wearing a pair of black leggings and a tank top that showed peeks of a bright red bra beneath it.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind. I was going to order takeout, but today was stressful so I’m taking a page from Journey’s playbook and trying to cook some of that irritation out.”
He shrugged out of his suit jacket and crossed to look at the covered pot on the stove. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the mix of spices. Beckett inhaled and closed his eyes. “That smells divine.”
“It’s biryani. My mother’s recipe.” She smiled, but the expression didn’t meet her troubled dark eyes. “You look tired.”
“It’s been a long week.”
Samara shook her head. “It’s Monday.”
“I stand by my statement.” He leaned against the counter. “Do you want to talk about what stressed you out?”
“You know, when I called you I thought I did.” She glanced down at the pan on the stove. “I’m so conflicted right now. I don’t know which way is up, and the more time goes on, the murkier it gets.”
He knew the feeling well. He moved closer to her and cupped her face in his hands. “We can talk when you’re ready.”
She reached over and flipped off the burner. “Dinner will hold for a little bit.” Samara pressed her hands to his chest. “I don’t want to think for a little while, Beckett.”
He kissed her in response. He dug his fingers into her thick hair, enjoying the feel of her as he explored her mouth. She met him stroke for stroke, her wicked tongue flicking against his. Beckett broke the kiss and dragged his mouth along her jawline. “We’ll talk later.”
“Yes, later.” Her hands went to the buttons of his shirt. She undid them at record speed and shoved the offending piece of clothing off his shoulders.
Her gaze landed on the scar that puckered the skin on his shoulder. “This looks bad.”
“It was.” In the middle of a fight with Nathaniel when he was a teenager, he’d fallen down the stairs and almost destroyed his shoulder in the process. His father had been remorseful and felt guilty, but he’d retreated behind his veil of stony silence right around the time Beckett got out of the hospital.
She traced the crooked edges, and he felt the light touch all the way to his toes. Finally, she met his gaze. Her inky eyes gave nothing away, the soft expression gone as if it’d never been there to begin with. “I’m glad you’re here.”
This fragile almost-peace wouldn’t last. There were still too many obstacles in their path for them to truly make things work. He couldn’t even be sure whether she was there because she wanted to be—or if his aunt had ordered her to call him. Beckett cupped her jaw with one hand and dragged his thumb over her full bottom lip. “No business tonight. No fighting or manipulating or bullshit. Just us.”
Her breath hitched. “I’m not going to make a promise I can’t keep.”
He shifted his hold to grip the back of her neck lightly. “No business for the next couple hours, then.”
“Deal.”
A few flicks of his fingers had the straps of her shirt sliding down her arms and revealing the red bra that had caught his attention earlier. Her full breasts looked like they were straining to get free, so he obliged them, inching down the lace to bunch around the underwire, framing her breasts the way they were meant to be framed. Samara’s dark nipples puckered beneath his gaze, an invitation he couldn’t ignore.
“I’m fucking you tonight.”
She laughed, the sound hoarse and needy. “Or maybe I’m the one who’s going to fuck you.”
He managed to drag his gaze back to her face. “Do the semantics matter?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me something.” He cupped one of her breasts and circled her nipple with his thumb. “Is everything a power game with you? Has everything up to this point been part of it?”
Samara arched her back, thrusting herself more firmly into his hand. Her breaths were coming just as fast as his, even though he’d barely touched her. The chemistry between them was a truth he silently dared her to deny. Finally she shook her head as much as his grip would allow. “Power is important. You have it all and I have none.”
“Don’t know how you’re keeping score, but that sounds all sorts of wrong.” He let go of her long enough to pull her shirt over her head and push off her leggings, leaving her in only her underwear. The lace of her panties matched the red of her bra and hid absolutely nothing—if anything, it framed her.
A blatant invitation…if he ignored the threat her thorns presented.
I like the thorns. They made it that much sweeter when she stopped thinking so damn hard and gave herself over to the pleasure.
He took two careful steps back. The picture she presented was almost enough to have him closing the distance between them again, but he managed to hold on to control. Barely. “My bedroom. Go.”
Samara blinked, and then shook her head, her hair sliding over her shoulders with the move. “Wait—”
“I’m not going to repeat myself. You want games, we’ll play games. Now, get your fine ass into my bedroom and wait for me.” Trust me, Samara. Let me help you
