I know I should be offended, know I should be pissed he’s drawing a comparison between me and an untamed animal, but hell if I can think of a comeback other than: “Tame them?” My words mingle with the warmth of his breath, and as we stand here on my front porch, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world.

“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs, and just lets the comment hang in the air between us. “But I learned a long time ago that no man should tame what is wild.”

“Really?”

His fingertip trails down my bare arm, slowly, taunting, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me. “Yep,” he whispers so that his lips just barely brush mine. I want to groan out in frustration but grasp firmly to my dignity that’s slipping oh so slowly from my clutches. “Wild keeps a man on his toes … causes him to always pay attention, not take a single thing for granted. When a man gets complacent, he can lose sight of what matters most.”

My breath is shaky, his soft spoken words hitting deep within me. Making me want and need and hope for things I don’t think I deserve, things I’ve told myself are not fair to ask for.

“Becks …” I swallow over what I tell myself is the lust lodged in my throat, but I know it’s so much more than just lust between us.

He moves his head so that his lips are near my ear, causing me to remember what they said the last time they were so close. “Did you come yet, Haddie?” The change of subject shouldn’t surprise me. I should have known he was going to bring us back to this, but fuck me if that question doesn’t leave me weak in the knees.

“Yes. Thank you for last night. It may have been my hand, but my thoughts were on you … and it was mind-blowing.” I lie. It’s all I have at this point because if we continue this little power play charade, I’m going to be in a puddle at his feet in mere minutes. And hell no, I didn’t get myself off, didn’t want to ease that ache he’d ordered me not to assuage because there is something so goddamn hot about doing what you’re told when it comes to sex.

I hear his breath catch in surprise, his fingers pressing into my arm where they trail along my skin, and his face pulls back so he can look in my eyes. It’s my turn to give him that smug look, that “Who has the upper hand now?” challenge in the raise of my eyebrows. His eyes search mine, and I know before long he’ll know I’m lying, so I reiterate my thoughts from moments ago. My lips curl up, and my head angles to the side. “I have a pussy. I win,” I taunt him. And I think a small part of me wants him to call my bluff, right here, right now, and drag him upstairs to prove otherwise.

But he doesn’t. He just meets me stare for stare, smirk for smirk, challenge for challenge. “While you may have a point, I think you’re wrong. You may have the pussy, Haddie, but I’m most definitely the one who will win it.”

“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” And hell if the confidence isn’t sexy on him.

“Hm. You may have said no strings, but you most definitely didn’t say anything about rope.”

Damn. “You want to tie me up, then? I never took you for that type, Becks.” I try to deflect him with my comment, but hell if the words don’t have me wanting him even more.

He laughs low and suggestive. “I might be. I might not be. What type I am doesn’t matter because what does is the fact that ropes or no ropes, I plan on making you weak, making you hoarse, leaving you breathless. Baby, I can dominate with the best of them. The question here is, how bad do you want it?”

Desperately.

And the volley of power resumes. The dark promise of his words leaves me wanting to relinquish the upper hand because it’s no fun being at the top if there’s no one underneath you.

He leans in and uses his mouth to silence my thoughts. Our mouths meet in a soft whisper of a kiss before his tongue touches the seam of my lips, asking for access. I deny him, fists clenched in restraint, libido protesting my resistance, but I know if I let him kiss me, let him own my every reaction like he so mind-blowingly can, I’ll come undone here on the porch in a matter of seconds, my desire so tangible, I feel like it’s rolling off me in waves.

I think he’s going to be angry at my refusal. I can feel his fingers tense when I hold steadfast. That strained laugh of his surprises me yet again when he leans back, his eyes dancing with victory. “I call your bluff, Haddie Montgomery. You didn’t come, and I’m going to have so much fun proving it.”

And hell if he didn’t just gain the upper hand, but thank God, he did because I don’t mind being the low man on his totem pole, either.



Chapter 20

The sun is strong above, the ground uneven beneath my feet, and I steal a glance at Becks wandering slowly beside me. I’m still trying to process how I ended up here and how Becks showed up at my house, told me I was going with him, and then dared to call my bluff.

And of course being the stubborn, pigheaded, “don’t you dare tell me what to do” woman that I am … I caved.

Fucking caved like a whipped woman, but the funny thing was that in the whole exchange with Becks on my doorstep, not once did I think of the biopsy or the pending results. Not one single time because I was so busy trying not to get lost in him.

So when he told me to go inside, change my outfit, and grab an extra pair of clothes, I didn’t ask any questions. I turned and grabbed my things, and hopped into his truck to find a pile of fur and thumping tail that I couldn’t help but smile at.

Yep. I wasn’t fooling myself, either. When I climbed into his car, I hoped like hell that wherever the Beckstination we were going to, there would be a requirement of a lot fewer clothes and a lot more of Becks. Naked. On me. In me.

I pull myself back to the present. To the expanse of land that holds Becks’s parents’ old but absolutely gorgeous farmhouse. To the barn with its horses and the brace of ducks driving his dog, Rex, crazy when they walk near him and then fly up onto a loft area, where he can’t reach. I take in the field of long grass we are walking through, but mostly it’s the simplicity of it all—clean air, bad cell reception, the sparkling water of the pond ahead in the distance—that I savor.

This is what I expected of Beckett Daniels the night I was at his condo and thought he didn’t fit: laid back, simplistic in needs and in what impresses him. I glance over at him and question his nonchalance. The silence between us may be comfortable, but the sexual tension is so goddamn charged, I fear that if someone lit a match, the space between us would catch fire.

And then I wonder what his point is in bringing me here today, besides calling my bluff. I know that there’s more to it, that he must have an ulterior motive in taking a drive to clear his head, as he so kindly explained. The small talk we made on the way here after I decided not to be angry at him anymore has been less than informative about his state of mind … so I’m just trying to figure out what gives here.

Because the thing that needs to give more than anything right now is the zipper of his damn shorts.

Rex comes bounding up and distracts me as Becks takes his ball and throws it ahead of us, where it gets lost in the grass. I sigh with a shake of my head, finally deciding to break the silence of our walk. “Oh, Becks, what is this between us, huh? You are so not my type.” I don’t mean the comment as an insult but rather just an observation, and I realize what it sounds like the minute it’s out of my mouth.

I see him nod his head in acknowledgment of my comment. “Is that another one of those rules of yours?” he asks, amusement woven in his tone. I laugh aloud at the reminder of my bumbling rules, which I couldn’t even think of the last time he called me on the spot.

We walk a bit more, my head trying to recollect my rules because sure as fuck I know I’m breaking about five of them right now being here with him.

“Seriously, Haddie,” he says, and reaches out and takes my hand in his, our first physical connection since we left my house and my body hums anew with his touch. “What’s your type? Dante?”

And the way he says Dante’s name—like an insignificant and yet irritating blip on the radar—has me fighting the smirk on my lips. I keep my head down, watching my Converse move over the dusty earth beneath me, when he squeezes my hand to inform me he’s waiting for an answer. A part of me wants to change the subject, make this conversation easier since it seems I just keep hurting him, but at the same time, I find I want to tell him. Maybe if I do, he’ll realize he’s not my type and then will back off and stop pushing for things I want with him but can’t give.

“Yes. No,” I tell him, and then my feet falter as I begin to explain. I stop for a moment and just look out at the vast field and trees beyond us, not sure where exactly I should go with this answer. “Shit, I usually go for the rebel. The one who has the least stability and does everything unexpected. Everything opposite of you.”

He snorts a laugh and shakes his head. “Well, then you sure don’t know me very well, now, do you?” I slide a glance over at him, trying to figure out if he’s being serious or joking, but he cuts off the moment when he continues. “Besides, Colton is off the market.”

“Well, Colton only has eyes for Rylee, so I would have never even attempted that route,” I respond immediately, a little irritated at his assumption I would have made a play for Colton. “Besides, there are plenty more out there.” And it feels weird to be having this conversation with him when I’m holding his hand.

“So you like getting your heart broken, then?” He tugs my hand so that I’m forced to face him. There is amusement in his smile but something a tad more intense in his eyes, and I can’t seem to get a read on it.