Slow Burn

Chapter 6

Just fucking peachy?

If there’s supposed to be no strings—which was my own rule, for God’s sake—then why am I standing here staring at Becks’ phone, upset at his nonchalance about last night?

Shit, he has every right to be an asshole to me. I groan at the irony that today of all days Dante would show up and then answer my damn phone.

Beckett’s damn phone.

I rest a hip against the kitchen counter, and as much as I tell my head not to go there, I can’t help the thoughts and images playing in a loop from last night. I remember looking up at him as his arms flexed on either side of my body, filling me, challenging me, satisfying me.

I groan again, trying to shake both the ache from my core and the disquiet, knowing Becks is pissed off. I clench my jaw and shake my head. I shouldn’t care that he’s upset, shouldn’t give a flying fuck that he was snide with me. Whatever. This is exactly what I feared was going to happen. Weirdness between us.

I shake my head in frustration. Can’t a girl get a guy to give her a little dick without thinking that he deserves more?

I sigh out loud, the snarkiness starting to abate and the guilt starting to walk over the well-worn welcome mat laid out for today.

Dante laughs at something he’s watching on the TV in the other room, and I immediately roll my eyes.

Fuck.

I can’t imagine what Becks is thinking right now. I glance down at his phone in my hand and can see how I made the mistake of grabbing the wrong one. I look over to the kitchen counter, where my jeweled phone case rests. The one I took off yesterday so that I could slip my phone into my bra under my dress undetected.

My internal debate over whether to call him back and explain Dante’s presence is almost decided, finger ready to dial, when Dante himself asks the question I’m trying to figure out myself.

“Who was that?”

I look over to him leaning against the doorframe into the kitchen. Hands shoved into his pockets, pushing them to ride low on his hips, a hint of the toned and inked abs beneath showing. He smirks when he sees my eyes dart down to the span of skin. Confidence is something he most definitely doesn’t lack.

“Good question,” I murmur mostly to myself as I try to figure out the answer as well as why I have so many unsettled feelings.

Dante snorts out in amusement. “Babe, you have his fucking phone, so it’s kind of obvious he is somebody.”

What exactly he is to me though, is the damn question. I pull my head from the land of orgasms and what-ifs and tell myself I must be too damn close to my period if I’m this wishy-washy over sex that’s just supposed to be sex.

Head straight, libido on lock down, Montgomery. I look back and focus on Dante—a hot but royal pain in my ass—trying to dig for information and, by the look in his eyes, possibly wanting something more. Dante may see a vacancy sign flashing above my head, but he’d better think again because I’ve grown from the mesmerized girl he once dated. I might have once thrived on the reckless nature of who we were together—living on the edge, sharp words followed by hotter than hell makeup sex. Explosive emotions calmed momentarily for the coveted few days of peace before the cycle started all over again.

I break our connection and glance away; my mind immediately moves back to Becks and the hint of things I don’t deserve. I push all thoughts away and toss the phone on the counter, the thud of it echoing into the emptiness I feel inside of me. “Nah, he’s nothing. Just a mistake.”

“I do believe you used those same words to describe me once,” he says, suggestion in his tone as he makes his way across the kitchen.

“Ha. Exactly. And look where that got me.” I know that look in his eyes, know exactly what that predatory purpose in his walk means, and I grip the edge of the counter, uncertain what I’m holding on for.

I suck in an anticipatory breath as he steps in front of me and places his hands on the counter between my hips and my own hands resting there. “Care for me to show you just how good of a mistake I can be again?” The tenor of his voice washes over me. The pure maleness he exudes tugs momentarily, tempting me to use him as a means to quiet the riot of confusion I’m feeling over Becks.

Use one to forget the other. Yeah, that’s real classy. What is my problem?

I smirk at him, but my eyes fire off a warning to back off. And who the hell am I kidding? Issuing a warning to Dante is like throwing down the gauntlet. And fuck if I didn’t just hear him toss his on the tile floor in acceptance.

“Dream on.” I force out the comment, trying to hide the slight waver in my voice—my only tell that I’m affected by his proximity, by that magnetic draw of his that seems to always be a losing battle for me to fight.

Our eyes lock, with amusement dancing in his as he makes that slow lean into my body. My hands are immediately on his chest, pushing him away, trying to protect myself from everything I usually want. From the temptation I don’t need, but holy fuck, I could use to eradicate those little tentacles of need burrowing beneath the surface in regards to Becks. That need to snuggle into him this morning, make lazy love under the heat of the sun’s rays coming through the window, and the instant swarm of butterflies that fluttered in my stomach when I thought he had come back to the house.

Dante chuckles low and soft, the sound vibrating against my palms pressed against the firmness of his chest that I used to know and use handily like a road map. He knows what he does to me, knows that he’s pegged every number of mine from sixty-nine on down.

“Dante …” My voice trails off as he grabs my hands from his chest and presses them to the counter with his on top of them, holding me there. I glance down, warning bells going off, and when I look up, I don’t even have a chance to speak before his mouth captures mine.

My resistance is fleeting. I’m not sure if it’s the confusion, the need, the what-the-fuck-ever but within seconds his tongue has pressed between my lips. I don’t respond at first, don’t react, but when his tongue connects with mine, it rekindles everything to life. Parts Becks sparked to life last night.

No strings.

I push the thought away and move my body into him. And when I start to respond, Dante takes control. He groans deep in his throat and presses the hard length of his body into mine, hips pinning me to the counter. One hand fists in my hair, and the other presses against my lower back. I accept the domination of the kiss, the command of his touch, a part of me enjoying the current that zings through me. The one that knows just how wild of a ride Dante can be—good, bad, pleasurable, and painful.

And I want to welcome it. The taste of his kiss, the complete chaos he’ll unleash in my life because I’ll be so busy focusing on the scattered mess that I won’t even notice I’m wading through the broken parts of myself that Lexi’s death left behind.

That Becks began to help piece back together last night.

Becks.

Last night.

What in the hell am I doing? I struggle to pull myself from the drug of Dante and the ever-apparent need to lose myself. I press my hands on his shoulders, attempting to pull back from his mouth, but his hand holds firm on my neck. My body tells me it wants this: My heart and head tell me to get my shit together and have some damn dignity. That being festive is fine, but there’s no need to be a twenty-four-hour Mardis Gras.

“No,” I murmur against his lips, knowing that the longer I drink him in, the harder it is going to be to walk away. “No!” I say again with a defiant shove against his chest.

He steps back from me, eyes wide and nostrils flaring. His shoulders move with the force of his panted breaths. I can see anger stemming from my rejection vibrating just beneath the surface, and for a moment, I think it’s going to escape but he reins it in.

My lips tingle from his kiss, but I know this is no good. Would be no good. I push off the counter decisively. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

“What the fuck, Had?” There’s an annoyed exasperation in his voice, but I couldn’t care less.

I keep walking out of the kitchen that now feels so small from his presence. “You want a place to stay? Don’t touch me again.”

His laugh—empty and hollow—follows me out of the kitchen. And there’s something about the sound of it that tugs at me, causes me to stop after I turn the corner to the hallway. I lean my shoulder against the wall momentarily when I realize why it bugs me so much.

It’s the emptiness and hollowness that resonate the loudest.

His laugh echoes what mine has sounded like for the past six months. A false pretense—sounding fine when I’m anything but. I stand there in indecision. The compassionate part of me feels like I need to go back and see what’s wrong, ask what has stolen the warmth from him. I should make sure he’s okay because I sure as fuck know that I’m not. And then the find-another-doorstep-to-cry-on part of me says I need to run like the fucking wind the other way, high heels and all.

Wouldn’t it be nice if the other way led to Becks?

What the fuck? Jesus, Haddie, get a grip.

I sigh and shake my head as I start moving down the hallway toward my bedroom. My head is all over the place, and the all too familiar burn of threatening tears is there.

Again.

I enter my room and flick on some music. Something, anything to concentrate on other than the quick flash of desire downstairs and the slow burn from the man whose telephone I accidentally grabbed.

The problem is that when you purposely want to forget someone, you remember them the most. Lexi. Dante. Becks. All three ride the wave of thoughts crashing around in my head.

It hurts too damn much to think about Lexi. I’ll have the whole goddamn day tomorrow to struggle with her memory, fight the tears, soak in the only part of her I have left, so I push her as best as I can from my head.

The door to the backyard slams shut, and my thoughts are drawn to Dante. Delectable Dante. Damn if there isn’t just a main line from that man’s mouth straight to my crotch. But alongside that is the wrecking ball on a direct path to my heart. So good but so damn bad.

The night we met should have been an indication of our volatility when he mistook me for the wrong girl outside a club. Spun me around and knocked me breathless with his kiss long before he realized I wasn’t who he thought I was. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he realized it, eyes wide with shock and jaw slack. But then that lazy, arrogant smirk grew as we gave each other the once-over, and the look on his face mixed with the fuck-if-I-care attitude emanating off of him … I was lost to lust and not long after falling in love.

We were a predictable disaster: a mixture of spontaneity, recklessness, and youthful, carefree nature. The problem is, with Dante love was never easy. Our relationship came with tempers, constant unpredictability, and the attitude that attracted me eventually turned me off when the fuck-if-I-care was directed my way. He sabotaged us with his disregard for every staple that is needed for a successful relationship. And yet I loved him despite the emotional chaos he unleashed in my heart.

But love isn’t always enough. Especially when the one you love up and leaves without another word and disappears for months.

Hell yes, I loved Dante, but he taught me that when it comes to men, there are only three moods to be had: fuck you, fuck off, and fuck me. Thank goodness the fuck me part was pretty damn good or else the positive memories would be few and far between.

Fuck Dante.

Fuck Beckett.

I snort out a laugh because that’s exactly the problem—my body wants to do just that. And now, of course, I’m thinking of fucking, so my mind can’t help but wander to Becks and his adept demonstration last night. I adjust my hips as a sweet ache settles there at the memory of his hands on me, mouth on mine, cock buried in me. And the way he looked at me while waking up, the iota of hurt in his voice earlier on the phone.

I groan and throw an arm over my eyes as I try to block out the image of him, tan skin against white sheets, hard muscle against soft bedding. It’s useless. I don’t want any strings. None. So why the hell do I feel like he’s already woven them through my thoughts, binding us together somehow?

He’s a keeper. No doubt there. Too bad I’m looking for the disposable version. A Mr. Right Now. But the man won’t leave my mind. I lick my lips, taste Dante there but find myself wishing it was Becks.

This is so not fucking cool. My head had better start giving my body a damn road map and directions on how to get to the same place, and that place is nowhere connected to Beckett Daniels.

My onetime lap around the track with Becks is over.

Fuck.

Time to grab the wheel with both hands again and get control.