I shivered at the raspy need in his voice.
Sexy underwear was my splurge. I worked two jobs in order to pay off my pile of debt, but I couldn’t resist extravagant underwear. Whether I was walking dogs or stocking books, I liked knowing I wore something sexy under my clothes.
The matching bra and panty set in bold fuchsia had set me back half a paycheck, but the spark in Beckett’s eye told me it had been worth every penny. The flimsy bra barely contained the swell of my breasts. My nipples peaked into hard pebbles under Beckett’s lustful gaze, the pink areolas visible beneath the sheer lace.
Beckett looked at me like he wanted to devour me. I felt the same about him. I’d seen him shirtless before, but never this close and never in my apartment, where his masculinity was magnified by my feminine touches. Beckett’s strong masculine chest, which could have been carved from a slab of granite, contrasted sharply with the pastel quilt draping my bed.
I reached for him, fingers fumbling to pry open his belt. Beckett gently pushed my fingers away so he could pop the button and lower the zipper.
He shed his pants, revealing black boxer briefs that left little to the imagination and a pair of black socks decorated with red and white baseballs.
“Do you own any socks that don’t look like you bought them at a clown shop?”
Beckett grinned. Dimples winked. Ovaries may have exploded.
“Nope.” He reached for me.
I wound my arms around his neck, coming up on tiptoe for his kiss. “You’re too tall.”
His hands cupped my ass, and he lifted me into his arms. “Maybe you’re too short.”
I hooked my legs around his hips, delighting in the advantage of not having to stretch to get to the level of his mouth. My tongue plunged between his lips, and he made a little noise of pleasure that had me grinding against him.
Beckett broke the kiss and swore softly as he set me down on my feet.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
Beckett was breathing fast, and an impressive hard-on strained against the cloth of his briefs. There was no way I could misinterpret the signs that he wanted me.
“What’s the problem?” My stomach dropped.
Then he said the words that no half-naked woman in sexy underwear wants to hear.
“I have to tell you something.”
My heart sank. “Okay.”
“It’s about Miranda Lockhart,” he said.
My heart took another trip south, this time to land on the ground, ready to be stomped. I braced myself for his confession.
“Were you lying about her?”
“Not exactly.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly conscious of my near nudity. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have while dressed in skimpy underwear. I reached down and grabbed the nearest article of clothing I could find—Beckett’s shirt. I shrugged it on and buttoned a few buttons, firing an angry glance at Beckett who was just standing there staring at me with a perplexed expression, as if he wasn’t about to rip my heart out of my chest.
“Do you have any liquor?” he asked.
I glared at him. “You need a drink to tell me what happened with you and Miranda Lockhart?”
I didn’t wait for him to answer as I marched into the kitchen and tore open the freezer door. I kept an emergency stash of chocolate and a bottle of vodka in there. I shoved up the sleeve on Beckett’s shirt and reached for the bottle.
The shirt was another mistake. Buttery soft, slightly damp, and smelling deliciously of Beckett’s aftershave, the shirt sent a shiver of longing down my spine. I wanted him even when I shouldn’t, even when whatever he wanted to tell me required clothing and a shot of liquor.
I suddenly wished I’d never heard the name Miranda Lockhart. I took the bottle back to Beckett, not bothering with glasses.
He was sitting on the couch wearing only the tight briefs, a miserable expression on his face.
