Page 51
Beckett turned the deadbolt on the bathroom door behind them. He didn’t care if the gossip websites ran a story the next day about him sneaking off with his fiancée, if they speculated about what they did behind that locked door when they should have been in the ballroom raising money for charity—the only thing he cared about was Kat. Seeing for himself that she wasn’t hurt, taking care of her.
“This is really not a big deal,” Kat said.
He patted the marble countertop. “Up.”
She cocked a hip, crossed her arms over her chest. “Excuse me? Want to try that again?”
He crowded her against the counter, hooked his hands under her armpits and lifted her until her ass landed on the cool marble. She let out a yelp of surprise.
“You can’t just go around picking people up!” she protested.
He pressed his lips together to suppress his smirk. “Pretty sure I just did.” He tipped his chin towards her dangling leg. “Let me see.”
She rolled her eyes, but when she raised the hem of her dress up to her knee, the flowy fabric sticking on the bloody scratch as it passed, he caught her wince. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re stubborn.”
He grasped her ankle, lifting her leg out straight so he could get a better look at the scratch. It wasn’t deep, but it was long, red, and probably stung like a motherfucker. With his other hand, he grabbed a paper towel from the stack on the counter, wetting it with cool water under the tap.
“Those shoes should be registered weapons,” he muttered as he set to work wiping away the blood, careful to keep his movements slow, gentle.
“You’re missing the party. Jo will have my head if you miss the auction.”
“Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?” He tossed the paper towel into the trash can under the counter and flipped open the first aid kit, rummaging around for some kind of disinfectant and ignoring the hot ball of anxiety behind his ribs.
“You knew she was coming.”
He glanced up at her. “I didn’t. Seems like the kind of thing a woman would tell her fiancé.”
Kat picked at a piece of lint on her skirt. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
He caught her chin with his free hand, tipping her face up to his. “I care. When it comes to you, I always care.”
She chewed on the corner of her lip, her brow furrowing, but he didn’t release his hold on her chin until she gave him a tiny nod. It was small, but it was something. Not enough to ease the pressure in his chest, but a start.
Returning to the first aid kit, he at last located a small bottle of topical antiseptic. He poured the orange-brown liquid onto a gauze pad and dabbed at the scratch, waiting for Kat to continue.
“She’s helping me plan a marketing strategy for my books for the rest of the tour. That way, when it’s over, I can use the momentum from this—” she flexed her foot, pressing the toe of her shoe into the center of his chest with a soft smile that felt like a victory, “—to launch the next phase of my career. Between that and the bonus money, Jo thinks I can take things to the next level. Actually go full time with my writing. With any luck, this will be my last tour.”
His stomach dropped, and he focused on the movement of his finger over her calf as he spread antibiotic ointment along the scratch. “Think it might be our last tour, too,” he said.
“That’s what you said ten years ago, and look at us now.”
His hold on her ankle tightened. “Look at us now,” he repeated, his mouth dry.
They didn’t talk as he covered her scratch with a series of band aids, a row of stacked, tan fabric strips, like buckles on a boot, but he took his time skating his finger over each one. When the last one was firmly in place, he bent and pressed a kiss to her calf, just beneath the lowest bandage. She sucked in a breath as his lips met her skin, but she didn’t pull away. Thank God for that, because now that he had his mouth on her, he wasn’t sure how to stop.
He drew a line of kisses parallel to the band aids up her calf as Kat’s hand sank into his hair, pushing the loose strands away from his face. Planting another kiss on the inside of her knee, he slid his hand up the outside of her thigh, the fabric of her dress gathering beneath his palm. He lifted his eyes to hers, lips hovering above her knee.
He wanted to say so many things, but the words were all jumbled in his head, a tangled mess of regret and desire and longing so deep he was afraid he might drown in it.
Her eyes softened, and she slid her hand through his hair to cup his cheek, her fingertips beneath the curve of his jaw. Christ, it felt good to have her touch him—not because someone was watching but because she wanted to. Because she wanted him.
He turned his face into her hand, pressing a kiss into the center of her palm. With her free hand, she hooked her finger through his belt loop and tugged. He came willingly, stepping between her thighs as blood rushed in his ears, his skin electrified.
“What are we doing?” she whispered.
He wasn’t sure. But he knew didn’t want to stop.
