Chapter 34

34

Beck

I can't keep my hands to myself.

Or my mouth, for that matter.

And since Sarah's kissing me back, her hands clutching my shirt, I decide that I'm just going to live right here, in the back of this car, and kiss her—and more—for the rest of my life.

Thank fuck I live in a time when we can order food to be delivered to the back seat of a car.

And when I can meet a total stranger who just might be the love of my life thanks to invisible waves floating through the air to computers in our pockets.

What an awesome world.

The car jerks to a stop, and I realize we're back at my building.

Huh.

"Do you want to stay here or go upstairs?" I ask her. On a pant. I don't want to quit kissing her.

Her nose wrinkles, and I realize she probably wasn't thinking about living in a car just to make out, but now I want to know what she was thinking about.

I can't read her through all that makeup.

"Upstairs," I say, and I get distracted by her collarbone, because it's undoubtedly the shapeliest collarbone in the history of bones. And collars. And it's right there on display in this dress that I hate despite how pretty it is as far as dresses go, and how much of her collarbones it shows, because she's not comfortable in it.

Dammit .

I have to get her upstairs and out of this ridiculous getup.

I move so fast she's gaping at me as I reach across her and fling the car door open. "C'mon. Upstairs. Go."

"Bossy."

"I'll make out with you in the elevator."

She laughs, then she winces when there's a distinct ripping noise.

But she's climbing out. I strip out of my coat and fling it around her shoulders so that wherever she's ripping, nobody has to see, and we're not exactly alone here, because we're being dropped at the front of the building, not the back, or in the garage. I hustle her inside and to my private elevator and hit the button for the penthouse, and then I have my hands on her again.

Her hips. Her ass.

"Oh, no, here." She swipes her thumb over my mouth.

I must be wearing her lipstick. Not that I mind.

Especially if it means she's touching me.

"I hate this stuff," she mutters, and yeah, I hate it too. Not because I'm wearing it, but because all that mascara is obstructing my view of her eyes.

"I want to kiss you until I can't remember how to breathe."

Those gorgeous chocolate pools lift to meet my gaze, and I feel like I've taken another ten thousand volts to the chest.

So fucking gorgeous.

So fucking perfect.

"It's the dress," she says.

"Sarah." I blow out an impatient breath. "I don't care what you're wearing. It's you ."

Her brows furrow, but she's wearing a smile as she continues to wipe at my lips. I capture her hand and press kisses to her fingers.

"You make me feel pretty all the time," she whispers.

"You're so much more than just pretty."

We get to the top floor, and I lock the elevator, because hell if I'm letting anyone else in right now. And then I pull Sarah to the kitchen.

"What—" she starts.

Her eyes go round when I pull a pair of scissors out of the island drawer.

"How much do you like this dress?" I ask.

"Zipper!" she shrieks, and there's one more distinct sound of a seam ripping.

"Hold on, baby, I'll have you breathing free again in just a minute." Sure enough, there's a zipper on the back of her dress. I yank the tab down, and she sucks in a giant breath as the fabric opens.

"Oh my god, that feels so good."

Her legs are still shrink-wrapped in the dress. "You honestly like this thing?"

"Don't start, fashion police. I like gold lace , okay? It brings out my eyes."

"I love your eyes. Especially when they're not surrounded by insect legs. I'd like your dress better if it wasn't strangling you."

She's laughing as she turns, giving me another look at those shoulder blades, and fuck if I'm not hard in an instant.

Her shoulder blades are just as sexy as her collarbones.

Maybe more so.

So shouldery. And bladey. And covered in soft Sarah skin. And leading down to the curviest ass that I want to stroke and knead all fucking night long.

"The zipper goes lower," she tells me over her shoulder. "If you can get it…down…"

I stop her before she spins in a circle trying to reach it herself, and I stand behind her and tug her zipper lower, below her mid-back, to her waist, and lower, over the curve of her ass, my hand shaky, my dick aching.

I can't see her skin lower than her shoulder blades, because it's all still held in by a nude bodysuit. She casts a furtive glance at the solid wall of windows looking out over the twinkling city lights.

"Mabel, dim the windows," I say.

"Dimming windows," my digital assistant says, and the blinds automatically lower from their case in the ceiling.

"Oh my god, that was so hot," she whispers. "But Mabel's not spying on us, is she?"

"Mabel, go to sleep."

"Behave yourself and use a condom," she replies in her electronic voice. "Night-EE. Night."

"Fucking Hank," I mutter.

But Sarah's laughing, and then wheezing. "Oh my god, get me out of this thing."

Who am I to deny a lady in need?

I try to wedge a finger under the undergarment, and my digit starts to go numb in seconds. "I forbid you to ever wear a piece of shit like this ever again," I inform her.

"You forbid me?"

"Don't use that don't go all macho man voice on me. This is your circulation we're talking about. I can't give you a double orgasm if you can't feel your pussy."

She stops talking.

She also sucks in a deep breath, which makes the industrial-strength rubber band she's wrapped in pinch my finger tighter, and fuck, I hope I don't cut either one of us, but it's not like I'm calling in reinforcements to get her naked.

And I don't even care about getting her naked.

I mean, I do , but I'm really more concerned about making sure she can breathe.

"If I cut my finger off, I want you to carry on without me," I tell her while I angle my finger deeper beneath the death Lycra. "You need to breathe more than I need the tip of my finger."

She laughs again, but I manage to use my superhuman strength to stretch the mutant rubber band away from her skin far enough to snip the edge of it, and then I drop the scissors and pull.

And grunt.

And yank.

Shit.

And then I have to pick the scissors up again and snip-snip-snip my way down the bodysuit.

While she shakes with silent laughter.

I'd make a fool of myself all night long to hear her laugh.

When I have it split down to the base of her spine, I put the scissors down—again—and this time, I wrap my arms around her belly and press a kiss to her shoulder. "The entertainment part of the evening is now complete," I tell her.

She shivers, and goosebumps erupt all over her smooth skin.

"You want some sweatpants?" I ask, my lips still on her delicious skin.

Honey.

She always tastes like honey.

"No," she whispers.

"Dammit, don't tell me you want more rubber bands. We'll have to go down to the office. If you're into bondage, we can do it in ways where you'll still be able to breathe. I think. I'll have to google that too."

"Beck."

"You have the sexiest voice."

She twists in my arms so she's facing me, and her fingers go to my bow tie. "I have a confession," she whispers.

"I'm a vault of silence. Please don't ever stop touching me."

God , that smile.

But it's wrong. It's not the right color.

"I have a thing for guys who wear real bow ties." She expertly unties me and leaves it hanging loose around my neck, then starts on my buttons.

"I have a thing for ladies who have things for guys who wear real bow ties."

Her fingers still while she studies me. "Then why the frown? You never frown."

Because I can't see her eyes clearly through all the goop on her lashes, and her lips are the wrong color, and this isn't Sarah .

It's the Hollywood Fake Sarah.

I don't like it.

She squeals when I swing her up in my arms. "Beck? What?—"

"I miss you ," I tell her.

And I'm fucking going to find her.