America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(88)

“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.





Thirty-Five





Sarah



My dress is dangling on my top half and still clinging to my lower half when Beck carries me down the hallway and turns into a bedroom.

A large, airy, silver-and-black bedroom with a marble fireplace and two huge armchairs, a bookshelf full of comic books, and a king-size bed with rumpled sheets and a black comforter tossed half-off. The room opens onto a patio that I can’t see well through the glass, but there are definitely fairy lights out there, among other lights. He turns another corner, and then we’re in a bathroom the size of my bedroom with a massive soaking tub and a glass-walled shower with a rainspout and wall nozzles. He sets me gently on the marble counter, riffles through a drawer in the vanity beneath the sink, and comes up with a makeup remover cloth and two clean black washcloths.

I suck in a breath.

Of course he has makeup remover.

“Close your eyes,” he says gruffly, and because he’s so very serious, I do as asked.

He warms the water, and a moment later, he’s wiping a warm washcloth over my face, removing the makeup, then rubbing soft, slow circles over my skin, massaging my face.

And not talking.

Beck.

Not talking.

I start to pry open one eyelid, but he whispers, “Closed, Sarah.”

And then he’s softly wiping my eyes too.

So gentle.

So very gentle.

Like I’m delicate and he doesn’t want to break me.

I suck in a shuddery breath while my heart swells, because in my entire life, no one has ever treated me as though I’m delicate.

My feelings, yes—my parents walked on eggshells for a few years after prom. Before it too, if I’m being honest, because my teen years were ugly for all the reasons.

But physically—not like this.

He uses the warm washcloth to massage my forehead. My cheeks. Around my eyes. My jaw and chin. So very gently over my lips. Down my neck.