America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(91)

Beck

She’s mine.

I called her. You can’t have her. You snooze, you lose. I licked her. She’s mine now.

Okay, okay.

It’s more like I’m basically going to spend the rest of my life as putty in her hands, because holy fuck, she’s everything.

“Oh my god, I think I’m drooling on your shoulder,” she murmurs as we sit—lay? Slump?—in my bed.

“Mm, drool.” My arms are jelly. So are my legs My cock’s awful damn proud of itself, and still buried deep inside her, and why did I think I wanted to live in a car with her when we can just stay in bed like this forever?

She’s laughing a breathy laugh, and it makes her walls squeeze my dick again.

He grins proudly and sits up straighter.

I’ll high-five him later.

“You want a grilled cheese?” I ask. “I can go for giving you four orgasms, but I need a grilled cheese first.”

“Four might kill me.”

“You’re getting three whether you like it or not, because I don’t tie. I come in first.”

“You’re already in first.”

“Nuh-uh. Don’t stroke my ego. I’m earning this one.”

“Beck.”

“Sarah.”

She lifts her head, and god, her hair. It’s crazy, sticking out every which way, still full of hairspray and probably some kind of animal sacrifice, and I fucking love her like this. Real and sleepy and fucking gorgeous.

“You…know me,” she says quietly. “I’ve never slept with anyone who…knew me.”

I stroke her wild hair. “Their loss.”

She sighs and snuggles in closer again. “Thank you for showing me what I’m capable of.”

“We haven’t hit three yet,” I remind her.

“I meant with facing the world and not hiding from it.”

“You would’ve figured that out in your own time if I hadn’t been a dumbass.”

She shakes her head, but doesn’t reply.

And then my stomach rumbles, and we both crack up.

“Okay, fine. Food,” she says.

I get her a robe and dispose of the condom, and we spend the next hour eating gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches with brie and bacon and pears, and she tells me about her favorite projects that she’s worked on, and I tell her about the biggest mishaps we’ve ever had on various shoots.

We check in on Persephone, and Sarah squeals with glee at the sight of the baby nursing. “Look! Look at that spot on the baby. Doesn’t it look like George Washington’s head?”

I squint closer, and she’s not wrong.

“It’s a sign,” I tell her. “This baby will save the giraffe population of the world.”

She laughs and kisses me, and we both have orgasms over my culinary creations, which, no, doesn’t count as her third.

I take care of that in the shower afterwards.

And then I carry her to bed and rub her back until she falls asleep, and I drift off too, with my arms wrapped around her, because this.

Sarah’s what my life has been missing.

The piece I never thought I’d find.

That I never even thought existed.

Life is pretty fucking awesome. And it just keeps getting better.





Thirty-Seven





Sarah



We’re having mint tea and waffle-omelet sandwiches on Beck’s patio Sunday morning, lounging side-by-side on the wicker couch and debating names for Persephone’s baby girl, when both our phones blow up.

To be fair, his is always blowing up, which is why he keeps it on silent, but the screen has been lighting up all morning.

Mine, however, just had three text messages waiting for me when I woke up—one from my parents just checking in, one from Mackenzie checking in, and one from Charlie asking if I wanted new clothes delivered this morning, or if I preferred that she dash over to my house to pick something I already owned.

Yep. Just those three messages. Until the end of breakfast.

I slide a look at mine and start to ignore it, because seventeen text messages in a minute spells doom, and I don’t want doom.

I want to feed Beck the last half of my waffle-omelet sandwich and accidentally have to lick the crumbs off his bare stomach.

Considering he feasted on me again this morning for first breakfast, it’s only fair that I eat him for dessert.

But when my phone doesn’t stop, he picks it up.

His brows furrow, and then he grabs his own phone.

“Are you texting someone back?”

He shakes his head.

And he’s doing that silent thing again, which is always a little worrisome, especially when coupled with the frown and the subtle growl coming out of his lips.

“Beck?”

“Not bad,” he assures me.

“Then why do you look like you want to tear someone’s arms off?”

He hands me the phone, open to a news article with a huge headline. Meet America’s Geekheart.

I half-smile. “Cute name,” I say, but when I scroll down— “Oh my god.”

It’s me.

There’s a picture from last night, at the top of the stairs in the planetarium, and I almost don’t recognize myself.