In the Weeds (Lovelight #2)(68)

My memory is nothing compared to the reality of him. Hands flexing at my thighs, forehead rocking against my neck, stubble scraping at my skin. He pulls back, rolls his hips, and pushes inside. A smooth, easy rhythm that I match. He urges his body against me, again and again, pushing me up the blanket with every thrust until my shoulder blades brush cold grass.

“Evelyn,” he says into my neck. “Evie. Fuck.”

“S’good,” I slur on a laugh, champagne bubbles in my chest. He leans up on his knees and tucks a palm to the small of my back, guiding my hips tighter against him. Everything grinds just right and I’m right at the very edge already, teetering.

“I’ve thought about this,” he says, a breathless confession. His hands curl around my hips and hold tight, lifting me up another inch against him. He looks beautiful like this. A little bit wild, a bead of sweat working its way down his neck. His gaze brushes all the places we’re touching and some of the places we’re not—my thighs, my hips, the bounce of my bare breasts and the curve of my cheek. “Every single day, I’ve thought about this. You.”

My heart flutters and I feel like I’ve got starlight slipping under my skin, hearing he’s thought about me just as much as I’ve thought about him.

“Come on,” he says, eyes locking on mine. I watch his face as he drags his hand over the swell of my hip and spreads his fingers wide. His thumb traces down my belly and then he presses it between my legs. He holds it there—a simple, heavy pressure. Everything in me pulls tighter. A hiccuping breath slips out of me and a cocky grin hitches up the side of his mouth. “Give it to me.”

I grin back at him and chase his touch, placing my hand over his to move him just the way I like. “Earn it.”

His laugh is a rough thing, breathless with the way he’s still moving against me. He collapses on one arm and tangles his free hand in my hair. He rolls his hips harder, staying deep.

“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” he tells me. His fingers curl into a fist in my hair and he kisses me like he doesn’t want to do anything else, ever again.

Just this.

Me and him.

It sneaks up on me, the bright burst of rolling pleasure. It licks up my spine and I arch beneath him, a laugh caught in the back of my throat. I’ve never felt like this. Not ever. Stardust, it feels like, right in the center of my chest.

He keeps moving through it—frantic and without his smooth control—and I’m too occupied with the fuzzy lightness in my limbs to do anything but hold on as he chases his pleasure. He shudders and freezes against me, hands grasping, mouth working soundlessly against my neck. Everything settles in soft waves of pulsing warmth, my body perfectly, deliciously worn out.

I blink up at the sky above me, the tree branches dancing in the light breeze. I smooth my palm down his back. Beckett drops his forehead against mine and breathes out my name.

“I hope your plan includes carrying me back to the house,” I yawn, the back of my hand pressed against my mouth. Every bit of me feels stretched and sated. Lazy. “Because I don't plan on moving.”

He presses up on his elbows. His eyes are soft, his touch even softer. He brushes a kiss to the tip of my nose.

“I’m not carrying anything.” He collapses at my side, eyes heavy and smile loose. “Let’s just lay here. One more minute.”

“Alright,” I yawn again, a shiver racing down my arms. He chases it away with his palm against my skin, urging me closer. “One more minute.”



We lay there much longer than a minute.

Eventually, Beckett bundles me up in my sweatshirt and carries me on his back on our trek back to the house, his hands hooked under my knees and his palms rubbing at my thighs. With my arms looped over his shoulders, he makes quick work of it, pointing out different constellations as we go. Andromeda and her chains. Taurus and his mighty horns. A million stars and a million stories. I bury my nose in his neck and drift to the sound of his rumbling voice.

I startle out of my lull with his boots against the steps of the porch, his hands adjusting his grip to dig in his pocket for his keys. I begin to slip sideways and he lets out a muffled curse, placing me carefully on my feet. I yawn and dig my fists into my eyes as he unlocks the door, dragging my fingers through my hair. I snort when several twigs and some blades of grass fall to the porch, remnants from our time in the field.

Maybe this is what happy is supposed to be. A person, a place. A single moment in time. Beckett in the hallway helping me untangle the sweatshirts from around my shoulders. A family of cats jostling for our attention as we trip into the kitchen. Tea in the kettle on the stovetop and two mugs sitting side by side right next to it.

I collapse onto one of the stools lined up against the countertop and watch him move around the kitchen, settling into the warmth expanding in my chest.

“What’re you thinking about?” he asks, hands busy with a tin of tea. He hands me the honey before I can ask and there it is again, that flutter right beneath my ribs.

I shake my head and reach for a spoon. “Nothing,” I say. “Just watching you.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe me, a smile hidden behind the lip of his mug. We sit there at the counter and drink in the calm quiet of the house. We watch the cats bat around a ball of string and I rest my forehead against his shoulder, his hand finding my thigh, fingers drumming.