Hot Under Pressure (26 page)

It wasn’t. At least, not yet. But Skye wanted it to be. She didn’t want to be the sort of woman who backed away from pleasure, from life anymore. She gave him a short nod.

Then she closed her eyes, because it had to be easier to let go and feel if she wasn’t staring at his dark head moving between her thighs. But at the first slow, easy glide of his tongue, Skye’s eyes flew open.

Just as she remembered, the sensation was intense, a sharp jangling of nerves that couldn’t quite tell pleasure from pain. She tensed, but Beck didn’t stop.

He licked her again. Not too fast, not too hard, and her nerves settled down. All it took was one more light swipe against the slickening folds of her sex for her nerves to be entirely sure … this was pleasure. Shockwaves of pleasure rolling through her in great bursts, like thunder shaking her mind to pieces until she lost herself, her worries, her fears—everything but this moment and the man cradling her climax between his hands.

She cried out mindlessly, again and again, until the hoarse sound of her own voice was all she could hear.

Time stopped. Her heart stopped. Everything stopped except the relentless coil of feeling at the base of her spine, the knot of sensation between her legs pulling tighter and tighter and tighter until it burst in a shower of sparks.

Breath, sight, pulse … everything came back to her slowly while Beck turned his face to the soft skin of her inner thigh and sucked up another red mark to match the one she could still feel throbbing on her throat.

She couldn’t speak yet, didn’t have the brain power to form words, but as soon as she could lift her arms, she got one hand into Beck’s thick, brown hair and tugged lightly, urging him up beside her.

He gave her a smile, like dawn breaking over the bay, and said, “God, I missed the taste of you.”

And … apparently her ability to feel complex emotions like embarrassment was back online.

Embarrassment mixed with delight, actually, which was beyond complex. It was downright confusing.

“I missed
you
,” she said honestly, forcing herself to meet his penetrating gaze.

Something flared in the depths of his eyes, and he licked his lips, almost as if he were nervous.

“Skye.” He hesitated, and her heart picked up speed. “Do you think, when the competition is all over, maybe we—”

He broke off abruptly, his entire body going still. Heart in her mouth, Skye poked him in the shoulder.

“What? What about us?”

But instead of finishing his question, Beck shot off the futon and landed on his feet in a single, powerful rush of controlled strength.

Feet braced apart, hands cupped loosely, arms ready—he looked like he expected an army to come marching through her office door any second.

Before she could try to bring his attention back to what might happen after the RSC, there was a muffled thump from the kitchen.

Clutching the blanket to her breasts, Skye sat up. Another thump, this time closer to the office door, and Skye’s blood turned to ice water when the sound was accompanied by a familiar masculine voice.

“Ow! Damn it. Is anyone here?”

It couldn’t be, she told herself frantically as she scrambled off the bed and wrapped the blanket around her body like a toga. He was in Africa. Burkina Faso. He couldn’t be here, in the Queenie Pie kitchen, on the other side of that door.

He couldn’t be. But he was.

The door opened, and Jeremiah Raleigh walked in.

Chapter 24

Beck’s mind automatically scanned and catalogued the threat: white male, early thirties, approximately six foot two, a hundred and ninety pounds. In good physical condition, moved like he knew how to handle himself.

When the intruder stopped stock-still just inside the door and blinked in the darkness of the office, Beck noted his darkly tanned skin and shiny hair, light at the tips as if he’d bleached it that way. But judging from his cargo shorts, scuffed brown leather boots, and battered canvas jacket, Beck had a feeling this guy had spent more time under a hot sun than in a stylist’s chair.

“Sunshine? You in here?”

Who the hell was this guy? Did he know Skye?

That last question was answered as Skye stepped around Beck, wearing nothing but the blanket from the futon and an expression of dismay. “Jeremiah! What are you doing here?”

“I came to find you,” the guy—Jeremiah—answered, glancing back and forth between Skye and Beck.

Who realized abruptly that he was stark naked.

He didn’t really want to back down long enough to find his pants, but when Skye shot him a pleading glance, the embarrassment reddening her cheeks convinced him.

Without taking his gaze off the new guy for longer than a second, Beck crouched down by the futon and felt around for his jeans.

“I went to your parents’ house first,” Jeremiah went on distractedly, “But they said you never came home last night, so I thought you must have crashed in your office. And I see I was right. Skye, what’s going on here?”

Beck snorted as he tugged his jeans up his hips and zipped them up. New Guy must have lost a few brain cells to heat stroke if he couldn’t put the pieces of this puzzle together.

“Jeremiah” was all Skye said, sounding helpless. She shook her head as if she’d been dazed by a blow. “I can’t believe you’re back already.”

Beck frowned. She seemed to be really having trouble with this. Was Jeremiah one of her cooks, an employee she’d sent on a
stage
to another chef’s kitchen somewhere, and he wasn’t supposed to be home yet?

Except he’d gone by her parents’ house, so he must be a personal connection rather than professional.

Sticking out his hand, Beck narrowed his gaze on the new guy. “Beck,” he said shortly. “And you are?”

“Jeremiah Raleigh,” the guy answered, shaking Beck’s hand. His grip was dry and easy, firm but not crushing. It was a respectable handshake, likeable, even, but for some reason Beck didn’t want to like this guy.

When Jeremiah finished introducing himself, Beck knew why.

“I’m Skye’s boyfriend. Nice—and, wow, kind of awkward—to meet you.”

“Oh my God,” Skye moaned, putting a hand up to her face.

Beck barely heard her; it was all he could do to stay on his feet. Stumbling back a step, his calves hit the edge of the futon and nearly toppled him.

Everything wanted to topple him—the very air around him felt insubstantial and too thin to breathe, as if he were falling through empty, black space.

“Boyfriend,” he repeated. On some level, the gutted rasp of his voice shocked him, but Beck was beyond caring at that point.

“Yeah, but you know,” Jeremiah made a waving gesture with one tanned hand. “I’m gone a lot. Peace Corps, you know? We’ve got an open relationship, don’t we, Sunshine? So it’s all good. We’re cool.”

He sounded like he might be trying to convince himself more than anyone else. Personally, Beck was about as far from cool as he’d ever been in his life. Cool didn’t begin to describe the chasm that had opened up in his chest—he felt so cold inside, it almost burned.

“Beck, please…”

Skye’s voice broke into the buzzing in his ears, soft and pleading, with an edge of fear that made Beck realize he was up on the balls of his bare feet. Looking down, he saw his own hands curled into fists, white-knuckled with tension, the corded muscles of his forearms practically vibrating with the need to propel his fists into Jeremiah Raleigh’s face.

Then Skye put a hand on Beck’s back, soft and almost cold against his overheated skin.

In spite of the rage boiling inside him, her touch had the same effect now that it always did—he felt himself settle, the battle fever cooling to a manageable level that allowed his head to clear.

And all he could think was
Thank God this happened before I made a complete fool of myself, asking Skye to give our marriage another shot.

*   *   *

Every nightmare Skye had ever had suddenly paled in comparison to this moment.

Although there were some awful similarities to her standard anxiety dreams—for instance, the inability to find her clothes.

She was a little afraid to stop touching Beck; it felt like her hand on his bare back was the only thing keeping him from lunging at Jeremiah.

Who looked shell-shocked, as if he couldn’t believe she’d actually taken him up on the arrangement he’d proposed when they first started dating. Which was understandable, since she never had before in two years of long-distance romance. She’d never even been tempted.

But that was before Beck came home.

He’s not home for good
, she reminded herself.
You can’t count on him to stick around.

There’d been that moment, though, right before Jeremiah showed up … it had seemed like Beck was about to ask her something important.

Silently cursing fate and the gods for stealing that moment before she had a chance to find out what Beck would’ve said, Skye’s mind raced as she tried to figure out what to do.

First things first.

Calling on all her memories of her parents’ affairs and their casual attitude the morning after, Skye said, “Jeremiah, can you give us a minute to get dressed?”

He hesitated, his sun-baked face more lined than she remembered it, but in the end, he nodded. “Sure. I’ll be right outside.”

The sound of the office door closing gently behind Jeremiah echoed like a gunshot through the office.

Skye swallowed and busied herself with tracking down pieces of her outfit from the night before. Tank top over there, underwear … there, and, crap, was she using her skirt as a pillow last night?

She unballed the organic cotton and shook it out, lingering over the task to give her hands time to stop trembling.

When Beck spoke, it startled her so badly she nearly dropped the skirt.

“You never mentioned a boyfriend.”

She blew out a breath and stepped into the wrinkled fabric, pulling it up her hips. “I know. I’m sorry. It just never seemed like the right time—and, honestly, I assumed you’d be gone long before Jeremiah came home.”

Beck stood there, watching her buzz frantically around looking for her bra before she remembered she hadn’t worn one. She wished he’d say something, or at least stop staring at her.

“And he really doesn’t care that we slept together.”

It wasn’t a question, the way Beck said it, but Skye was glad the process of working the tight shelf bra of her tank top over her head gave her a second to formulate an answer.

“He shouldn’t. The open relationship was his idea.”

Of course it had never really come up before, at least not on her end. Part of her wondered if Jeremiah would be quite so liberal-minded now that Skye taking a lover had become a concrete reality rather than an abstract idea.

Very concrete
, she thought, stealing a glance at Beck’s rough-hewn form while she tried to finger-comb her hair. Beck looked like he’d been encased in cement, rigid and unyielding.

“I would care.” His voice was almost subsonic, a growl so low she felt it more than heard it, and the vibration sent a shudder through her system. There was deep contempt in that voice, and a confusion that bordered on anger.

No, Beck wouldn’t understand a man like Jeremiah, who cared so deeply about the world at large that he sometimes forgot about the people closest to him. Beck had always been so intent. So focused.

Although Beck had left her to join the Navy, so maybe he had more in common with Jeremiah than she’d thought.

She had to talk to Jeremiah. God, what a mess. She was so humiliated, she could barely look at Beck.

“I would fight for what’s mine,” he said, moving in a rush almost too fast to see, stepping into her path and blocking the door like a great stone wall.

He didn’t want her to leave, she could see that. And it thrilled something inside her—she couldn’t hide it from herself. But his words …

Shaking her head, Skye said, “I don’t want you to fight at all. I never wanted that. What I wanted was for you to talk to me.”

Beck jerked his chin in the direction of the kitchen. “That’s what you want? That guy out there, who finds you in bed with another man and then leaves you with him to get dressed.”

The sneer on his face lit the fuse on Skye’s temper. “You think Jeremiah is weak. But I’m telling you now, he didn’t walk out of here because he’s too weak to fight you, or because he doesn’t care enough about me to bother. Jeremiah Raleigh is a hero. He builds houses and schools and clinics in villages that don’t have running water. He’s the furthest thing from weak there is—and he doesn’t have to prove anything to me with fists.”

Beck rocked back on his heels as if she’d delivered an uppercut to the chin.

“Is that what you think? That I’m trying to prove something to you?”

Skye breathed in sharply. “You’ve always had something to prove, ever since I met you. And no matter how many times or how many ways I tried to tell you that you didn’t, you never listened.”

And he never would, she realized. Beck had been shaped by events in his childhood, a past she knew almost nothing about, long before he ever met her. And no matter what she said or did, it never seemed to be the key to unlocking the cage of his emotions.

The revelation hit her with a vicious slap, nearly knocking the breath from her lungs.

She raised her eyes to meet his fierce, impenetrable glare. “You are who you are, Henry,” she choked out. “I get it, and I’m not trying to change you. But I need more than a man who lets his body do all the talking. I need someone who lets me know him, fully and completely … someone who wants to know me the same way. And that’s not you, is it?”

He clamped his lips shut. Skye knew that look. The conversation was over.

Beck didn’t say it in so many words—when did he ever?—but he stood aside, arms crossed over his chest, to let her pass.

She stood motionless for a long moment, letting his familiar silence wash over her while she memorized the sight of him.

Then she walked out, leaving half her heart behind.

Chapter 25

Beck stood in the light, airy flagship Fresh Foods store’s produce section, staring blindly at the list in his hand.