Page 20 of Miami Ice (Miami Sports #2)

“Cupcake?”

“Yes?”

“This is the weirdest date ever.”

We’ve had pizza as big as our heads, argued over folding versus not folding, and now we’re back at my place doing something I’ve always dreamed of doing with a date.

We’re lying underneath the pink Christmas tree, side by side and holding hands, gazing up at the branches above us filled with twinkling lights and confectionery-themed ornaments.

“Beckham?”

“Yeah?”

“But are you mad at it?”

His deep laughter fills the air, and a happy shiver races down my spine. Beckham turns his head toward me, and I turn to look at him.

“No. I could never be mad at this,” he says, his voice low and his brown eyes practically liquid.

So. Many. Feelings.

And all of them are magnificent.

“But I can be mad at this lollipop that keeps poking me in the head.” He reaches up and adjusts the branch.

“Thank you for agreeing to do this,” I say, squeezing his hand in mine. “There’s something magical to me about looking up at the tree and seeing all the ornaments from this point of view. I used to love to do this as a little girl. There’s something special about being in the dark, with only the tree lights on, and looking at it from this perspective. I always wanted to share this experience with someone. I’m just so glad that someone turned out to be you.”

“Me, too,” he says softly.

I shift my head so I’m back to studying the lights and ornaments. “I don’t know why I love this view so much. I’ll see the way a blue light reflects on an ornament, then how bright the red looks against a candy cane, things like that. It’s peaceful and beautiful to me. When I was little, it was like a whole different world underneath this tree.”

Winston moves up to us, drops his head on Beckham’s thigh, and settles in.

I glance over at Beckham and see that his mouth has curved up in a smile again and his other hand is now stroking Winston between the ears.

“I get why this view appeals to you. It’s just like you to see the magic in simply being underneath a Christmas tree. You not only see things other people miss, but you find the magic in them. It’s part of what makes you special.”

Just when I think I’m having all the feelings, I have some more from his sweet words.

“I would sneak out of bed and do this at night,” I confess, smiling at the memory. “I would lie under the tree and fall asleep. It just felt so cozy and safe.”

I feel Beckham’s gaze on my profile and turn to find he’s studying me. “Safe?”

I didn’t even realize what I had said until he zeroed in on it. I think on this for a moment, memories of my childhood come flooding back to me, and for the first time in my life, I truly view the memories as an adult. What’s interesting, though? Beckham doesn’t speak. He simply watches me, and it’s like he intuitively knows I need to process what is going through my head.

“Wow. I never deep-dived into this before, but yeah, safe. My parents—before they divorced—fought all the time. Like screaming and yelling and even throwing things.”

Beckham’s brow furrows when I describe my childhood, and I can tell he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.

I take a moment before continuing. “There were threats to leave on both sides. Which is terrifying to hear as a child. Mom and Dad apart? What would happen to me and Ella? Would we have a new home? When would we see Dad? Would I miss Mom when I was with Dad? But like clockwork, when it was the week before Thanksgiving, the tree went up. And before they would erupt into a fight, Mom would say it was Christmas, can’t we just have one Christmas without fighting? And somehow, they managed to shove it all aside until the holidays were over.”

Beckham squeezes my hand. “So you came to associate Christmas with being safe. You knew as long as it was Christmastime, there was a cease-fire.”

“Yes,” I say with amazement. “I never thought of it that way before. Maybe that’s why I love Christmas so much. Not only is it beautiful and magical, but for a brief month, it gave me hope. Hope for a normal family that loved each other.”

“You do have that, Georgie. You have Ella, and you love your mom and dad. They love you, I’m sure. They just don’t love each other, and that dynamic outweighed everything in the house.”

I stare at him, and a crease appears on the bridge of his nose.

“What?” Beckham asks.

“I knew you observed and listened, but you’re very astute.”

I swear he almost blushes from my compliment. Or is that the pink twinkling light near his forehead?

I decide I like the idea of him blushing shyly, so I go with that theory.

“I’m not like this for everyone,” Beckham confesses. “Outside of my family, I mean. I didn’t care about the girls I hooked up with. But something about you made me care.”

Goose bumps prickle my skin.

“Does it make me selfish to be glad for that?” I ask, smiling at him. “I mean, am I kind of an ass if this makes me happy?”

Beckham chuckles softly at that. “You could never be an ass.”

“Everyone can be an ass.”

“I can never see you being an ass.”

“Ella can assure you I am capable of being an ass.”

“Nope. You’ll always be Cupcake.”

Sa-woon.

“But to be fair,” Beckham continues, “I never did promise those other girls anything other than … you know. Partying and sex.”

I feel like I need to address this topic now that it’s out there in the open before us.

“Beckham, there’s something you should know about me.”

He quirks a brow.

What is it about that brow quirk that is so hot? I clear my throat and refocus.

And try to ignore that sexy quirked brow of his.

“I know you’ve had lots of sex,” I say.

Now both brows shoot up.

“Not that that’s bad—I mean, good on you,” I add quickly.

Good on you? GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

“I mean, sex is good,” I fumble.

“I can affirm that it is not only good but freaking fantastic.”

GAH squared.

“Beckham.”

“Georgie.”

“What I’m trying to say is you’ve had lots of sex. Probably lots of experienced sex. Adventurous sex,” I clarify. “And I have not.”

The brows draw together in a V now. Wow, he really is expressive with his eyebrows and his eyes. It’s almost kind of a skill he has.

“Are you a virgin, Georgie?”

“Oh no, I’m not,” I say, shaking my head. “But I have had sex exactly three times. All with my high school boyfriend. Who hasn’t been my boyfriend since I left for college. It wasn’t … great.”

Beckham’s eyes stay locked on mine. “Is that why you haven’t had sex since? Because it was that bad?”

I shake my head. “No. Because I have never felt comfortable with the idea of casual sex. I mean, I don’t care if others do it, you have to do what feels right for you, but it wasn’t right for me personally. I’ve dated, but I’ve never found anyone I wanted to be with, if that makes sense.”

His eyes alight with understanding. “You only want to be in a relationship when you have sex.”

“Yes.” I pause for a moment before I add, “The emotional foundation matters to me, and I thought you should know that.”

Now a soft smile lights up his face. “I see. So this is your way of telling me we won’t be breaking out the whipped cream and sprinkles tonight?”

“Not tonight, no.”

“Perfect, because I didn’t plan on it tonight, either.”

I’m surprised for a moment. “You didn’t?”

“Don’t think you’re the only one who doesn’t want to have sex right away.” Then he grins. “Your eyes look like they’re about to pop out of your head.”

“Well, they might. I didn’t expect you to not want sex.”

“That’s not what I said. I don’t want to have sex right away ,” Beckham clarifies. “I want to do things differently this time. And that means getting to know you before devouring you. Because trust me, that thought has gone through my head an obscene number of times.”

Ooh!

“But … you aren’t concerned about my lack of experience?” I ask, anxiously biting my lip as I wait for an answer.

“No. If that kiss we had in South Beach is an indicator of what is going to happen when we do have sex? It’s going to be fu—fantastic,” he corrects. “Trust me, it won’t compare to your first time. Or second or third. I will make sure you shatter. In the best way possible. And more than once .”

Oh. My. God.

The idea of sex with Beckham now has me feeling very hot and ready to climb out of my skin.

Or climb him.

Both, actually.

“I might just turn feral with you,” I blurt out.

He roars with laughter, making me laugh, too.

“ Feral, ” Beckham repeats, grinning at me.

“Absolutely feral,” I insist, grinning back at him.

“I think I need to see if just a kiss can make you feral,” he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth, his voice low and dangerous.

My pulse quickens from the way he’s looking at me. My tongue instinctively flicks across my lower lip, and his eyes darken with heat.

“Just a kiss?” I ask quietly.

“Just. A. Kiss.” Beckham inches closer to me, the scent of citrus and spice assaulting my senses in the most intoxicating way. “The question is, where do you want the kiss?”

WHAT?

“A kiss doesn’t have to be on the mouth,” he continues. He releases my hand and slides his fingertips up to my neck, stroking it and sending a shudder through me. “I could kiss the side of your neck right here.” He caresses my skin with his calloused fingers.

OH MY.

I feel my chest rise and fall faster in anticipation. “Where else?” I manage to ask.

His fingertips move up to my jawline, tracing it. “I could kiss you here.”

Yes. Yes, he could.

Then they travel up to my earlobe. “Or here,” he murmurs.

Ooh!

“Your forehead,” he suggests, his index finger traveling across it.

“Yes.”

“Or your nose,” he says, that same finger moving lightly over the slope of my nose.

He continues to explore me, and now his fingertips are brushing across my collarbones. “This area is highly underrated for kissing.”

I swallow. Beckham is going to kill me. He’s going to kill me with foreplay before kissing—who knew that was a thing.

And if I survive this? I won’t be able to survive sex with the man, I know it.

I shiver from his touch. A pleased smile passes over his lips.

Now his fingertip lightly grazes the area between my breasts. “I could kiss you here, with your clothing on,” he suggests.

I begin to sweat. “You … could.”

“May I?” he asked, his voice rugged.

Everything in me grows tight in a way that is new to me. What a delicious feeling this is, I think in wonderment.

“Yes,” I say, marveling at how my body is responding so urgently to merely his words.

Beckham shifts, dipping his head lower. My hand finds the back of it, and I sink my fingers into his brown locks, holding my breath as his lips press a kiss through the thin fabric of my blouse. I arch the second I feel the warmth of his lips through the fabric, pressing into my skin. It’s sensual. Intimate. Wonderful.

“I can feel your heartbeat against my mouth,” Beckham whispers, kissing that same spot again. “It’s beating like crazy, Georgie.”

I still beneath him.

Beckham has kissed my heart.

I don’t know why this matters, but it does.

His hand finds the curve in my waist as he lifts his head. Our eyes meet, and the look in his eyes is not feral. I know mine isn’t, either.

It’s something far more emotional.

And from both our hearts.

Beckham lowers his mouth to mine, his lips warm and soft as they gently demand access. I open for him, my hand still cradling the back of his head as he kisses me deeply. I feel his stubble graze against my skin, the way his hand is stroking my waist, how his tongue is caressing mine.

I drink from him, exploring him, relishing every second of this kiss. I love how his hard, athletic body is half on mine, the weight of him pinning me against the tree skirt in the most delicious way. I move one hand over the arm that he’s propping himself up on, my fingertips stroking it.

“Scotland,” he murmurs against my mouth.

I break the kiss. “What?”

“The tattoo you’re touching on my right arm”—he pauses to plant another kiss on my lips—“is a nod to my Scottish heritage.”

My heart flutters as he kisses me deeply again.

“The left,” Beckham murmurs sexily against my mouth, “are Celtic tattoos. For the Irish side of my family.”

He just told me about his tattoos. Something he said he never tells anyone.

Beckham lifts his head so he can gaze down at me. “I don’t talk about my ink because it’s about my family. I protect that. But I wanted you to know.”

He told me.

I know how momentous this is. Beckham is sharing another part of himself with me, just as I shared a piece of myself with him tonight.

I gently brush my fingertips over his cheekbone, then across his brows, and lightly draw my index finger down his nose.

“What are you doing?” Beckham asks, a smile in his voice.

“I want to remember everything about the moment you told me about your tattoos.”

He brushes another kiss across my lips. “You’re changing me.”

I gaze up at him, watching how the Christmas lights illuminate his gorgeous face, and move my hands so I’m framing it. My heart is beating fast from his words, and I have words to say back to him. But before I can, Beckham’s mouth claims mine again, and I lose myself in his kiss. In his arms, in this blissful feeling that is entirely new to me.

And as I kiss him back, one thought goes through my head.

You’re changing me, too , Beckham. You’re changing me, too.