‘What about chemistry, though?’
‘Same thing. You’re just jealous. Besides, I bet ninety percent of the women here would marry Beckett, no questions asked.’ Judging by the looks he’s received since we arrived from all manner of age groups, I don’t doubt it.
‘Yeah, ’cause he’s loaded.’
‘Let me rephraes that; ninety percent of the women here would tap that. Tap that until it fell off, and then they’d pick it up and tap that some more.’
Seems I’m in the majority.
‘There you are.’ Beckett’s gaze is warm and genuine as I find him in the garden, a glass of whisky in his hand. ‘I’ve missed you.’ He pulls me against him, his chest expanding with a sigh of satisfaction beneath my ear.
‘Have you really?’
Soft looks and warm words. His finger hooking the back of my pants as he presses his lips to my head. It all feels so genuine that I have to remind myself that none of this is true. We’re not sniping and arguing like we usually do. We’re just pretending for the benefit of others. But the problem with pretending and with lies is, that after you’ve been doing it for a while, it’s hard not to be seduced by it all yourself.
Chapter 36
OLIVIA
‘Investment is like marriage. It shouldn’t be entered into unless you want to hold onto it for a long, long time. A toast to the happy couple!’
The toast that Mark Jones had insisted upon was strange, especially given the fact that JBW is a venture capitalist company, and by that definition, believe in high risk investments and cashing in on fast returns. Also, as Beckett had pointed out, the man is on his fourth marriage. His “investments” aren’t exactly what you’d call long term.
‘But maybe not so long when you choose to invest in New York State,’ some bitch whispered from behind us, alluding to the State’s preference as a wedding venue for those requiring prenuptial agreements. As I’d attempted to turn to see who’d made the comment, Beckett had tightened his hand on mine, giving an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Haters are gonna hate, his glance said, though maybe not with the same patois.
But we didn’t have to fool everyone that night. Just the important ones. And fooled they seemed to have been, thanks in part to Beckett’s declarations of love, and my doe-eyed glances, and our tactile touches.
Beckett played his part perfectly.
Me? Like I said, I’m a bad actress.
Case in point? I’d felt a visceral green-eyed fury watching Jones and his wife eye fucking each other because of the hot glances they’d thrown Beckett’s way. It was almost as though they’d happily push him to the floor and make him their mattress. Or maybe the slice of prime beef in their sexual sandwich. I was so angry, filled with such vehemence that the moment we were alone, I’d curled my hand around his neck and whispered in his ear,When we get through with this tonight, I want you on your knees.
I deserved some kind of payback. Wanted to assert my own part in this. I’d spent the rest of the night with a smile fixed to my face, my body thrumming with need.
We’d made it barely through the front door when I dropped tomyknees,blowing more than just his mind while I desperately fought to assert my possession of him. His back pressed against the wall, his pleasure was all mine at the slow drag of my tongue. His eyes squeezing shut as I savoured the taste of him, his body jolting as I worked him deeper into my mouth. His hand tangling in my hair as I teased his thick crown.
Harder.His eyes were as dark as his demand, his intent calling to something inside me, something driving me to respond.
And then later, when he’d recovered the power in his legs, he’d pull me up from the floor, kissing me slow and sweet.
Where did you come from?He’d pushed the tangle of hair from my face then pressed his thumb to my mouth and smiled as I’d replied,Have you forgotten our story already? I fell at your feet, then fell in love.
I realised right then that I might not be pretending anymore.
Since pulling off that state of newly wedded bliss, things between us have changed. Beckett is mellower and almost pleasant to be around.Almost. I wake alone in his bed most mornings, but he comes to me soon after, reeking of endorphins and need, his skin slick from his exertions, and his gaze greedy as he pulls back the covers. The evenings we’re home, I cook while he opens a bottle of wine from his climate-controlled cellar. We’ll eat in the kitchen before Beckett clears up, which basically means he piles the pots and plates in an orderly fashion before leaving them for the housekeeper to take care of. We usually take our wine to the sofa following; I’ll prop my legs in his lap or curl into his side while we watch TV. It’s usually something black and white and obscure, which I don’t mind. It’s not like we often make it to the end.
Because sofas make for versatile positioning.
I haven’t once felt the urge to return to manic cleaning sessions borne of anger and frustration. These emotions seem to have been replaced by a feeling of resignation.
I love him.
I know I’m not supposed to feel the way that I do, but I can’t help it. Why couldn’t he have stuck to being a pain in my ass? But it’s not always a garden of roses. We can still find use for the thorns.
I lean back in my very comfortable chair in my very swanky office. On Beckett’s suggestion, I’d leased the suite on the fourth floor. I needed more space for the new staff, and this floor had the added bonus of private office. For me! It turns out he was also right about making myself less accessible. I get more work done now because Mir and Heather have to schlep up a flight of stairs if they want my attention. The setup is good for us all, including Beckett, considering he has a habit of turning up unannounced.
Just yesterday, I’d almost dropped the files I was carrying as I’d walked in to find him sitting in this very chair, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a picture of manly ease. God, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to eat him up or slap him. Maybe slap him then kiss the sting. But that was the whole point of him choosing to sit in my seat. For the purpose of annoying me.
