The gates are slow to open, and the driveway is a decent length as far as London property standards go, before the car pulls to a stop outside of what can only be described as a Georgian mansion.
Well, here we are,I almost say. The interior light illuminates the small space as the huge driver climbs out of the car. But strangely, Beckett doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to open any of the other doors. I begin to wonder where the driver has gone, not that I technically need the help. I’ve gotten to the grand old age of almost twenty-seven without someone travelling a couple of feet in front of me to open doors like my hands are nothing but stuffed gloves. But what I could do with is a clue as I narrow my eyes and peer out into the darkness. At least until I feel the caress of his finger against the back of my hand.
‘You have freckles.’
His voice is soft, the tenor of it drawing my attention as much as his touch. We both watch as his finger moves across the pale skin of my knuckles. With his head angled, I can see his hair is shorn short in an effort to keep it from its natural curl. His lips softly pout, his lashes casting dark shadows under his eyes as this thing between us, this animal attraction, swirls weighty and thick. It’s like the air around us is suddenly filled with an almost electrical charge.
And then the light goes out.
And everyone knows the darkness brings its own delights.
His hand travels up the length of my arm, the pads of his fingers stroking the inside of my elbow. I inhale sharply, biting down on my bottom lip, refusing to give in to the urge to sigh. Who knew the skin there was so sensitive? The sensation of his soft, teasing circles radiates outwards, hardening my nipples under the gauziness of my dress and making them ache for attention.
Is he testing me? Torturing me? Waiting for me to make the first move?
There’s only one way to find out, and find out is the least of what I intend to do as I turn and press my lips to his. He kisses me back—more than returning the action. His hands slide into my hair as he holds my head immobile, and I find out exactly how soft his lips are. He tastes me. Teases me. Savours me like I’m a delicious dish. My head lolls back against the headrest as he draws away to press kisses along my jawline, one hand slipping to my breast.
It’s then I have a bit of an epiphany. Maybe his kisses are where he aims to set his behaviour to rights. The confusing hot and cold thing, the things he said meant to shock and other bad behaviours. Maybe his kisses aren’t quite an apology but a means of showing me who he really is. But the insight evaporates as his clever fingers begin to tease my nipple, pressing and rubbing as he alternates gentle touches with a little pain. A nip of teeth against my ear, a slide of stubble against my neck, each movement oh, so controlled as he reads my reactions until I’m panting and wordless and minutes away from turning to liquid against the leather seat.
As Beckett finds a particularly sensitive spot on my neck that seems to be inexplicably linked to a point pulsing between my legs, I arch, pressing my breast full in his hand as I moan shamelessly. With something that sounds like a growl of masculine contentment, he slips his hand down my body and grips my thigh.
God, I’m so ready for this, but I hadn’t envisaged doing the dirty deed in his car. It’s a very nice car, but there’s also a very nice house nearby, no doubt with a very nice bed... or ten.
But those thoughts don’t last either as his hand slips under me to bring my body on top of his. My knees on either side of his hips, I find my summery dress is nowhere near where it should be, and due to the height restriction, my chest heaves in his face. By his wicked expression and the way he draws his fingertips from knee to thigh, this is no happy accident.
‘Yes, touch me, please,’ I whimper as his fingers graze the edge of my underwear.
‘Such beautiful manners.’ Beckett watches me lazily from under his thick, dark lashes. ‘You colonials are so unfailingly polite.’
It takes a while for his words to register, but when they do, I drop down and rock over him, causing him to exhale a harsh curse.
‘I’m surethatwasn’t very polite.’ My voice sounds as though I’d taken up smoking during my formative years as I link my wrists at the back of his neck.
‘Fuck polite,’ he grates out, our mouths meeting in a rush as my body continues to undulate over his.
‘Oh, I think you want to,’ I taunt as hands grasp and teeth bite as this thing between us builds in the tight space.
‘By that definition, I suppose that makes youpolite.’
‘I can be when the occasion calls,’ I rasp.
‘What about when the occasion calls for you to be a dirty whore?’
‘I don’t know. But maybe you can explain how that feels.’
This battling conversation? It’s nothing more than foreplay, and as I grab a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back to give me access to his mouth, he exhales a stuttering curse. Under me, Beckett is all hard angles and slopes, and I can’t touch enough of him. The dip of his collarbone as I feed my hands under his jacket, the hard caps of his shoulders, and his pectorals as I slide my hands down. The proud outline of his cock pressing against my hot centre, making my panties wet as I rock against him.
‘Yes. Yes, like that.’
My heart soars at his throaty direction, his body silently urging a repeat as his fingers tease my nipple through the gauze of my dress. I jerk with the unexpected sensation, my nerve endings drawing into tight knots.
One minute, we’re writhing in the back seat, our movements hot and heavy, and the next, I’m on my back, and his hands are drawing away from my waist.
Oh. This is it.
We’re moving this from the car to inside his place.
Good.
