I don’t need you for that,I’d purred. His deep ripple of laughter reverberated through me, adding just another level of torture, and yet another as he pulled my hands up over my head.
Pinned under him. Pinned by him. He watched me squirm like a thing in heat, all the while giving me only what he wanted to give. And oh, how I wanted it all. I wanted to feel him inside me, taste and tease him, ride him like a horse named Beckett. And I wanted it right there on that couch, not in New York. Not when we were married. I wanted it illicit and hard. My hair in his hands and his body over me.
Come to New York. Let me destroy your pretty little cunt.
Let me touch you,I whispered, my insides pulsing at the beautiful savagery painted by his words. Let me taste.His eyes were all pupil as his hand tightened on my wrist, restraining which of us I wasn’t sure.It’s only fair I get to see what I’ll get in the deal,I taunted. See what I’m marrying.
Like I was marrying him for his dick.
His smile was a lesson in pure wickedness as he loosened his grip, and I’d crawled over him, all crumpled and coming apart at the seams, running my hands and my mouth all over his body in a fit of desperate need. My breathing ragged, I’d reached for the opening of his jeans when a sharp crack sounded through the space, making me jump three feet in the air.
Fuck!Under me, Beckett’s curse was chased by a groan as I looked down and realised I’d caught him in the crotch with my knee.
‘Hey, boss lady.’
I jump at the sound of Miranda’s voice, almost spilling my coffee. Of course I wasn’t going to pack up and fly off to New York just because Beckett said so. I’m in the office today, as usual. Not that I wasn’t tempted, especially after the interruption.We were so close. I could practically see the shape of him through his jeans.
‘What’s up?’
I shake my head. It’s Monday, Olivia. Get with the calendar.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, adjusting the scarf I’ve tied around my neck. Summer in London may not be a guaranteed thing, but of course, today of all days, the sun is cracking the paint on walls. I really couldn’t wear a turtleneck to cover the marks, not without drawing comment.
Damn Beckett and his sexy talk. Who would’ve thought under those expensive threads and that very proper demeanour was a sexual deviant just waiting for the opportunity to be unleashed? Well, me. I guessed. That first night in the car. And I gave him that opportunity—on a platter. Or sofa, as the case may be.
And now he knows what kind of sex noises I make, not to mention my behaviour totally flies in the face of everything I’d been saying. But at least I kept my clothes on. though I’m kind of surprised they didn’t disintegrate in the heat of the moment, it really was for the best.
Because when I’d eventually calmed my beating heart and righted my clothing, I’d noticed the team of cleaners standing on the other side of the glass wall. There were at least six of them, all mouths agog. One of them seemed to be missing a mop which was lying on the floor. I dread to think how long they might’ve been standing there, and how much more they might have seen.
Hey, but at least I didn’t burst into flames for my immorality, even if I go pink every time I think about it. And then I turn red because every time I think about it, I think about him, and end up I replaying the things he said.
Let me destroy you.
Let me destroy a very particular part of you.
A very particular, unmentionable part.
I so suck at dirty talk. I hope he’s not expecting it. Despite my assertion, I only curse when the occasion calls for it. Like when I’m annoyed. Or around Beckett. So just when I’m with him mostly, I guess.
‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Hmm?’ I turn to Mir once more. With her elbow planted on the desk, she balances her cheek in her hand. ‘You’re awfully spacey this morning.’
‘I just have a lot on my mind,’ I reply quickly, my words running together and making almost one word of the sentence.
‘It hasn’t got anything to do with the reason you’ve come to work dressed like one of the Pink Ladies, is it?’
‘What?’ I shake my head a little, her words not making sense, when she plucks at an invisible scarf around her own neck.
Damn.
‘A little like Risso fromGrease. Wearing it for the same thing. No shade,’ she continues with an air of triviality, ‘but we all know what’s going on under that thing.’
‘It suits my outfit,’ I protest a little too hotly, looking down at my cropped pants and sleeveless blouse. ‘I was aiming for Roman Holiday. This is Alexander McQueen, you know.’
‘It’s well dodgy,’ sniggers Heather. ‘It’s like, twenty-eight degrees out there.’
‘The question is,’ Miranda says, turning to her cousin and making me a topic of conversation rather than a participant—remind me just who is the boss in here again? ‘The question is, who gave the boss-babe a hickey.’
