As safe as I would be sharing a cage with a tiger. Even though it may go against everything I think of him, in this instance, I believe him. I also believe he’d sell his grandma to get his hands on JBW, but at heart, Beckett remains a gentleman.
Or maybe I’m deluded.No more conversation. No more dancing around this thing that both terrifies and titillates in equal measure as I turn to face him. We stand a couple of feet apart, the dust motes dancing in the rays of the setting sun between us. While he’s always so powerfully handsome, the evening light seems to gild him, turning him into something less reachable. Something almost regal.
I take the first tentative step towards him, my tongue darting out to wet my bottom lip because my whole existence suddenly feels parched. Beckett’s eyes dip to my mouth, then farther still, his lazy perusal of my body igniting every nerve ending under my skin.
‘I see you wore a tie.’ If my hand shakes, it’s because I’m nervous.Plus a bunch of other things.I slide my hand down the strip of blue silk in my approximation of alluring.Is this what he’ll expect? Sexual confidence? Bedroom voices and purrs?
‘You like the tie, do you?’
‘Yes. I might’ve thought about strangling you with it.’
His chest moves with a soft sounding laugh before he replies, ‘That sounds kinky.’
My stomach dips unpleasantly.
‘No. It’s—I’m not. I don’t want you to think that because of the app. Besides, it’s not about hookups. It’s about finding love.’
‘I thought it was about making money.’
‘Well, yes. There is that.’ I keep my eyes on his chest as I speak. ‘I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
‘You have no clue what I think.’
I tip onto my toes to brush my lips across his jawline, concealing my embarrassment. ‘Just don’t expect me to be something I’m not.’
His brows draw together, a question perched on his lips, but instead of asking, he turns his head, and our lips meet in a kiss. Soft, lingering brushes lead to wet slides and tight gasps. I’ve never been kissed this slowly, this tenderly, as he holds my face in his hands, his mouth almost savouring.
‘Don’t stop.’ I won’t let him anyway, not as my hands feed across his chest and shoulders, pushing his jacket off until it slides to the floor. The tenor of our kiss changes in that instant, and his mouth becomes fierce, his hands grasping as he feeds me his tongue. His mouth tastes of fruit from his earlier cocktail, his cheeks bearing the heady scent of his cologne. But under it all is the scent of man. Of male. Of Beckett himself.
And it’s kind of unravelling.
Need builds in my veins, the likes of which I can’t remember ever experiencing. Every cell in my body seems to cry out for more. More touch. More taste. More Beckett as I suck on his tongue as though it’s a substitute for his cock. The thought is jolting—and a truth. I want him in my mouth as much as I’ve wanted anything. His body bucks against mine, and a sound of such deep and masculine need rises from his chest, it’s almost as though he’s aware of my thoughts. His body vibrates with something that feels almost dangerous as he walks me backwards into the room.
‘Turn around,’ his gravelly voice demands, drawing my senses to the surface of my skin, my every molecule anticipating his touch as I turn. ‘We’re going to do this my way. Take our time. Don’t worry, you’ll enjoy it,’ he adds with just an edge of taunt before he slides my hair to the side of my neck, brushing it over my shoulder.
His fingertips slide a tantalising tease against the sensitive nape, and I shiver as he gathers the strands, almost as though he’s about to tie my hair back. Instead, I find my eyes rolling closed, my neck extending to the left as he presses a soft kiss against the curve between shoulder and neck. One kiss becomes two, two becomes a sense of delirium, every press and caress seemingly so intentional. As though he’s been thinking about this. Anticipating. Planning and preparing. Deciding ahead that he’ll tighten his grip at this very moment to pull my head to the side. This isn’t like the car or his office. There’s no frenetic motion or desperation, just time and desire and sheer will.
‘Do you remember what I said about the table?’ His words are purred directly into my ear. I try not to give in to a whole-body shiver as I nod my understanding, but I find I can’t. Not with my hair twisted in his fist. The sense of control is like a whole other level of sensation covering every inch of me.
‘What was that? I didn’t hear you.’
‘Yes.’ My tongue darts out to wet my lips, my breathing ragged. ‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Good, but I think we’ll start in here.’A kiss.‘If you have any objections.’His free hand slides around my body to cup my breast.‘You should say so now because something tells me when I taste you.’A press of his teeth. The way he tortures my aching nipple. ‘I’m going to want to make your sweet cunt my home.’
The dirty deliciousness of his words ignites a desire that instantly needs acknowledgment, his teasing attentions making it almost impossible to remain passive. But as I try to move, his grip tightens, the frustration and need layering and building until I feel I could crawl out of my own skin.
‘I’d like to see you undress. Would you do that for me?’
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and as I reach for the concealed zipper, Beckett lowers himself to the edge of the mattress in front of me.
A king of his domain. A picture of manly confidence and ease.
It feels too much to strip while he watches, too personal, like I’m exposing more than just skin. But the zipper eventually stops, and I slide off one shoulder strap and then the other. The gauzy fabric falls and gathers at the curve of my hips. I shimmy a little because it seems less seductive to just shove it down. I notice how his eyes are mostly pupils and glued to the rise of my breasts. I shimmy again as I shake the dress loose, the fabric whispering against the backs of my legs. As I step from the pool of apricot silk, his gaze has focused on the creamy lace between my legs.
I bend to pick up my dress, because that’s what you do when you’ve learned to appreciate the value of pretty things, but also because the weight of his gaze is unnerving. As I lay my dress over the back of the nearby chair, Beckett’s hands clasp my hips, pulling me backward to where he sits. He’s so hard and so warm under me, the metal of his belt a cold contrast against my spine
‘You enjoyed teasing me, didn’t you? Enjoyed me watching you before you folded away your clothes like a good little girl.’
