by Alam, Donna
I wonder if she can feel me shaking like it’s my first time?
I wonder if her heart is playing the same tune as mine?
I wonder what she’s thinking and then worry she sees it all.
Her hips follow mine as I pull out, her moan a monument to her frustration. But as I slip my arm under her thighs, she’s quick to get onto her knees for me.
Our pleasure ricochets around the room as I sink into heat again, angling her pelvis to hit that not so cerebral pleasure centre.
‘You take my cock so well.’
She’s so hot and tight, and the angle is so much deeper this way, as the city lights turn her skin to pure moonbeams.
She whispers my name on an exhale, her tone part plea and part ecstasy.
‘I know,’ I grunt, my follow-up exhaled in a rush. ‘It’s so fucking good.’ I knew. I just knew it would be. But nothing could’ve prepared me for this.
As she turns her head, she sinks her teeth into my arm, unleashing a flood of something hot and sweet into my veins.
‘Harder,’ I demand, pressing my mouth to her shoulder to deliver a kiss, then a lick. I pull back on her hips, and slam in, my body punishing hers again and again until there is nothing but this. No thoughts. No recriminations. No push. No pull. Nothing else exists outside of this room.
‘Beckett, please. I want you to come inside me.’
I react to her words as though lashed by a live wire. My hands grasping her freckled shoulders, I begin to fuck her as though I mean to be inside her in my entirety—as though I mean to break her apart.
This is real. This is happening. And it is terrifying.
Every inch of my skin feels pierced by a million hot pins, the feeling building and twisting as it shoots through my extremities, white hot and intense. As I bury my mouth against her salt-slick skin, I pray to the heavens I’ll survive this.
This experience.
This woman.
Chapter 23
OLIVIA
I wake to an empty bed, which is fine. I’m not freaking out.
I’m not!
Beckett looks like the kind of man who runs marathons before most people have wiped the drool off their cheek. Myself, I’m more a caffeine and carbs person. The closest I get to the gym is by wearing a T-shirt and leggings that are Adidas by Stella McCartney.
The empty bed allows me to stretch languorously and count my sucking bruises while delighting in each one of the accompanying aches. I worked muscles I didn’t think I possessed! Last night was incredible. Wonderful. Fucking intense. If I needed to, I’m pretty sure I could write a list of superlatives, and it still wouldn’t cover it.
I was so right, I think quite smugly to myself. A man couldn’t possibly be as self-controlled as Beckett without becoming a little freaky when the lights went out. And let me tell you, his energy is pretty freaky. To put it another way, last night, Beckett persuaded me to try this thing—the kind of thing that’s still making me blush six hours later—but it turns out, he was right. There are two kind of women in this world. Those who like it, and those who have never tried it.
After a final stretch, I pull myself up from the bed and—
‘Oh, my God!’ I see red—splotches of red all over the white bed linens. With my hand over my thundering heart, I try to reason with myself that there’s not so much blood that I could’ve killed him. Unless it was death by a thousand cuts, and I’ve finished him off in the bathroom. Which, funnily enough, was something I did do last night. The finishing him. In the bathroom.
On my knees.
In the shower.
But I didn’t murder him.
I don’t think.
It’s then I notice the tiny seeds. The red splodges are actually squashed raspberries. And the rest of the room? It looks like a bomb has gone off inside it.
A puddle of champagne stains the wood of the nightstand, and the glass bottle lies on its side. Don’t ask. I’ll never tell.
One of the glasses has been separated from its stem, and the other lies abandoned on the velvet sofa. Macaron crumbs appear to be embedded into the carpet while Beckett’s clothes and wet towels are lying everywhere. My beautiful bouquet squashed and abandoned after it became one of his props last night and was used to caress every inch of my skin.
I so don’t want to be here when housekeeping arrives.
I make my way to the bathroom, tiptoeing over the debris. I tie back my bird’s nest hair and brush my teeth before covering my nakedness, courtesy of the hotel branded plush robe. As I make my way into the lounge, I hear Beckett’s deep tones coming from the dining room.
I shuffle my way in, my gait impeded by the hotel slippers. A weird quirk, I know, but I don’t like walking barefoot on hotel carpet. The man of the hour, rather the man of many, many hours, sits at the head of the table, talking on his phone. Which reminds me . . . I shuffle out of the room again, grabbing my phone and charger. As usual, the thing is dead, but I’ll use one of the outlets in the dining room.
As I enter again, Beckett is hanging up his phone.
‘You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.’ My voice sounds like a forty-a-day smoker.
‘I had a few calls to make.’
‘You could’ve done those in your pyjamas.’
‘Except I don’t own any.’
‘Heaven forbid you ever become ill.’
‘That sounded insincere.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ I rasp. ‘I had a bit of a shock this morning. When I woke, I thought I’d killed you.’
‘The raspberries,’ he murmurs with a sexy little smile. A new smile for his repertoire that he unveiled just last night. ‘They were fun while they lasted.’
And they lasted longer than the chocolate. It seems Beckett is quite the fiend for the stuff.
‘Good morning, Mrs Beckett.’ I turn to the cheery voice to find a woman, this time, in a similar uniform as the man from last night. I’m not sure which is more weird; being called Mrs Beckett or being ambushed while wearing nothing but a smile, slippers, and a robe. ‘May I bring you some breakfast or a coffee?’
My mouth works but no sound comes out, though I manage to clasp the gaping towelling.
‘Fruit and perhaps a yogurt,’ Beckett answers on my behalf, checking my expression for a reaction.
‘Coffee, too. Please.’
‘How do you take it?’
I send Beckett a glare because if he says very well, I might actually need to murder him.
‘Just black, please.’ Because it’s the kind of morning a girl needs a kick-start.
We’re mostly quiet as our lady butler serves breakfast, just murmuring please and thank you and quiet banalities.
Once we’re alone again, Beckett reaches across the table to snag a strawberry from my plate and pop it in his mouth with an inciteful grin.
‘Are they good?’ I ask, a juicy blueberry poised between my fingertips.
He licks his lips as he answers. ‘Mmm. Very sweet.’
‘Good?’ he asks as I feed the berry between my lips.
I nod obligingly, swallow, then take a sip of my coffee to wash the acidity away. I follow it with a spoon of yogurt, my tastebuds not yet awake enough to handle any kind of acidity, and oh, so sexily miss my mouth.
‘Damn.’ I lift my napkin from my knee as though every one of my breakfasts is served with starched linen napery, when Beckett beats me to it. Leaning across the table, he rubs the drop with the pad of his thumb before bringing it to his own mouth.
‘You missed a bit.’
Oh, I’m aware. A great seductress I make, huh?
‘With a mouth this size,’ I mutter, ‘you have to ask yourself how.’
‘Your mouth is perfect.’ His smile is one of supreme satisfaction, and suddenly, neither of us are thinking about yoghurt right now. It really is no wonder my pink cheeks have drawn his thumb. It brushes the path of my cheek, chucking my chin before dipping down to where the cotton robe has gaped again. ‘In
fact, you’re pretty damn perfect everywhere.’
As his hand slides inside, I find myself leaning closer, his fingers teasing the curve of my breast as he takes the weight into his hand.
‘What do you want to do today?’ I ignore the smug tilt of his lips because I’m almost certain he’d like to spend the day the same way as I do right now, because as he asks, he leans closer, too.
‘I had an idea,’ I begin carefully, desperate to keep my sighs to a minimum.
‘I’m all ears.’ And I’m all nerve endings and sensation.
‘I—’ Oh yeah. Just like that. ‘Thought we might take a little time to guarantee the error for consummation m-margin last night was nil.’
‘That is an idea.’ His thumb and finger pull my nipple into a tight, aching bud.
‘Just to be sure.’
‘I agree. We should make sure this marriage is consummated very . . . very . . . thoroughly.’
I close the last few inches of space between us, pressing my mouth to his. He tastes of coffee and mint and like a dozen other things I need. I fight to keep the contact between us, his teasing lips almost as provocative as his half-smile, the faint scrape of his stubble doing funny things to my insides.
‘You’re such a tease,’ I whisper, barely noticing how the robe is now almost open to my navel, one breast full in his hand.
‘So do something about it,’ he coaxes, sliding the cotton towelling from my shoulder. ‘Come here.’
‘Why? Are you going to make good on what you said would happen at this table?’
‘That all depends on how bad you want it.’
‘Bad enough to ask,’ I answer truthfully, my insides igniting with the expectation.
‘Bad enough to know people are beyond this door? How good are you at keeping quiet?’
‘I . . . think I can wait.’ I’m not into the whole being watched thing, I don’t think. I find myself leaning back, severing the connection between us. The idea just leaves me cold.
‘Chicken,’ he whispers, leaning back, his arms now passive on the arms of his chair.
‘If you ever owned chickens, you’d know that isn’t an insult.’ In response, the ass starts making poultry noises. ‘Chickens are smart, inquisitive, and friendly. Not to mention a little bloodthirsty.’
‘What about that margin for error?’ he taunts. ‘When there’s a perfectly good table here for our use.’
‘I’m sure there will be other dining tables,’ I answer, which, by the hardening of his expression, he seems to take as there will be other men.
I suddenly feel like a bitch, but wasn’t he the one who drew up our timeline?
Oh, God. This is going to be a long six months.
Before I can apologise, which I hadn’t planned on anyway, or before he can do his masterful thing and spurn me or whatever, my phone springs to life at the other end of the room with a buzz that tells me it now has a little charge. A little is better than nothing. I slip out of my chair because the moment is awkward. Also, I have a business to run, and I barely looked at my phone yesterday.
‘Olivia, come back to breakfast,’ his darkness demands. ‘You didn’t finish your yoghurt.’
‘Hang on. I’ll just get my phone.’ And be the rude colonial scrolling through her feed at the table.
‘I need to talk to you about something first.’
‘Sure.’ Okay, Dad. I promise to pay attention to your we-need-to-talk talk. I unplug the charger from the socket, accidentally swiping the dark screen.
Why do I have a million notifications?
OMG! THAT’S MR BDE?!?! This from Heather via our company group chat, followed by a volley of messages from Miranda.
BOSS LADY, YOU GOT HITCHED?
WHEN?
HOW?
And I have messages—lots of them, their arrival like party streamers fluttering down my screen.
WTF Ols. This from Luke.
W00T! Another from Heather, along with BRING ME BACK SUM OF DAT WEDDING CAKE.
Girl, we need to talk! This from Reggie.
My levels of confusion are great.
‘I don’t understand,’ I murmur, my sense of abject confusion deepening as I press in my security code. ‘How could they possibly know?’ Confusion turns to horror as my phone suddenly chimes in my hand, showing a message from my gran.
Olivia, kindly explain what you mean by your Instagram post.
I swipe the icon, diving straight in.
One new post and one new profile image, though the pictures are the same.
A sparkling ring on a hand, cradling a handsome face.
Flushed cheeks, eyes open, whisky and green.
A kiss that is part smile and one-hundred percent genuine.
And words to go along with the post:
Wish me congratulations.
Beckett asked, and I said yes.
Guess who just took a trip to the courthouse?
The post even has the use of appropriate hashtags, the last one a company creation we’ve tried to make popular.
#OlsandBecks #EngagedForOnlyADay #NewlyWeds #HePutARingOnIt
#ISaidYes #WeLoveNYC #WeAreLove
#FindYourPersonEvolve
The post has had over nine hundred likes already. But even with the distant possibility of this being the result of some post-sex induced wave of euphoria or memory blackout, I know I’m not responsible for this.
How? Because of the post’s perfect grammar.
It turns out Beckett posts as he speaks, even when he’s pretending to be me.
Chapter 24
BECKETT
‘Go away!’ The bedroom door shakes as, from the other side, another projectile hits it. ‘I’m not speaking to you!’
‘Clearly, you are.’ Yelling is a form of communication. ‘You’re behaving like a child,’ I retort while wondering if perhaps I’m not handling this right. I slide my hands into my pockets, then lean my shoulder against the doorframe.
‘Just fuck off!’ That’s what? Eight times she’s suggested I do so. Perhaps more if I include the minutes she spent ranting over breakfast. Rather than engage, I decided to shower and give her a little time to cool down. And here we are.
‘An unruly teenager,’ I amend, which I’m sure doesn’t make either of us feel better. Myself for thinking it because of the whole age gap thing, and her for . . . whichever of the million offences I’m guilty of currently.
‘Well, guess what? I don’t care what you think. You’re not my dad, and you don’t have the rights to my cell phone. You’re morally bankrupt, and right now, I hate you.’
‘Olivia, please.’ I can’t remember the last time I actually asked for something. I usually just demand. Except for last night when she’d . . . I shake my head because now is not the time to be thinking these things. Sex clouds my judgment, obviously. I sigh, pressing my head against the frame now. ‘It was going to come out sooner or later. You know that, right? I was just ripping off the Elastoplast, the Band-Aid; whatever you want to call it.’
‘You had no right. No right to invade my privacy, and no right to force my hand.’
‘Would it help if I said I’ve just spoken to your grandmother?’
‘What?’ I spring back from the door as it opens. ‘Oh, there you are.’ And oh, what have you been doing in there to cause your hair to stand up like that? But I don’t ask. I like my testicles where they are, thank you.
‘What did you just say?’
‘I just spoke with your grandmother. Elsie. A charming lady, actually.’
I’m known within the city for my instincts. The choices I make are from the gut, and the confidence in my actions and my investments is unwavering. I pride myself on my judge of character, and my first impressions are usually the correct ones.
What I don’t understand is how I can be so far off when it comes to Olivia.
A fickle and a changeful thing is a woman? Looking down at her right now, I’d suggest the Romans didn’t understand the half of it. She calls me
the devil, yet she looks positively demonic.
‘I’m sensing you’re not happy I spoke with her.’ The looks she’s throwing me might kill a lesser man. She looks like Medusa’s more annoyed and spikier sister.
‘Whatever makes you say that?’ she begins evenly. But she’s not really asking me a question, I realise, as she opens her mouth to speak again. ‘I mean, why should I object? What could possibly bother me about you railroading through my life?’
‘Olivia—’
‘I’m not finished,’ she snaps. ‘It’s my turn to speak because I think I must’ve missed something on the contract. I don’t remember reading anywhere that you were going to treat me like a chattel!’ As she speaks, both tone and volume rise, eventually reaching the kind of ear-splitting rant that could only be categorised as fishwife.
‘Clearly, I overstepped, but my actions were all in good faith.’
‘Good faith? Good faith! You are despicable. Your moral compass swings so wildly I’m surprised your head isn’t spinning! You’re selfish and egotistical, and you don’t have a thought for anyone or anything. I mean, what kind of man would blackmail a woman into marrying him?’ At this, she finally stops, seemingly shocked by her own words.
‘Blackmail is such an unpleasant word. But I know who I am, and I accept what I am capable of. I don’t look at others when at fault. Denial is the near cousin of rationalization, Olivia. But if it helps you sleep at night . . . ’ I leave her at her bedroom doorway, and I’d be lying if I said her stunned expression does nothing for me.
‘Please explain me how you’ve gotten me into this.’
Later, Olivia appears in the lounge where I’m working on my laptop. She looks more or less the same as she does usually. A little paler, perhaps. A little tired, despite her perfectly applied makeup. Dressed casually, she’s tied her hair back in a ponytail. But these are all smaller observations, the larger being that the fight has left her.
‘What do you want, Olivia?’ I ask, my tone a little tense as my fingers fly over the keyboard.