by Alam, Donna
But we don’t always get what we deserve. It’s often the opposite, and that’s certainly true as I lay my hand on the curve of her hip.
She was touching herself. In my bed.
‘Pretend I’m not here, unless . . .’ Unless the reason she’s lying on my bed touching herself is because she was imagining the opposite.
Is she wearing my aftershave?
At the realisation, the confirmation, a fiery thrill courses through my bloodstream. Unless . . . unless this is some kind of fuck you gesture after my ridiculous declaration. And if that’s the case, not only do I deserve it, but I’ll also take my punishment because the sight of her owning her own pleasure is like nothing else on this earth.
‘Olivia.’ Her name is an appeal for mercy—a plea for her to continue with my punishment.
‘Go away.’ She presses her face deeper into the mattress, curling herself into an even tighter ball.
‘I can’t, darling. You’re in my bed.’
‘Like you need to remind me of that,’ she almost groans.
But, Christ, the sight of her as I’d entered the room. Midnight satin in a sea of stark linens. Pink flushed cheeks and titan hair fanned out against the pillows. Someone should paint her like this to preserve the image for posterity. Except I might have to blind the artist. Because that sight was only for me.
Except it wasn’t. Something unpleasant twists in the pit of my gut. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, my hand tightening on her hip as though my touch could convey the truth of it. I lashed out and punished her because I couldn’t punish myself enough. I can never punish myself enough. Although the last ninety minutes in the gym was the usual precursor to the spiral of self-loathing.
‘I thought you didn’t ever apologise.’ I don’t. Yet I have. But not for the reasons she’s thinking.
‘Actually, I retract that statement. I’m not sorry.’ How can I be sorry for this? For finding her in my bed.
‘Just go. Away. Please.’
‘I’ve told you I can’t. You’re in my bed. In my bed, touching yourself.’ Under my hand, she flinches. I bring my bare feet up onto the mattress, curling myself behind her. ‘Watching you get yourself off was like a glimpse of the forbidden. A peek at heaven.’
‘Fine. You got your peek. Please leave and let me end this.’ Desire radiates from my chest, manifesting itself in a growl. ‘Not like that.’ Her denial is immediate. ‘I meant leave me so I can die from my humiliation.’
‘Stop.’ There’s steel in the word. ‘Stop pretending to be embarrassed. You know you did this to punish me.’
‘What?’ She turns her head over her shoulder, offering me her angry profile. But I can work with angry over embarrassed. Twist it into something that works for both of us.
‘I deserve this.’ I press her hip, encouraging her onto her back. ‘This punishment.’
‘You deserve a lot of things.’ Her words are a puff of indignant air. ‘And none of them very pleasant.’
‘So you’ll torture me.’ My gaze flits over her, her nipples pebbling under the satin, my hand now bunched in her pyjama top as though it could stop her from moving away.
‘It wasn’t—’ Her lashes almost flutter as she slowly comes to realise what this looks like from my side of the bed. Did she expect me to reject her? Fuck, of course she did. I’ve been nothing but a bastard to her since we last fucked.
‘You left me here. Alone.’ There’s a husky quality to her words, something teasing almost.
‘I did.’ Because I’m stupid, apparently.
‘What was I supposed to do?’
‘When I was supposed to be here, touching you. Feasting on you.’
‘Yes.’
‘I left you no option but to touch yourself.’
‘I don’t need your permission.’ An arched brow and a husky defiance. ‘And stop looking at me like that.’
‘Like what? Like I want you? Like I’d sell my soul to be inside you?’ Her eyes track the movement of my fingers as I outline my erection through the thin fabric of my shorts. I lay my forehead against hers. ‘Show me.’ I kiss her, just one tempting slide of my lips as take her hand and slide it back between her legs. ‘Please.’
‘But you’re wrong,’ she whispers, her back arching into our joint touch. ‘You don’t deserve this.’ Her statement ends on a needful sigh as I curl my fingers around hers, pushing them against her pussy.
‘I don’t deserve you,’ I whisper, kissing my way across her jaw as I slide my hand from hers. ‘I don’t deserve a taste of your silken skin.’ I engulf her nipple over the satin, her body bowing with a stuttering sigh. My eyes follow the movement of her hand as it slides under the elastic waistband, and I tighten my lips to a sharp tug, my cock as hard as steel as she sighs her surrender.
As her fingers slide over her clit, I make short work of the buttons of her pyjama top, spreading the sides open like the pages of a book. I can’t take my eyes off her as she lies here in my bed, half undressed and playing with herself. My part in the proceedings a hum of filthy whispers.
That’s it, darling. Fuck your fingers.
See how hard you’re making me? How desperate I am to fuck you?
Until she isn’t playing anymore, arching from the mattress. Her movements are fast and her breathing erratic until she cries out, her eyes wide and unseeing, her body a live wire lashing the mattress.
She is glorious in her undoing.
Before anymore awkwardness sets in, I tell her so, wrapping my arm around her waist as she turns to her side.
‘I never want to hear you mention this ever again.’
‘Is it okay if I think about it? Actually, I’m not asking permission because I don’t think I could stop myself.’
‘Stop it,’ she whispers, but without ferocity this time as I tighten my hold.
‘I should’ve known this would be where Goldilocks chooses to sleep.’ At her questioning glance, I add, ‘And by that, I mean having you here in my bed feels just right.’
‘So you want to sweet talk me now?’ There’s no real bite in her response as she yawns deeply, almost nestling into the pillow under her head. There’s a pause, and I wonder for a moment if she’s already succumbed when she lifts her head. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘I had some work to do, like I said. But I also worked out.’ Worked off some of this energy.
‘No, well, yeah.’ A dozen thoughts seem to cross her expression. ‘You did just leave me standing in your hallway, so an explanation would be good. But I’m asking where Beckett went—the Beckett I met in New York. Because when I woke up yesterday, the man I’d been hanging out with? The man who arranged from my grandmother to fly in to see me? He was gone.’
‘I thought you weren’t pleased about that. In fact, I remember there were things thrown.’
‘I wasn’t pleased how you handled it.’ She doesn’t react to my teasing, my attempt to lighten the act that annoyed her so, as she turns to face me. My eyes dip to her chest before she pulls the sides of her pyjama top closed. ‘I was so happy to see her. I speak to her every week, but the last time we were together was over a year ago. You made that possible.’ Her candour is surprising, it’s almost a compliment, but I try not to react. ‘We had a good day together, and then you turned up at the restaurant, and you were nice to her even though she wasn’t particularly friendly to you, which made me warm to you a little more. I began to think maybe I’d misunderstood you. Maybe misunderstood isn’t the right word, but maybe I was seeing your layers, a little depth because there had to be more to you than just the man who enjoys pushing me around. Then we hung out at the bar, and it was fun. You laughed at my jokes and even cracked a few of your own. It was like you were revealing yourself piece by piece. If I put all the Beckett snapshots together, I’d somehow know you, and the puzzle would be solved.’
‘Maybe it’s that the puzzle isn’t worth solving.’
Her expression clouds, perhaps missing the intent of my words. ‘Are you punishing me?’<
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‘No, that’s not it.’ I find I can’t hold her gaze. I thought I was done with guilt.
‘That’s what it feels like,’ she says softly. ‘Like you’ve revealed too much of yourself—the human side of you—and that it’s become my fault, somehow.’
She’s right, and she’s wrong. And if I don’t tell answer her, how will we get through the next six months?
‘There’s a gym in the basement accessed by the second staircase in the hall. You can access it from outside, too.’
‘Okay,’ she answers slowly. But it isn’t. She doesn’t really get this at all; how could she? Who goes to work out when most people are sleeping?
‘After the bar, I woke early. I wake early every day. I don’t sleep a great deal. It’s one of the effects of addiction.’ Her gaze widens, then regulates, and I give her a moment to let that settle in . Or maybe the moment is for me. My weakness is something I need to be reminded of occasionally. ‘Cocaine.’ The financial district stimulant of choice. City boys do love their Class A drugs, and this one is A for acceptable in the circles I move. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t use, and I haven’t for a long time.’
‘Well, that’s kind of obvious, I think.’
‘Is it?’ My eyebrows lift. I wasn’t expecting attitude. And confusion, perhaps? Addiction usually elicits sympathy or morbid fascination. Not that I make it a habit of sharing this information. I’m not what you’d call the sharing type.
‘Well, you’re not exactly mellow, are you?’
‘You’ve never dabbled?’ This much is obvious without the shake of her head. ‘Not even at university?’’ Another denial. ‘You spent a year in a central London university, and you never . . . ?’ How the fuck is that possible, Olivia the innocent? ‘And don’t I feel like the degenerate seducer all of a sudden.’
‘Hardly,’ she answers defensively. But I suddenly feel old.
‘Coke doesn’t mellow you out. It’s quite the opposite,’ I add almost in a whisper, brushing the strands of her hair from her shoulder. ‘Not that it matters because I don’t do it anymore. I also don’t drink. No more than a few glasses. Because when I do, it can bring back all the not so pleasant reminders of addiction. The sweats and the shakes, the fear and the self-loathing. And that’s what the night at the bar did.’
It’s not the whole truth, but she doesn’t need to hear the rest as she offers her sympathy, not in words, but in the warm hand she splays across my chest.
And the rest? My new addiction is her.
But I came to an understanding while on the treadmill, my legs working like pistons as I’d fought to exhaust this weakness from my system. Addiction is called a habit for a reason. And the only way to avoid it is to remove the source of the addiction. And I can’t do that right now. I need her right now to get my hands on JBW, which means I capitulate. I give in. And later, I’ll go cold turkey. When the ink is dry on the contract, I’ll remove her from my life, and the equilibrium will be returned.
But until then, I’ll gorge on her.
‘So.’ I peel her hand from my chest, bringing the backs of her fingers to my lips. ‘I can usually remove myself from society when I feel the way that I did. I should’ve insisted on travelling back alone.’
‘I’m not sure that would’ve helped.’
‘It might have been more pleasant. For you, at least.’
‘I’m guessing for you, too. Well, you’re not exactly an open book, are you?’ she adds by way of explanation. ‘But I appreciate you telling me the truth.’
Not the whole truth but enough. Enough to make me uncomfortable, but whether for being secretive or telling her anything, it’s hard to tell.
‘And I guess if I look really hard, maybe get out a microscope or something, that kind of sounds like an apology for the way you’ve treated me.’
‘I’m certain I’ve already said I never apologise.’ God knows how, but I manage to curtail my burgeoning smile.
‘Well, clearly, that’s not true because I make that two tonight.’
‘I retracted the earlier apology. That doesn’t count.’
‘Ah, so you admit it,’ she says, beginning to giggle. ‘You apologised at least once tonight.’
‘Never,’ I growl, taking her wrists in my hands and pushing them into the mattress, my knees bracketing hers. ‘I never apologise.’
‘Except when you do.’ A puff of sweet breath catches me on the cheek as she tries to blow strands of hair from her face. ‘A little help here.’
‘I never apologise, and I never help.’
‘Sorry. I forgot, oh dark and awful overlord.’
‘That has a certain ring to it. From now on, I think you can refer to me as just that.’
‘And you can kiss my ass,’ she replies with a snort.
‘I thought you’d never ask,’ I answer, burying my mouth against her neck.
‘I thought the honeymoon was over!’
‘It seems I was a touch premature.’ I cut off any smart-arsed reply with a glance of my lips against hers. It’s a barely a brush but a welcome one, judging by the small moan she makes. A small moan that lengthens as I lower my body, my chest brushing hers.
‘Beckett?’ Her voice pulls at my attention, the soft curl in my name causing me to lift my head and stare down at her. The dark moss of her eyes is a perfect complement to her flushed cheeks. ‘We’re attracted to each other. This isn’t just about business.’
Dipping my head, I glance down the space between our bodies, my cock hanging hard and heavy behind the thin material of my shorts.
‘Does that look like business to you?’ I ask, my gaze returning to hers.
‘It looks like it means business.’ She bites her lips against a smile. ‘Whatever else this is, do you think we might be friends?’
‘Olivia.’ Beautiful, tempting Olivia. ‘You should make it a personal rule to only be friends with people who are worthy of you.’
‘You’re saying you’re unworthy?’ It’s not a taunt or a snarky response, but a genuine one. And one I wish I didn’t feel compelled to answer.
‘Of friendship, yes.’
Of you, most definitely.
Chapter 32
OLIVIA
‘Oh my God!’ I can’t believe you snuck off to New York to get married, and you didn’t even tell us!’
‘Holy heck, Heather!’ I reply with a wince. ‘I think if there’s life on Mars, they heard that squeal. Ouch, my ears.’
‘Actually, there isn’t life on Mars,’ Jorge mutters coming up behind me, not waiting for me to step into the office. ‘It’s been proven it can’t be sustained there. It’s too cold, there’s no water, and there’s too much UV radiation. Plus, the issue with the soil.’
He takes off his denim jacket and loops it over the Ikea coat stand without looking around. Which thankfully means he’s completely oblivious to Heather pretending to hang herself through boredom, Miranda’s pitying look, and my perplexed one.
‘Not the right nutrients,’ he adds. ‘It’s all barren wasteland. And the pressure is enough to make a person shrivel up.’
‘Sounds a bit like your sex life,’ the younger girl mutters, not quite under her breath.
‘Heather!’ Miranda gasps, but Jorge just ignores her. In fact, he ignores us all as he trudges off to the tiny kitchen to flick the kettle on. I know this, not because I can see through walls, but because the man is a creature of habit, if he’s nothing else.
‘Well, he didn’t even say good morning to the boss lady, never mind offer her congratulations.’ With that, Heather takes two tutu-clad steps in my direction and throws her arms around my neck. ‘I am so happy for you!’ She plants a big smacking kiss on my cheek before falling back on her heels, her body almost vibrating with excitement.
‘Did you have a good time?’ Mir asks carefully.
I was dreading this. I’m not a great liar at the best of times, and despite Beckett’s assumptions, I’m a terrible actress. I foresee a whole lot of screw-ups over the ne
xt six months. I can only try to meet my part of this arrangement.
‘Of course, she had a good time,’ Heather crows. ‘She was whisked off to mother-fluffin’ NYC for a bit of nookie and ended up married! Did he propose in Central Park? Times Square? Where? Tell me where!’
‘Do you think it would be okay if I just took my coat off first?’
‘Yes, but then you have to tell us all about it,’ she demands as I deposit my laptop bag on my desk and hang up my Burberry trench, while trying to tune Heather out.
‘ . . . How he proposed, where. What he said when he asked you, and what you said in response. It’s all just so exciting,’ she says with a little twirl.
She’d be so upset if she knew the real story.
What he said: A mutually beneficial agreement. You’ll lose your business if you don’t.
Where he proposed: Nowhere. He just harangued.
What he did: Got me so amped in the back of his car, I had to know what he was like between the sheets. And now that I do, I’m well and truly screwed.
Well. And. Truly.
Just like last night. And the embarrassing “moment”? I’ve wiped from my mind, though I’m almost certain Beckett has done the opposite and pinned it to the front of his. I’m pretty sure he was thinking of it this morning while I dressed. Like an erotic reverse striptease, he’d murmured.
And again when I brushed my hair.
And later when—
‘He’s such a hottie.’ Heather’s words snag my attention. ‘And that whole captain of industry vibe he’s got going on.’ As I turn my head, she’s fanning her face.
‘Do you have any plans to work today? Heather looks like I’ve slapped her. Acting failure number one, I guess: the euphoric bride let down. ‘Ignore me,’ I say with a tired sigh. ‘I’ve spent all weekend moving into Beckett’s house.’ His big enough to be a small hotel house.
Not that I’ve really moved much at all. A few clothes. Some small kitchen appliances. A box of Yorkshire tea.
‘It’s your house now, too.’ Mir sends me a quizzical glance. Or it might be a concerned one. Maybe hanging out with Beckett seems to have made me an expert on all his scowls to the detriment of everything else.