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‘And neither of us need that,’ he finishes as he starts to pace again, his anger turning into laughter, his hysterics crazy-like. He’s amused at the absurdity of such a thought.
I bubble with resentment, with anger, with pain. What the fuck does he think all this is, then? Why the fuck did he drag me back to London? All those words and the gestures? They meant nothing? He’s in fucking denial, and I’m fucking livid.
‘It’s too late!’ I scream, all of my emotions bursting out of me before I can stop it, spelling it out for him, sending myself dizzy with the decibel level of my own voice.
He snaps out of his moment and looks at me vibrating on the bed. He’s shaking pretty badly himself. Then he bashes the side of his fist on his chest, making me jump. ‘I fucking know!’ His arms go up in the air manically before dropping limply to his sides, his whole body going lax. ‘I know,’ he says more calmly. ‘I fucking know, Eleanor.’
I try to stop the tiny sob escaping, but it’s not a battle I can win. My emotions are in tatters. My shoulders jerk uncontrollably under the strain of it all, the tears just pouring right out of me. I cover my face, ashamed for letting myself fall apart, but they’re quickly removed with force, preventing me from evading his probing eyes.
‘I love you,’ I say, almost apologetically. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and gently takes my arms, pushing them down to the bed, lightly holding them above my head. He seems to have gathered himself, while I’ve taken over in the wild department, unable to get a hold of my fraying emotions.
‘Shhhh,’ he whispers softly, resting his lips on my forehead, calming me down. ‘Just breathe, baby. Deep breaths.’
Following his soft order, I drink in as much air as my lungs can sustain, fighting to get my sobbing under control. It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s also sucking in air, fulfilling his own order. His lips are held firmly to my forehead while he waits for both of us to settle, and when that time eventually arrives, he rests his forehead on mine.
And I finally have his eyes. They’re dark, swimming with as many emotions as I’m feeling myself – fear, doubt, wonder. ‘I know it’s too late, Eleanor,’ he whispers, breathing in my face as he shifts his hips. My legs spread and relax, inviting him to me. ‘What the hell have you done to me?’ He swivels and enters me on a meticulous, calculated plunge, and I whimper, my breaths jagged from my fraught state. Becker swallows hard and clenches his teeth but refuses to break our gaze. He doesn’t even blink. ‘Okay?’ he asks, threading his fingers with mine.
I nod, scared to speak for fear of sobbing on him. He mirrors my nod, accepting and satisfied, then brings his lips down to mine. The soft warmth of his mouth brushes gently over mine as he watches me, rearing back slowly and driving forward with equal care. ‘Open up to me,’ he murmurs against my mouth, kissing one corner. ‘Kiss me while I’m making love to you.’
I melt beneath him as he coaxes my mouth open with his tender pecks. We kiss passionately, our exploring tongues rolling and lapping deeply. My hips start to rotate, meeting his grinds, and the whole time our eyes remain locked, gazing at each other while our bodies create sensations like I’ve never experienced before, and our lips uphold the forever kiss. I’m tingling everywhere, relishing in the feel of our combined sweat making us slip together. The tempo is perfect, accentuating every stroke, his groin creating friction on the tip of my clit which is working me slowly and steadily towards release.
He moans, like he could be in pain, and separates our mouths, but never our eyes. Bursts of air are heating my face, his deep gasps loud. And then he takes a long breath and holds it, and I know he’s on his way. My stomach muscles are beginning to ache, but the intense waves of pleasure won’t allow me to give them a break. I’m on my way, too. His pace increases, his fingers tighten with mine, and he nods at me, his eyes widening. He’s close.
I pant, catching a deliciously deep plunge, flexing my hips to emphasise it. Every muscle tenses and he releases the stream of stored air that he’s been holding before gasping for some more and filling his lungs again. ‘I’m coming,’ I whisper in his face, and he pumps harder as a result, tossing me to the brink. It seizes me from every angle, taking hold of my body and bending it into a violent arch.
His palms are suddenly encasing my cheeks, holding my face. He’s staring at me so intensely. ‘I want to see,’ he pants. ‘I want to see the wonder on your face and see if it’s anywhere close to how I feel.’
I breathe up at him, my hands grappling at his back as stabs of pleasure attack me, my face contorting, my body tensing.
‘Yes, it’s that good.’ He thrusts one last, firm time and holds himself within me, throbbing dully, my internal walls squeezing him fiercely.
The waves of pleasure keep coming and coming, taking their time to pass over me, sending flurries of goose bumps all over my wet skin. I’m exhausted but bursting with energy. Scared but excited. The man looking down at me has sent my poor mind into a tailspin and my life spiralling into the unknown. My only consolation and comfort comes from the knowledge that I have had the exact same effect on him.
And like he’s read my thoughts, his lips twitch and his eyes sparkle. ‘Welcome home, baby.’ He kisses my cheek tenderly, and then collapses, swathing me in his body. His tongue meets my neck and licks away the sweat, and my chin rests on his shoulder, my arms surrounding him. His weight atop of me feels good. Sharp, heavy, protective, and good.
‘Good fucking morning,’ I sigh, feeling the weight of the world lift from my shoulders.
Understanding.
We lay there for an age, silent, until I can’t take his heaviness any longer.
I wriggle until he lifts from me, looking at me in question. I answer by forcing him to his front. He goes willingly, easily, and I straddle his thighs so I get the whole of his back in view, including his arse. For the first time ever, I’m not drawn to his delectable derrière. My eyes are on his glorious tattoo. I ignore the scratches that I put there.
The elaborate art brings a smile of wonder to my face. I see everything I saw before, all of the intricate detail, it all swelling before my eyes. Tilting my head, I ghost my finger through the UK, letting it drag south until it’s drifting through the Mediterranean. There are even dashes of ink that represent the waves of the sea, the names of countries blended into the shaded areas here and there, making you need to cross your eyes in order to see the words more clearly. It’s truly incredible.
‘Eleanor, I . . .’ Becker’s words fade to nothing, and my eyes climb the artwork until I have his perfect profile in view, waiting for whatever he’s trying to get straight in his head. He sighs. It’s a frustrated sigh. ‘You irritate the shit out of me.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I know.’
‘I love it.’
I smile and continue with my studying of the elegant tattoo blanketing his broad back, moving my eyes across the disguised numbers buried in the waves. My lack of response must make him curious, because after only a few seconds, he turns over beneath me and pulls me down by my upper arms until we’re nose-to-nose. He narrows his eyes on me, his mind clearly racing. But I remain silent, just staring at him. His lips press together, then he bites on his bottom one, then he flips his eyes up to my red hair, then down to my flushed cheeks, and then, finally, back to my waiting eyes. He practically scowls at me, turning my fixed frown into a hesitant smile. ‘How did this happen?’ he asks, showing genuine wonder.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. I did everything to stop it, but it proved unstoppable. I’m just so happy that it’s something Becker is equally perplexed by.
‘I told you not to fall in love with me.’
‘Did you tell yourself not to fall in love with me?’
‘Every fucking second of every fucking minute of every motherfucking day.’ He’s truly exhausted by it.
I grin. ‘And how did that work out for you?’
&n
bsp; He laughs under his breath and bites the end of my nose softly. ‘Work it out for yourself, princess.’ He sighs on a shake of his gorgeous head, as he pushes me up so I’m sitting, straddled on his lap. Then he takes my hands and starts to play with my fingers, weaving and fiddling while he watches. ‘This is huge, Eleanor,’ he says quietly. I could laugh, but I don’t because he’s so right. For Becker, the man who’ll never allow anyone in, this is fucking colossal. Like ground-breaking huge.
‘I know that.’ I try to pacify him, like I’m holding his hand so he can get through this revelation. I can only hope he holds my hand, too.
‘But if you feel like I do,’ he goes on, keeping his eyes on our hands. ‘Then that’s good, right?’ Looking up at me, he gives me a tiny smile. An unsure smile.
‘Right,’ I exhale, and his twiddling fingers stop with their playing.
‘How do you feel?’ he asks. This is so strange. He’s like a child who has found they’re in an unfamiliar situation and is seeking reassurance – any comfort to put them at ease. And I realise, that’s exactly what this is. He’s frightened, and it’s understandable after all of the losses he’s suffered. His mum, his dad, his nana.
The anger.
The deep-seated fury that’s eating him alive from the inside out. Mr H’s blind fury, the words he yelled at Becker when he found out he’d ripped off Brent Wilson. Revenge. I want to know about his father, ask why he holds the Wilsons responsible, but I’m also very wary of the nerves I might hit. The pain I will spike.
You’ve taken enough from me already. You’re not taking Eleanor.
The revelation I’m faced with right now, the fact that Becker’s in love with me, is causing him enough stress. I need to let him get used to it, get used to me, before I ask any more about the Hunt family legacy. Shit, I need to wrap my own head around this, too.
A sharp flick of Becker’s hips upward knocks me from my daydream, and I blink my eyes, finding him regarding me closely. ‘How do you feel?’ he asks again.
I smile and flex my hands, prompting him to release his hold so I can trace the sharp edges of his lean chest. I concentrate on my slow drifting finger as I ponder what I should say. ‘I feel light,’ I say quietly, circling his tight nipple, smiling when it stiffens under my touch.
He flicks his hips up again, jolting me. ‘You don’t feel very light to me.’
Pinching his nipple, I twist, throwing him a dirty look. I don’t take it to heart. He loves my arse.
Becker seizes my hand, eyebrows high in warning. ‘Don’t make me spank you,’ he says seriously. I wriggle a little, missing the delicious warmth that his spankings leave behind.
‘You have an arse fetish,’ I say coolly, holding back my grin.
Becker doesn’t. He gives me a blinding, adorable, cheeky smile and slides his hands onto my bottom, squeezing gently for a few teasing seconds, watching me. Then his hands leave my skin and I suck in breath, holding it, waiting. And damn if I don’t lift a little, giving him better access, inviting him.
Slap!
Both hands come down hard, knocking me forward a little. ‘Only a fetish for your arse, princess.’
My hands plant into his pecs, bracing myself, and my hair falls forward onto his chest as I breathe through the discomfort. ‘Holy shit,’ I whisper brokenly.
He performs a calculated swivel of his groin and takes the tops of my arms, pulling me down to him. ‘What else do you feel?’ he asks.
‘Like my backside’s on fire.’
‘Shhhh . . .’ His pouting lips nearly touch mine, the low sound of his sexy shush sending a flurry of tingles down to my toes. ‘Tell me how you feel about me,’ he pushes.
‘Right now, I want to slap you.’
‘I feel like that about you all the time.’ Becker’s grip of my arms clamps down some more, encouraging me to spill. His eyes are close to mine, curiosity on hesitation. I’m holding back – a crazy thing to do given where we’ve found ourselves this morning. All of the confessions, the revelations, the feelings. ‘I feel light,’ I say again, but this time he doesn’t make any sarcastic wisecrack. He just holds me suspended above him by the tops of my arms, my hair spilling around his head, forming a kind of private veil around us. ‘Like I’m floating.’
He holds onto his smile, keeping it back, but his angel eyes are firing off sparks of happiness. ‘Go on,’ he prompts, desperate for more. It’s all reassurance to him, like I’m confirming what he’s feeling himself. That it’s okay to love me.
‘I feel like I’m lost in a maze,’ I whisper, my gaze falling to his lips, seeing them parted and wet, full and ready to taste. ‘And I have no desire to find my way out.’ I look up at him when I hear a tiny hitch of his breath, seeing his eyes have glazed slightly. He gets it. He knows just how I feel.
‘Like every corner you turn is a surprise?’ he murmurs, swallowing. ‘Like you can’t figure out if each step is an exciting stumble or a petrifying stagger?’
I bite my bottom lip. Yes, that’s exactly it.
‘Like,’ he blinks slowly, keeping his eyes shut for a few moments, before dragging them open and flexing his fingers, releasing me a little before squeezing, as if to reinforce his point. ‘Like none of that shit matters as long as you’re stumbling and staggering with me?’
I’m done. I can’t hold back any more. The lump in my throat swells and chokes me, and a drop of my emotions trickles down my cheek. It’s relief, and I nod, unable to speak through the bulge that’s blocking my throat. This is everything. This is acceptance, and it looks good on him. He smiles, a true happy smile, and releases my arms, letting me fall onto his chest.
‘Me too, princess.’ He pushes his mouth to my ear, kissing me hard and squeezing me until I think my bones might crumble under his power. ‘Me too.’
My cheek rests on his shoulder, my upper arms sprawled above, encasing his head. I feel small in his hold. Safe in his hold. I shouldn’t entrust my heart to this man, but the fact that he’s entrusting his to me makes this even ground. And now I’m trusting him to protect me from his debasing world.
‘Eleanor?’ he says, turning his face into my neck and breathing in. I hum, and he goes on. ‘Will you be my girlfriend?’
I feel his grin stretch against my neck, and, I swear, I smile the widest I ever have. ‘I will.’
‘And Eleanor?’
I hum again, and this time he pulls himself free from my neck and gazes at me. ‘I love you.’ His voice is barely a murmur, hardly heard.
But it’s the loudest thing that anyone has ever said to me.
And the most significant.
Because Becker Hunt said it.
Chapter 8
Becker left me to snooze while he took a shower, and I don’t think my secret smile left my face the whole time that I listened to the water raining down on him. After smothering my face in kisses that had me giggling like I’ve never giggled before, then flipping me over and giving my arse a welcome-back slap, he dressed and left me in his bed.
That smile of mine was still with me while I showered and dressed, but it slowly dropped away with each step I took down the stone staircase. And now it’s gone completely, and I’m sitting on the bottom step, spinning my phone in my hand, a little nervous. I can hear activity in the kitchen from two old people that I can’t wait to see . . . but also can.
It’s only just occurred to me, after leaving the blissfulness of Becker’s apartment, that I have no idea what to say to Mrs Potts and old Mr H. What has Becker told them? Do they know why I wasn’t in work yesterday? My thumb replaces my lip for something to nibble on, and I peek down the corridor to the kitchen door, wondering what to do.
My phone jumps to life, ringing in my hand, and my arm jolts upward in fright, sending it sailing through the air. ‘Shit,’ I curse, scrambling to gather it up when it lands a few feet away. Lucy’s name flashes up
at me, and my hand retracts like it’s been electrocuted. My fist balls and comes up to my mouth, my teeth clamping over it as my face screws up in dread. She doesn’t know I’m back. How am I going to explain? I don’t know, but speaking to Lucy means delaying having to face Mrs Potts and old Mr H. So I take the call.
‘Hello.’
‘Morning,’ she sings. ‘When are you coming home?’ Home. The small word makes me smile, but every muscle in my achy body tenses, and my arse is suddenly burning again. Oh yes, I’m home.
‘I’m back.’
‘You are?’ she blurts out, surprised.
I hum my confirmation. It’s a cop-out. A guilty sound. And she doesn’t miss it.
‘Where are you?’ The suspicion in her tone cuts right through my conscience. I can’t lie.
I wince before I answer, preparing myself for her reaction. ‘At work.’
‘What?’ she shrieks, and my face screws up again, knowing she isn’t done. ‘For the arsehole?’ she asks. ‘The womanising prick?’ She goes on. ‘The—’
‘Yes,’ I grate, clenching my phone so hard to my ear, I’m in danger of crushing it with my bare hand.
There’s a brief silence. She’s thinking. ‘We need to talk,’ she says, and I laugh sarcastically because she’s right. There’s no way I can analyse this crazy shit storm alone. I need her. Even if just to hug me. ‘Lunch?’
‘Um,’ I look towards Becker’s office, then back to the kitchen. I have no idea how today is going to pan out. I need to talk to her desperately, but I also need to figure out some stuff here, namely Mrs Potts and old Mr H. I also have work to catch up on.
‘Please,’ she murmurs dejectedly.
I frown down the line. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m just feeling needy.’
‘Because?’
‘Because Mark’s department is having a night out, a certain someone is going, and I’m not.’
A certain someone. ‘Printer-room girl from floor eighteen.’
‘Yes,’ Lucy squawks. ‘Yes, she’s fucking going, and I don’t trust her one little bit, Eleanor. Not one little bit. She’s been sniffing around, making excuses to be near Mark’s desk, and it always happens to be when I’m not around. I come back, and the girl on the desk next to me tells me. Every fucking time. I’ve started to hold in my pee all fucking day so I don’t have to leave my desk, and I only go out for lunch when Mark does. I’m going fucking insane.’