Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology Book 2)

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you love me spanking you, don’t you?’

  ‘I’d love it more if you made me come when you spank me.’

  His grin stretches, spanning his entire handsome face. ‘You didn’t answer my text within five minutes.’

  I gape at him, outraged. ‘You can’t punish me in our private life for something I do in our professional life.’

  ‘I can,’ he counters, reaching past me and pulling open the door. ‘We’ll call it a job incentive.’

  I’m speechless as he ushers me from the library. Taking my hand, he walks us down the corridor leisurely, peeking down at me with that adorable grin. ‘I’m loving the new dynamics of our working relationship.’

  I shake my head. He’s such a juvenile sometimes. ‘You’re a twat.’

  Becker laughs and straightens the frame of a picture as we pass. ‘Yes, a holier-than-thou one, apparently. And you love me.’

  Chapter 12

  The following Tuesday, I stroll into Becker’s office to discuss the upcoming sale of a Dalí, finding the elaborate space empty. I take a seat at his grand desk and try calling him, but it rings off, and I lean back, wondering where he could be.

  My eyes cast over to the bookcase where his secret room is beyond, and I bite my lip, slowly rising. It helps him relax. A couple of times over the weekend he disappeared for a few hours. And a couple of times I found grey smudges on his face. Is he relaxing now?

  I narrow my eyes on the bookcase where I know the entrance to be, as I round the desk tentatively and edge towards it, listening for any sounds beyond. Nothing. So I feel up the bookcase, finding it flush. I pout, edging away, slowly taking myself back to his desk. I lower to the chair, thinking. How long did it take him to masterfully craft that fake? How long was he plotting to rip off Brent Wilson and clear the path for his treasure hunt?

  The home screen on his computer seizes my attention. The Google search bar is empty. Begging to be filled. Curiosity and intrigue seems to growing in me by the day.

  My fingers are tapping before I can stop them, and I hit enter. The page loads with various articles, and I scroll through them, searching. My heartbeats quicken when I see something. An article from a local London newspaper. I click it and inhale when Becker’s father’s face fills the screen. The Hunt men were definitely at the front of the queue when God was giving out looks. Lord, it’s like looking at Becker, just a few years older. He’s wearing glasses too, and not for the first time I wonder how bad Becker’s eyesight is.

  Becker’s dad is in a tuxedo, a brandy in his hand, obviously at some kind of gala or ball. And next to him, the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. Lou Hunt. Becker’s mother. Her hand is wrapped around a wine glass, her neck adorned with some serious sparklers, her body encased in a black velvet gown. She’s mesmerising. Or was. I wince, a horrible pain radiating through me. Such a handsome couple. Such a waste. And all because of that lost sculpture.

  My eyes drop to the article below, and I inhale.

  World renowned art dealer found dead in Italy

  I start scrolling, hungry for information, even if I know what the newspapers reported wasn’t the truth. Then jump out my fucking skin when I’m grabbed from behind. ‘Boo,’ he says in my ear, and my finger finds the close icon and clicks off the screen before he spins me around and slams his mouth on mine.

  ‘You scared the crap out of me,’ I mumble against his lips.

  ‘I know. I can feel your heart thundering. What were you doing?’

  I push my mouth harder to his, ignoring his question. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘At Sotheby’s. I’ve acquired a new painting. Georgia O’Keeffe. We need to arrange delivery. Will you take care of it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The num—’

  ‘I can take care of it,’ I assure him, and he smiles.

  ‘You gonna pay for it, too?’

  Ah. Good point. I smile sweetly. ‘Can I borrow some money?’

  He laughs as his phone rings. ‘And there’s a Warhol exhibition coming up. Get me the catalogue?’ he asks, and I nod as he answers. ‘Hello?’ Becker pulls me from his chair, kisses my cheek, and takes my place, swatting my arse as I walk away.

  I go straight to the coffee table between the couches and start collecting up a pile of books and putting them back on the shelves, anything to keep my attention off my impressive man sitting at his impressive replica of the Theodore Roosevelt desk.

  Impossible. I peek over my shoulder, finding his eyes rooted to my arse. I cough, and he glances up, blinking. Then he shakes his head to himself and realigns his attention. I smile and carry on restacking the shelves, but I can feel him watching me. His office is literally throbbing with our combined desperation for each other. This working relationship was always hard, but now we’ve leaped over the line into acceptance and understanding, it’s unbearable. Keeping my hands to myself is an hourly challenge.

  Peeking behind me again, I find Becker now in front of his desk, his phone to his ear, his arse resting on the edge, his spare hand braced on the wood. I gulp down some restraint and stupidly allow my relentless eyes to home in above his neck. His angel eyes behind his Ray-Ban specs are nailed to me.

  I can’t take it.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I mutter, placing the last few books on the table and moving towards the door.

  He’s off the desk in the blink of an eye, jogging towards me. My hand is claimed, and he leads me over to his desk, his phone still at his ear. I’m guided to the chair and pushed into the seat, then he resumes position on his arse, on the edge of his desk, a whisper away from me.

  Hazel eyes hold me in my seated position, and one of his feet slips between mine. ‘Yes,’ he says into the phone, tapping both of my ankles with his foot and raising an eyebrow.

  My mouth gapes when I catch on, and my legs turn to steel in an effort to stop him. Becker’s eyes laugh in the face of steel. He cocks his head, keeping his phone to his ear by his shoulder, and leans forward, placing a palm on each of my knees. My body temperature hits the ceiling and my teeth clench. No amount of stiffness or strength could stop him. Not mental, not physical, though I try. What is he doing?

  The ‘1965 Ferrari 275 GTB,’ he says, spreading my legs so I’m wide open and exposed to his appreciative eyes. My hands find the arms of the chair, my fingers clawing into the leather. ‘The Long-Nose Alloy Berlinetta.’ I’m still and silent as his long fingers walk their way up the inside of my thigh. Those damn fingers are leaving a trail of fire in their wake, and the thought of them reaching the apex of my thighs has me lifting my arse from the leather to escape. He’s on a business call. I need to be quiet, and I can’t guarantee that at all.

  ‘Ouch!’ I yelp when he pinches the delicate flesh on the inside of my thigh, my body going limp from shock, my arse hitting the chair again. I shoot him a look, finding his lips pouting and his index finger resting lightly on them.

  ‘Shhhh,’ he whispers, stretching the sound out for ever, returning his hand to between my legs. My head starts to shake frantically, telling him silently that I can’t, but he just nods in response, keeping his phone held to his ear by his shoulder while he reaches for something on his desk. A coaster? It glides through the air towards me, and my mouth drops open, stunned by his intention. Big mistake. I’ve just invited him to slip it between my teeth, and he does, wriggling it a little for me to grip onto. Oh, Jesus, he’s really going to do this. Is this how it’s going to be? Sexual games during the working day? I want to be delighted, but I’m too worried right now. Mr H or Mrs Potts could walk in at any moment and catch me with my legs spread and Becker . . . playing with me.

  ‘I’m only interested in the original colour,’ Becker goes on, and I look up at him, his body bent to reach his target. He gives me a wicked grin and comes down to his knees in front of me. My eyes fol
low him all the way. Here I am, legs wide open, fingernails piercing the leather of the chair, with a coaster in my fucking mouth.

  Welcome back to The Haven.

  His fingers brush the seam of my knickers, and I whimper, quietly begging, which he totally ignores, looking up at me and relishing in the sight of me squirming. Then the warmth of his fingers connect with my sensitive heat, and his eyes widen, sparkling. My spine clicks one vertebra at a time until my back is poker straight.

  ‘When does it arrive from Italy?’ he asks, so calm. I don’t know how he’s doing it.

  My jaw begins to ache from my crushing grip of the coaster between my teeth, my forehead beginning to bead with sweat. I look down, seeing his arm between my legs. I could yank it out, if it wasn’t for the invisible handcuffs keeping my wrists nailed to the arms of the chair. I’m immobilised by his boldness. I close my eyes, unable to resist the urge, as he slowly slips his fingers inside me. The soft heat of me melds around him instinctively, immediately creating a maddening friction. I force myself to breathe through it, but Becker increases his pace, making my attempts more difficult by the second. This is so wrong, but that doesn’t seem to be registering with my nerves, muscles, or my morals. My insides are alight. I flex my hips up, inviting him, encouraging him.

  I can vaguely hear someone on the other end of the phone rambling on about imports and interest from other parties, but I’m too alert to the feel of Becker within me to feel disgrace. The illicitness of this is just turning me on more, my orgasm gaining momentum unstoppably. The force behind his caress is bordering too much, his fingers hooked and sweeping within me. Then the bastard starts pumping, introducing his thumb to my clit. My eyes snap open, and I scream, the coaster muffling it a little, but not nearly enough.

  ‘Nothing,’ Becker assures the caller, giving me a warning look. My eyes close again. He doesn’t let-up. He drives on and on. I’m never going to fight my way through my climax in silence. I start breathing through my nose, feeling every drop of blood in my body rushing south.

  ‘Look forward to it,’ Becker says evenly, like he hasn’t got a panting woman dripping with need before him.

  Then it happens, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. The build-up of heat sizzles and burns, makes me shift and moan and sweat. I start to scream in my head as the pressure between my thighs erupts, sending every nerve ending into spasm.

  My body goes slack in the chair, and I use my last ounce of breath to spit out the coaster, eager to capture some valuable oxygen. I peel my eyes open. He’s smirking at me, an adorable, almost innocent grin. My angel eyes. My sinful Saint Becker.

  He pulls his fingers free, then spends a few moments keeping me riveted while he licks my release away. ‘Yes,’ he says quietly into the phone. ‘It’s been a very productive call. Thanks, Simon. I’ll see you soon.’ Then he hangs up and slowly rises, my eyes following him until he’s towering over me. ‘Okay?’ he asks.

  I make an idiotic attempt of composure. My condition is clear. ‘Super.’ I gulp, closing my legs.

  Becker reaches for my hand and pulls abruptly, yanking me to my feet. Our chests collide. His nose touches mine. ‘You’re welcome,’ he says cockily, dropping a hard kiss on my lips. I’m about to laugh, but I’m being swung around before I can engage my mouth.

  ‘Whoa!’ I cry, my palms slapping onto his desk. I’m pushed down until my front meets the wood. ‘Oh fuck,’ I curse as he keeps me in place with a firm palm on the back of my neck and pulls my dress to my waist. ‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.’ I clench my eyes shut.

  ‘What did you do, princess?’ he asks, his voice like silk. ‘What did you do while I was fucking you with my fingers?’

  My fist meets the desk in frustration. ‘Closed my eyes.’

  ‘And what happens when you do that without my say so?’ He pulls my knickers to the side and strokes my cheek affectionately. Oh my days, Mr H and Mrs Potts would have heart attacks if they walked in now.

  ‘You spank me.’ I don’t fuck about. Why prolong the inevitable?

  ‘Precisely.’

  Thwack!

  My hands lift and ball, then plummet to the desk with force as I grunt through the sting of pain, rather than scream. The burn is something I’m becoming surprisingly accustomed to. It still hurts like hell, but I’m learning to deal with it, learning to breathe my way through it. It’s a good job, because I sense Becker’s spanking habits are here to stay. I roll my forehead onto the desk and pant into the wood. ‘Are you done?’ I ask, feeling him still poised behind me.

  ‘Just admiring my arse,’ he replies happily, giving it a loving pat before pulling my knickers into place and my dress down. I let him pull me up. ‘Take a seat.’ He points to the chair and rounds his desk, switching quickly into boss-mode. So it’ll be professional on his terms? When Becker says? I lower myself to the seat and brush at my crimson cheeks.

  ‘Mr Hunt,’ I say, following his lead. ‘I—’

  ‘Mr Hunt?’ he sighs, exasperated.

  ‘Sir?’ I try, knowing exactly what response I’ll get to that suggestion.

  ‘Yes, if you want me to fuck you every time you use it, go right ahead. Call me sir.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Becker, princess. To you, I’m just Becker.’

  My lips stretch into a grin. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Behave,’ he warns, grabbing his mobile and bashing out a text. ‘Pass me your phone,’ he says, and I oblige, unlocking it and sliding it across his desk. He navigates a few screens, then hands it back. ‘I’ve downloaded my private bank’s app. You need to memorise the login details. There are four security questions, all of which you will know the answers to. The answers apply to me. And a facial scan is required as extra security.’

  I stare at him in disbelief. ‘You trust me with all your money?’

  ‘Why, are you going to run off with it?’

  I laugh, looking down at my screen, seeing the login screen. ‘And what are the log in details?’

  ‘Username is SAINT. All upper case.’

  I smile as I type it in. ‘Password?’

  ‘CorruptLittleWitch1992. All lower case with an exclamation mark on the end.’

  My smile widens, and as soon as I’ve finished entering, I’m asked Becker’s favourite colour. ‘Red,’ I say as I type. Then another question. ‘Gloria,’ I murmur, my fingers working fast over the keys. The third question makes me smile, and I look up at him. ‘Granny Smiths,’ I say, and he smiles in return. The final question makes me baulk. ‘Seriously?’ I ask.

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Your favourite position?’

  ‘Correct.’

  I sigh, typing out my answer. I frown when it tells me I’m wrong. I look up at him. ‘It’s definitely doggy.’ What gives?

  He gets up and rounds his desk, coming in beside me and dropping a kiss on my cheek. ‘It was. But now . . .’

  I grin and type in ‘Missionary’, my phone scans my face and the screen opens. ‘Fucking hell.’ I baulk when the balances hit me.

  ‘Don’t spend it all at once, eh?’

  Jesus Lord above. I don’t think I could spend this money in a lifetime. But, then again, I don’t make a habit of spending millions on art. ‘I’ll sort the transfer.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll email you their bank details and how much.’

  I close the app as Becker takes his seat back up. ‘Oh, and I’m going out with Lucy tomorrow night.’

  ‘That’s nice. Where?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Okay.’ He looks up at me. ‘I have an appointment at Parsonson’s at three.’

  Parsonson’s? The auction house where I turned up late for my interview because some cheeky arsehole nicked my cab? ‘Do you need me to prepare anything?’

  ‘Yes, yourself.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Prepare yourself, princess. You’re
coming with me.’

  Chapter 13

  The sight of the glass revolving door outside Parsonson’s sends me cold. I can see myself trapped in one of the quarters all those weeks ago, frozen in a shock-and-awe moment.

  ‘After you,’ Becker says, having me tear my gaze away from the doors, finding his arm is swept out in a gesture for me to lead on, his expression telling me he knows exactly what’s going through my mind.

  ‘Thank you.’ I push into the glass and follow as it slowly glides around, reacquainting myself with the stark reception of Parsonson’s as I go. I’m lost in my reflections, remembering the last time I was here, when I’m suddenly pushing against a dead weight. I’m trapped again, and knowing what I’ll find, I turn to search him out on the other side. Except he’s not on the other side. Becker’s in the same section as me. Close. I move backwards until my back meets the glass.

  ‘Imagine,’ he says quietly, closing the gap between us, ‘if we’d have been in this situation that time.’

  I mull over his suggestion, thinking about the energy that sparked back then. Having glass between us wasn’t effective enough. Like this? I honestly can’t imagine how I would have been. Even more useless? I was pretty pathetic with a protective sheeting of glass keeping me contained. ‘It’s very cosy.’

  Becker chuckles and reaches past me as he walks forwards, getting the door shifting again. I step out and gather myself. ‘I might have slapped your face for stealing my cab,’ I say, getting heightened amusement from Becker at my claim. He’s right to laugh. The suggestion is funny. I was capable of nothing in that revolving door.

  ‘Mr Hunt.’ The receptionist appears from a white door that blends into the wall perfectly. She looks as pristine as the last time I saw her.

  ‘Afternoon, Janet,’ Becker says, leaning over the desk and giving her his cheek. I watch, astonished, as she pecks his stubbled jaw and he laps it all up.

  Becker indicates towards me, and she looks at me, smiling brightly. ‘This is Eleanor. She works for me.’