Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology Book 2)

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  I unzip my fly, feeling her internal muscles tightening. ‘Someone’s being greedy.’ I bite her cheek and break away, pulling my fingers free and stepping back. She shouts her frustration to the ceiling, squeezing her eyes closed. Then I skate a steady palm across the smooth skin of her arse, my arse, admiring the perfect curve that’s more pronounced since she carried my son. I didn’t think I could love her arse any more than I did. Didn’t think it could be any more perfect. I was wrong. I raise my palm, and she stills, snatching some air in preparation, bracing herself. She’s never prepared. I bring my hand down swiftly, slapping her arse on a piercing crack. The instant sting that spreads across my palm makes my cock bulge more, the pink of her skin a sight to behold.

  ‘Fuck!’ She jolts forward, and her eyes spring open. I watch as she looks back and searches me out, her soft eyes lazy and appreciative, her hair wild and damp. I remove my glasses and slip them into my pocket, giving her direct access to my appreciative stare. It doesn’t matter that my vision is suddenly blurry, because I won’t be able to see straight soon, anyway.

  ‘Good?’ I ask, starting to tenderly stroke her burning arse, leaning in and giving her cheek an equally tender kiss.

  ‘You’re a depraved holier-than-thou twat, Becker Hunt,’ she puffs, making me smirk.

  I slowly position myself behind her. ‘I’m making no apologies,’ I say under my breath. ‘I’m going to fuck you to the Pantheon and back, Eleanor.’

  She laughs, and I growl, positioning the head of my wet cock at her opening. I don’t slip in slowly. I don’t tease my way through her soaking pussy. It’s been a long day waiting to get my hands on her properly.

  I thunder forward, smashing into her brutally on a bellow that echoes around the stark garage. Her scream follows suit, bouncing off the white walls, and my world spirals into beautiful, desperate chaos, the power of our connection sending me descending into a haze of unadulterated bliss. Her sweaty palms slip over the paintwork of her new car, trying to find the anchor they need to hold her in place while I pound into her. I groan, striking hard and fast, yelling each and every time. I begin to gulp down air, taking long, deep breaths. The depths I’m achieving and the force behind my drives are building me up quickly, my balls aching. ‘Fuck, yeah,’ I yell, shifting one hand to her shoulder, clawing my fingers into her flesh. ‘Feel good, Mrs Hunt?’ Another brutal drive sends her up onto her tiptoes, her head going limp on her shoulders and hanging lifelessly. I delve my fingers into her messed-up hair and tug her head up. ‘Do. I. Feel. Good?’ I bark. I’m going out of my fucking mind. Everything is spinning. I feel spaced out, yet totally compos mentis. Completely with it. All the nerve endings I possess are zinging, screaming, raring to burst. ‘Eleanor!’ I roar.

  Bang!

  ‘Yes!’ she cries, the word literally hammered out of her.

  My cheeks puff out, the tip of my cock starting to spasm in preparation, every drop of blood rushing to my head. I’m going to come, and the power of it is going to make me collapse. Or pass out completely.

  ‘Becker!’

  ‘Hold on,’ I shout, jacking her onto me, causing her hands to slip from the car. My stone dick starts swelling, pushing further into her soft, convulsing walls, sending me over the edge. She flips out, throwing her head back, screaming an insane torrent of nonsense into thin air. And then I literally feel her shatter, her body going slack, making it impossible to keep herself up any longer. ‘Motherfucker,’ I choke, coiling my arm around her waist to keep her in place. With one last mind-boggling plunge, I gasp, pushing my hips upward and releasing everything I have in consistent, steady pulses. I moan, groan and curse as I stagger back, taking her with me, literally crumbling to the floor, catching Eleanor as she comes down. I’m fucked, gasping for oxygen, my cock throbbing uncontrollably with the aftermath. I give into my heavy lids and close my eyes, her wet dress-covered back stuck to my chest and the back of her head falling onto my shoulder.

  I sigh my satisfaction, letting my hands creep around her tummy and lock down, keeping her secure to me. The pounding blood in my ears is joined by the sound of Eleanor panting. It’s the sweetest sound, and I nuzzle into her ear, nipping at her lobe. She exhales happily and grumbles her protest when I break away. ‘Bed,’ I order as I drag myself to my feet, smiling at her slighted face when I fasten my fly. Without another word, I bend, gather her into my arms, and stride out of the garage with my wife draped across my arms. Her head settles on my shoulder, and I look down at her glowing face.

  ‘Do you think you can stand?’

  ‘No,’ she answers quickly. ‘Why? Is my arse getting too heavy these days?’

  ‘Your arse is just perfect.’ Let’s get that straight before she takes it away from me. ‘Leave my arse alone.’

  ‘It might grow even bigger soon,’ she whispers quietly.

  I pull to a halt, my eyes shooting down to hers. I find her grinning. ‘Are you playing with me? Please don’t play with me.’

  ‘I did a test this morning.’

  And just when I thought I couldn’t be any happier. I exhale and sink my face into her hair. ‘How many weeks?’

  ‘Just twelve.’

  ‘God, woman, you make me so happy.’

  ‘Me or my ever-increasing arse?’

  ‘You. Your arse is just a bonus.’ But the sight of it when Eleanor was at full term with George is suddenly riddling my mind. I grin into her neck. ‘I can’t fucking wait. But I wanted to be there when you did the test.’

  ‘I wasn’t certain. And I didn’t want to get your hopes up. I know how much you loved my massive arse when I was expecting.’

  ‘Not massive. Perfect.’

  ‘Yes, because there’s more area for you to slap stu—’ Eleanor’s head shoots up. ‘Was that Clementine?’

  ‘What?’ Just as I ask, I hear another whimper.

  ‘That.’ Eleanor is out of my arms in a flash, picking the bottom of her dress up and running out of the garage.

  I grab the baby monitor and slip on my glasses as I follow, a little less urgently than Eleanor.

  ‘I’m coming,’ she yells. ‘Where’s Mrs Potts?’

  ‘So she can use her feet for her dog?’ I grumble. But I’m still grinning. Boobs, belly and arse. I wish she could be permanently pregnant.

  Mrs Potts appears from the spare room, as if by magic, rollers in her hair, a floral nighty drowning her short, plump body. ‘Is it time?’

  ‘You’d better get the blankets.’ I push my way into the kitchen and find Eleanor crouched by the dog bed, her dress a mass of bunched-up satin puddled on the kitchen floor. She has Clementine’s jowls in one palm, her hand tenderly stroking her head with the other while Winston circles close by. ‘Well?’ I ask, joining her and trying to settle Winston.

  ‘She’s in labour,’ Eleanor says without looking at me. ‘It could be a long night.’

  ‘To go with a long day.’ I sigh, just as Mrs Potts bursts through the door with arms full of blankets.

  ‘I’m here!’ She wobbles over and dumps the pile next to the dog bed, assessing Clementine. ‘Look at that face,’ she says happily. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to have The Haven full of puppies.’

  I take Winston by the collar. ‘C’mon, boy. Let’s leave the ladies to do their thing.’ I gently coax him towards the door, looking back as I go on a smile. A wife, two kids, two bulldogs and puppies to boot. Fucking crazy.

  Winston grumbles a little as I lead him to my office. ‘You’ll just worry more,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not pretty. Best to try and relax a little. Get some rest. She’ll need you soon, you know.’ I push the door to my office open and usher him inside, and he looks up at me and barks in agreement, ambling over to the chair and jumping on. He curls up as I sit the baby monitor on the drinks cabinet and pour myself a Haig, taking a quick swig before placing it on my desk and wandering to the foot of my bookcase. Scanning th
e shelf before me, I locate the book I need and tilt it, standing back as the shelf creeps open, revealing my safe. I bend a little at the waist, presenting my eye to the scanner before twiddling the dial the few times needed and getting the key from my pocket. I slip it in the lock and turn, getting my usual thrill from the clicking that indicates the release of the locks. My tummy actually flutters. It never gets old.

  Reaching inside, I gather the bundle into my hands and wander over to my desk, placing it down with the care it deserves.

  Then I pull off the cover, take a seat, kick my feet up, and grab my drink.

  And I relax back and admire it for a while, smiling to myself when I think that Brent Wilson probably does this very thing each day. Except he admires a fake – another fake that I masterfully crafted and buried under a slab on the porch of the Pantheon before I dug it up again. I smile at the thought. I’m not sure what I took more pleasure from: discovering that the real sculpture had been in Rome all along and my girl found it for me, or watching Brent run away with another fake. It’s a close call.

  I look up when the door knocks, and a second later, Gramps pokes his head around. His eyes fall straight to Head of a Faun, a knowing smirk pulling at his old lips. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ I ask, getting up and pouring him a whisky.

  He walks slowly to the chair on the other side of my desk and lowers on a little grunt, accepting the tumbler when I hand it to him. He tosses a newspaper on the desk, and it lands next to the sculpture. I look down, smiling.

  Brent’s face graces the front page, and the headline is telling the world that he’s been sentenced to ten years for stealing an O’Keeffe from Sotheby’s. I’m not going to feel too bad for setting up the prick. I needed justice for Mum and Dad. I smiled my fucking arse off as I smothered the painting with his fingerprints, thanks to the glass I stole from his suite at The Stanton. God, I would have loved to have seen the look on his face when the police found the O’Keeffe in the vault of his hotel. Framing Brent was one of my finest moments. I’m still buzzing.

  ‘He’ll be gunning for you when he’s out,’ Gramps muses.

  ‘I’ve got a good five years before I need to worry about that.’

  He reaches for the sculpture, swivelling it until it’s facing him. Then he leans back on a smile and stares at it.

  I watch him, getting as much pleasure from studying my granddad as I do the long-lost treasure. ‘Gramps?’ I say, winning his attention. I hold up my tumbler and toast the air above Head of a Faun. ‘To Mum and Dad.’

  He nods, and we both knock back our drinks, slamming the glasses down on the Theodore Roosevelt desk in unison.

  Gramps smiles, getting comfortable as best as his old bones will allow. Then he breathes in and lets the air out on a wistful sigh. ‘I love you, Becker boy.’

  ‘Love you more, Gramps,’ I reply quietly, reaching forward and swivelling the sculpture back to face me before refilling our drinks and passing his over. ‘Love you way more.’ I relax back in my chair.

  ‘To the Hunts,’ he says. ‘Best bleedin’ treasure hunters that ever lived.’ He stares at the sculpture, and I see peace in him as much as I feel it in myself. ‘Did you hear they’re having the Mona Lisa removed to be cleaned?’ he asks, his eyes still on Head of a Faun.

  ‘Oh?’ I try to stop my veins from tingling with excitement. Honestly, I do.

  He peeks up at me. ‘Next month, apparently.’

  ‘Interesting.’ I muse, rolling my tumbler across my bottom lip.

  ‘I thought so, too.’ He reaches for the sculpture and swivels it back to face him. ‘But, you know, you’re retired now.’ He lifts his glass and swigs.

  ‘Yeah,’ I muse, our eyes locked across the desk. ‘I’m retired.’

  My dear old granddad’s mouth slowly stretches into a grin.

  And damn my thirst for adventure, I grin right back.

  Acknowledgements

  And here I am again wondering what to write and how I can express my appreciation for so many people in a different way. To my people at Orion, my UK publisher, thank you for giving my stories a home in the UK. I look forward to many more years working with you. To my agent, Andy, you’re fierce, loyal, and an inspiration to me every day. I adore you. Thank you for being you.

  And to my readers out there who have been waiting for the conclusion of Becker and Eleanor’s story, you are absolutely not ready for this thrilling ride. Hold tight. The adventure continues. Thank you for being here with me.

  JEM xxx

  About the Author

  Jodi Ellen Malpas was born and raised in the Midlands town of Northampton, England, where she lives with her husband, boys, and a beagle. She is a self-professed daydreamer, a Converse and mojito addict, and she has a terrible weak spot for alpha males. Writing powerful love stories and creating addictive characters has become her passion – a passion she now shares with her devoted readers. Her novels have hit bestseller lists for the New York Times, USA Today, Sunday Times, and various other international publications and can be read in more than twenty-four languages around the world.

  You can learn more at:

  JodiEllenMalpas.co.uk

  Facebook.com/JodiEllenMalpas

  Twitter @JodiEllenMalpas

  If you can’t get enough of Eleanor and Becker’s sizzling love story, go back to where it all began . . .

  An irresistible connection, a desire that won’t let go . . .

  When aspiring antiques dealer Eleanor Cole is handed the chance of a lifetime to work for the Hunt Corporation, the renowned antiques dealers, she doesn’t think twice. Only then does she discover she’ll be working up close and personal with the notorious and insanely irresistible Becker Hunt. He is a man famous for getting what he wants, and Becker wants Eleanor.

  But as Becker pulls her deeper into his world, she discovers there’s more to him than meets the eye.

  And falling for Becker goes from being foolish to dangerous . . .

  Available in paperback and eBook now

  Discover an unforgettable love story that will take your breath away . . .

  Giving into desire could destroy them, but denying their passion is impossible . . .

  Hannah Bright has finally found a place to hide from her past, in the quiet town of Hampton. But the peace she needs is disrupted when she meets Ryan Willis. Insanely handsome and highly dangerous, Ryan is exactly the kind of man Hannah needs to avoid . . .

  Reconsidering his career in private protection, Ryan is home to figure out his next move. Meeting Hannah is definitely not part of his plan, yet Ryan can’t resist her. But Hannah has a dangerous secret, and Ryan won’t stop until he finds out what she’s hiding. Nothing prepares him for what he discovers.

  Can Ryan keep Hannah safe? Or will her past destroy any chance they have for a future together . . .

  Available in paperback and eBook now

  Two stand-alone novels from the Sunday Times

  and New York Times bestseller

  JODI ELLEN MALPAS

  Credits

  Jodi Ellen Malpas and Orion Fiction would like to thank everyone at Orion who worked on the publication of Wicked Truths in the UK.

  Editorial

  Victoria Oundjian

  Olivia Barber

  Copy editor

  Justine Taylor

  Proof reader

  Laetitia Grant

  Audio

  Paul Stark

  Amber Bates

  Contracts

  Anne Goddard

  Paul Bulos

  Jake Alderson

  Design

  Debbie Holmes

  Joanna Ridley

  Nick May

  Editorial Management

  Charlie Panayiotou

  Jane Hughes

  Alice Davis

&
nbsp; Finance

  Jasdip Nandra

  Afeera Ahmed

  Elizabeth Beaumont

  Sue Baker

  Production

  Ruth Sharvell

  Sales

  Jen Wilson

  Esther Waters

  Victoria Laws

  Rachael Hum

  Ellie Kyrke-Smith

  Frances Doyle

  Georgina Cutler

  Operations

  Jo Jacobs

  Sharon Willis

  Lisa Pryde

  Lucy Brem

  Also by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  This Man series

  This Man

  Beneath This Man

  This Man Confessed

  With This Man

  One Night series

  One Night: Promised

  One Night: Denied

  One Night: Unveiled

  Other Novels

  The Protector

  The Forbidden

  Gentleman Sinner

  Leave Me Breathless

  Artful Lies

  Copyright

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Orion Books,

  an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

  Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment,

  London ec4y 0dz

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Jodi Ellen Malpas 2020

  The moral right of Jodi Ellen Malpas to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.