By the time I return, my phone buzzes in my pocket. With my heart at a standstill, I check the caller ID.
It’s Xavier.
I bet he’s wondering what the hell happened to me after the bar a couple weeks ago. He won’t fucking believe any of this, and I’ll gladly remind him that pranking isn’t my style.
Besides, I’m too exhausted to rehash the fucked up, ill-fitting puzzle pieces that comprise my life.
Glancing at the crib lying in pieces around my feet, I silence the call for now.
An hour later the crib is assembled. I inspect every inch of that thing, tugging and pulling and ensuring it’s secure. Shoving it against the wall, I move toward the changing table box, read the assembly instructions, and lay the pieces in order.
My phone buzzes again, and I debate ignoring it altogether. Sometimes Xavier will call two, three times in a row if I don’t answer.
With a quick change of heart, I check the screen of my phone.
Odessa.
She never called me back after fleeing Golden Oak on Friday, and I spent the entire weekend convincing myself no woman is worth this much headache.
It’s what I should’ve done since the day she flipped me off in the elevator. Life is so much easier when you’re not constantly obsessing about your relationship status and whether or not someone likes you today and if they’re still going to like you tomorrow.
Fuck that.
“Hello?” I answer, cradling the phone against my shoulder as I twist a hexagon bolt into its proper hole.
“Hey.” Her voice is annoyingly nonchalant. “Just sitting here and I realized I was supposed to start my new job tomorrow.”
I’d forgotten. “Yes?”
“I wasn’t sure if that offer still stood or…”
“You’re the one who ran away.” I snort.
She breathes into the phone. “Can you blame me, Beckham?”
No. I can’t.
“The offer still stands.” I tighten the bolt and grab the next of eight more. “You’re welcome to work out of Dane’s office if you’d like.”
“I’m not moving to Utah, Beckham.”
“Fine. You can work with me. Don’t expect any special treatment.”
“Special treatment? What, like when you fucked me against the wall of my office?”
“Exactly,” I smirk. “You do realize that the overwhelming majority of the women I fuck don’t get the pleasure of a second or third ride.”
I can picture her jaw hanging. If she were here, she’d slap me across the face good and hard.
“Lucky for you, I jumped off the Beckham King fuck-me-go-round back in Utah. I won’t be riding again,” she spits.
My lips spread wide. I haven’t smiled this wide in days.
“Did you get everything assembled?” she asks.
“I didn’t realize we were friends again. When did that happen?”
“It didn’t happen, smartass. I’m just asking a question.”
“Now that you’re my employee, I highly recommend not referring to me as smartass.”
“I’m not your employee until tomorrow,” she says. “And I’d like to take the time to remind you that respect is earned, not given.”
I tighten another bolt and move on. “Likewise.”
“You’re saying you don’t respect me?”
“It depends on which Odessa I’m experiencing at the moment.” I snicker. “The doormat? The one going above and beyond normal, everyday niceties? I don’t respect her. The one who refuses to take my shit and gives it right back? Respect the hell out of her.”
“So that’s the secret with you, eh? You prefer your women bitchy and mean.”
“Not at all.” My palm rakes the carpet for a missing washer. “Straightforward and allergic to bullshit is hardly the equivalent of bitchy and mean.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I guess I don’t understand how being kind to you makes me a doormat.”
“Nice people always have an agenda.”
“I never had an agenda, Beckham. I just thought we were friends.”
“Friends don’t fuck each other. We jumped off the friendship train a long time ago, sweetheart.”
“Ugh.” She groans. “I don’t have time for this. All I asked was whether or not you’d assembled all the baby gear. And since you’re not going to answer me, I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow.”
“Crib’s done. Starting on the changer now.” I prop up the changer and twist it to face me. A couple shelves and it’ll be done.
“Two down, ten to go,” she chuckles. “I’d offer to help you, but I don’t want to be too nice. God forbid you think I’m a doormat again.”
Glancing around the room at the never-ending packages of all things baby, I sigh. Help would be nice.
“You’re quiet,” she says. “Too proud to ask me to help?”
I bite my lower lip, stifling a smile. She may frustrate the hell out of me, but I’m glad she’s back.
“I think you want to help.” A bit of reverse psychology never hurt anyone.
“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong.” The sound of running water trails through the receiver. “I’m sitting here in my bathtub, surrounded by bubbles, sipping on champagne.”
My cock stiffens when an image of a soaking wet Odessa flashes in my mind. “Celebrating something?”
The clink of glass chimes. “Absolutely. I’m celebrating my freedom. No more Jeremiah.”
“Lucky you.”
“I’m starting to see why the single life appealed to you so much,” she muses, a hint of a smile in her voice. “I can get all gussied up tonight, walk down to the bar, go home with any man I want, and not have all that extra bullshit to deal with the next day, you know?”
I sit up, the image of her hooking up with some random schmuck sending an unexpected heat to my veins.
“Don’t be that girl,” I say, hoping to God she doesn’t see through me. “Don’t be that lonely girl who sits at a bar waiting for some horny asshole to pick her up and make her feel special for an hour or two.”
The gentle splash of cascading water fills my ear, as if she’s sitting up now.
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” she says.
“Obviously.”
“How about this? How about you just not worry what I do after the sun goes down, hm?”
“Believe me, you’re the last person on earth I’d worry about.” Uncle Leo always said anyone who prefaces their statements with ‘believe me’ is almost always lying. He’d be right.
“Right.” She doesn’t believe me.
“Why don’t we stop whatever it is we’re doing here,” I say. “And you come over here and fuck the shit out of me, and I’ll fuck the shit out of you, and then we can get it out of our system. Start Monday with a clean slate.”
“You and I both know it doesn’t work that way.”
“So we should fuck anyway.”
God, I want to fuck her. Need to fuck her.
She’s silent.
“My cock is throbbing right now, Odessa. It’s fucking massive. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste all because you want to prove a point.”
I hear her sip her champagne and listen for the clink of the glass when she sits it down. “You’re something else, Beckham.”
“You coming or not?”
She makes me wait a minute longer than necessary. “Give me an hour.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
ODESSA
I’m barely out of the elevator when Beckham takes me, his lips smashing mine, his fingers in my hair. I’m pressed against the wall of his foyer, half wondering what the hell I’m doing here and half not giving a fuck.
His mouth trails hot kisses down the length of my neck, and I pull his clean scent into my lungs again and again. My fingers search his hair, still damp from the shower he must’ve taken before I arrived.
Melting with each circle of his thumb around my woken nipple, my mouth parts with s
ilent pleas. His hands glide down my sides, rounding my ass and lifting me up until my legs wrap around him.
We’re one, he and I. And he carries me to the sliders leading to his balcony. It’s late, and the city lights sparkle.
The city’s alive.
I’m alive.
Beckham twists me away from him, his hands dragging down the sides of the black dress I wore over here. I chose it solely for easy access reasons, this being an impulsive booty call and all, and paired it with a shiny pair of red fuck-me heels.
His free hand gathers my hair and tugs my head back as he nibbles my ear. Beckham’s other hand pulls the hem of my dress up to my hips and slicks back down until he returns to the warmth between my thighs.
“No panties,” he breathes into my ear. I feel his smile when he speaks.
A steady finger runs the length of my slit before slipping in. My stance widens, and the outline of his swollen cock presses against the back of my thigh. Beckham presses a second finger inside me, aided by my abundant arousal, and takes the skin of my shoulder between his teeth.
I glance to the left to find a neighboring balcony empty, though I’m not sure I’d care much if anyone were occupying it. The fresh night air swirls around us, and a symphony of honking cars and city life below paints this risky, but my mind isn’t there. My mind obsessively concentrates on the feel of his fingers grazing my body, the command in his kisses, the buckle in my knees, the track of tingles running the length of my spine, and the aching wetness in my core.
With his hands digging into my hips, he turns me to face him and lowers himself. Devouring me, his tongue performs miracles that threaten to bring me to my knees if he keeps it up much longer.
I’m not ready for this to end yet.
“Beckham,” I whisper.
“Mm, hmm,” he mumbles, still tongue deep inside me. The pressure intensifies.
“I want you…I want you inside me…”
He swirls my clit a couple more times, I’m sure to spite me, and lifts himself up, leading me by the wrist inside to his living room. I expect him to bend me over, take me from behind, but he sits down first.
Unzipping his pants, the sight of his swollen cock pressing against his boxers makes my mouth water. Before he has a chance to speak, I fall to my knees, freeing his member and wrapping my lips around it.
He settles back into the seat, his hands resting behind his head. It’s my turn to devour him, and I fully intend to. Beckham’s face tenses and relaxes, and he rakes his tongue across his bottom lip. Blowing Jeremiah became a chore after a few years, but watching how much Beckham enjoys this has reignited my appreciation for the art of sucking cock.
His hand lowers to mine, pulling me off his cock and up into his lap. Retrieving a gold foil packet from his pocket and handing it to me, I tear it and sheath him in a darkened living room backlit by the most exquisite view of the city.
We fucked here.
That first night.
Just like this.
Same spot.
I’d forgotten.
I force the memory from my mind, convincing myself that Beckham’s not a sentimental man, and straddle his lap. With his one hand at the base of his swollen cock and the other guiding my hips, I grip his shoulders and impale myself with his hardness.
Closing my eyes, I let my hair drip down my back and dip my head. I feel it all. He fills me with everything he has, and my hips circle his lap before lifting up and letting him fill me all over again.
His fingers tear at my dress, grabbing fistfuls and pulling the entire thing over my head. Like a seasoned pro, he unhooks my bra and chucks it across the room.
“That’s better,” he half-grins. “Keep going, Dess. Keep fucking me…”
I grind against his cock, slow then fast, desperately longing for that sweet release.
My fingers trail his shirt, working his buttons as best I can until his bare chest is exposed. He pulls me against him, burying his face in my neck as my breasts press against his warm, muscled skin.
I could ride him all night, press my body against his, drown in our delicious friction, and wrap myself in that slow, dangerous burn.
A strain in his neck indicates he’s just as close as I am, but neither of us is ready for this to end yet. Grabbing my wrists, he guides me off of him and presses my back into the sofa cushions.
His finger runs the length of my seam and his thumb stops to circle my clit seconds before plunging his cock into me all over again, only this time it’s slow, inch by inch. Our gazes lock, accidentally I think. Beckham’s forceful thrusts hurt and satisfy at the same time, and I stifle the groans that threaten to escape. I don’t want him to stop. He can’t stop. I’m so close. I’m on the edge. I’m right there.
Dipping down to take my swollen nipple in his mouth, he swirls the aching bud with his tongue and rises back up, gripping my hips and fucking harder. His jaw tightens, clenches, and his eyes squeeze.
I relax, welcoming the power in his thrusts and riding the waterfall of anticipation building, trusting Beckham to take me where I need to go.
The burn. The pleasure. The intensity.
He explodes inside me, triggering an electric wave that commands my entire body as I come on his writhing cock.
Beckham collapses on top of me, our bodies sticking as we attempt to collect ourselves and catch our breath. The unapologetic scent of shameless arousal lingers in the air.
When he stands a minute later, I steal a glimpse of his half-hardened dick as if it might be the last time. This was sudden and unexpected, and perhaps it shouldn’t have happened, but I’m glad it did.
I needed to get him out of my system one last time.
Glancing around the room, I spot my dress half-hanging over a leather wingback chair by the fireplace. My heels are still covering my feet. My bag is somewhere in the foyer.
Beckham tosses me my dress and wanders into the next room, and I take it as my cue to leave. Tugging it over my head and fixing my hair, I stand and pull it down past my hips and smooth my palm along the wrinkles until it’s straight.
“Want something to drink?” He comes back in a white t-shirt with sweats tied around his waist, and heads to the kitchen to pull out a couple bottles of water.
“I was going to take off…” I point toward the foyer.
“You don’t have to leave yet. If you don’t want.”
He returns to the sofa, handing me a pristine bottle of Fiji water and sinks down next to me. I appreciate not feeling used, though I’m not sure it’d be classified as being used when I wanted it just as much.
My lips part, and for a moment, I consider asking him if he wants help assembling the rest of the baby gear. Opting to keep my comment to myself, I say nothing. Not in a mood to be crucified for kindness again.
We sit in silence, sipping waters, and basking in our respective orgasmic afterglows.
“I should go soon.” For the life of me, I can’t come up with a valid excuse other than the fact that sitting here like this is awkward.
Sadie whimpers from the next room, and I spot a baby monitor on the kitchen island, the one I ordered for him last week. Beckham says nothing. He leaves the room and returns with her a couple minutes later.
“She’s wide awake,” he says. “You mind holding her while I make a bottle?”
He lowers her into my arms. She smells like baby fabric softener and lavender. Her dark eyes are especially bright as she focuses in the dim light. I can’t resist running my fingers through her soft tufts of straight black hair. Her dainty features are ridiculously adorable, and I grin as she wraps her tiny fingers around my thumb.
Beckham returns with a warm bottle and takes her, cradling her in the corner of his arm. He still holds her like he’s terrified he’ll break her.
“She looks so much like you.” I lean in, convinced these two were meant to be in each other’s lives. They were made for each other in the most beautifully divine way.
The corner of his mout
h pulls down as his brows lift. “Yeah, well…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I’m positive the thought of her not being his resides in the forefront of his mind every second of every minute of every day.
“It’s going to be a while before we can get a DNA test,” he says. “Eva’s still at the hospital, and there’s this whole process…”
His voice trails, like he doesn’t want to discuss it.
“Have you considered one of those drugstore DNA tests? I’ve seen them. I mean, I don’t know if the results will hold up in court or anything, but at least it’d give you an answer. Peace of mind. I wouldn’t be able to stand not knowing.”
“I wasn’t aware those existed.” His gaze never leaves her.
“I swear I’ve seen them. I don’t know how long they take, but I’m sure you’ll get an answer before you get your legal stuff sorted out with Eva.” I shrug. “It’s just an option.”
He huffs. “The last thing is to be seen buying a mail order DNA test from a Duane Reade. The tabloids would have a field day with that. Page Six would eat me alive.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll pick one up. Nobody knows me.”
He turns to me, his bottom lip jutting out as he contemplates my offer.
“I’ll grab it on the way home tonight,” I say. “Bring it to you tomorrow at the office.”
He pulls in a deep breath, his chest swelling and falling. “Yeah. Sure. Why the hell not?”
***
There it is.
The DNA swab kits sit inconspicuously along a bottom row, two spots down from a row of pregnancy tests.
I swipe the box and flip it over, reading the instructions. There’s a rush option, where results will come in two weeks, otherwise typical handling time is four to eight weeks.
Perfect.
I drop it in my basket and head to the check out lane, stopping dead when I see her.
Annelise.
I refuse to smile, and I make no effort to hide my disappointment in seeing her here. She’s dressed in a cream cashmere twinset and black leather leggings tailored to her perfect physique. Her face is covered in the kind of makeup a woman buys from a counter at Barneys. Annelise doesn’t belong in a Duane Reade.
ARROGANT PLAYBOY Page 17
