by Casey Hagen
He clutched her ass and drove her against him harder. The assault coaxed her to hold on or come apart. Her arm snaked under his and around his ribs, the other around his neck as she hugged him, her hips still jerking away at him, whimpers and growls tearing from her sweet lips.
His own release hovered on the edge of the cliff, and with her in control he wouldn’t make it unless he forced her own. So he did something he knew for sure would send her spiraling out of control and, hopefully, when the lust cleared she wouldn’t be disgusted.
He wet his finger and slid it into the cleft of her ass, rubbing back and forth along the entrance there. Her body stiffened. Her back shot up straight. Her arms locked on him, all but choking him, and for a split second he worried that he had pushed her too far, that he had disgusted her, but then she spasmed around his desperate cock, a guttural cry flying from her throat with her fierce climax.
Clasping her hips once more he pounded into her, lifting her with every thrust, drawing out her screams as he poured into her. He buried his face against her breasts as his lungs heaved and his heart pounded in his chest. His cock continued to spill his seed deep inside her as the spasms subsided, leaving him spent in her arms.
She collapsed on him and he leaned back, taking her with him. “I fucked up,” he panted out.
“Hmmm…”
He smoothed his hands over her hair, brushing it from her damp face. He didn’t want to pull her from the haze she lay nestled in, but she had to know. “Beatrice, I forgot the condom.”
She froze.
He held his breath and waited.
She pushed herself up onto her knees, her expression serious. Foreboding. “I guess you’ll just have to marry me, then.”
The words tumbled over him, but oddly didn’t cause even a ripple of fear in him.
She smiled, and patted his chest. “I’m kidding. It’s fine. I’m on the pill. Now, where is this food you were talking about? I’m starving.”
She jumped out of bed, wrapped herself in the sheet he had tossed aside earlier then padded out of the room, leaving him feeling as if a bus had just driven through his chest.
Inside of sixty seconds he had worried he had gotten her pregnant, confessed his mistake, and she had just waved it off as if nothing potentially life-altering had just happened.
All while he lay there, trying to keep up with the rocket he had hopped a ride on last night.
Chapter 6
Beatrice needed a minute. A pause from everything exploding within her. When Micah said he forgot protection, she panicked. Everything had been going so well, she didn’t dare break it to him that she wasn’t on the pill.
So, she grasped for the lie. She only wished it hadn’t slipped so effortlessly from her lips.
She started doing the math in her head and after minute figured she was safe, since it wasn’t the right time of the month for her to conceive. It didn’t matter anyway; what was done, was done.
“I’m going to have to keep my eye on you,” Micah said from behind her.
His arms wrapped around her waist and tucked up under her breasts, and she closed her eyes. It had been less than twenty-four hours since her life had spun in a whole different direction—and as much as it should terrify her, his arms holding her told her it was all going to be okay.
Her reality had changed, and for the better. Days of mundane social events no longer loomed before her. Sure, there would still be parties and certain requirements, but she had taken control of her life and stumbled upon something life-changing and bursting with adventure. After twenty-six years, she was finally more than just Wallace Addington’s dutiful daughter.
“I’m a cagey one. You shouldn’t trust me,” she said with a laugh.
“Somehow I doubt that. Still hungry?”
“Ravenous,” she said, laying her hand over his.
“Well, why don’t you hop up right here,” he said as he took her hand and guided her onto a high-back stool at the kitchen island, “and give me a few minutes, and I’ll whip something up.”
He padded into the kitchen, a pair of plaid pajama bottoms riding low on his lean hips. She propped her elbow on the granite and rested her chin in her hand, enjoying the view before her. The muscles of his wide back flexed and jumped in a kind of choreographed dance with his movements. She’d relegated spectacular masculine bodies to the list of things near extinction. Or at least something reserved for movies and strippers.
Added to that, he cooked. She didn’t know a single man who could. She knew pampered rich boys who probably wouldn’t be able to make toast even in desperation. “I’m surprised you cook.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Well, seemed like a wise course of action since I like to eat.”
He did that a lot, the throwing out of a statement to conceal a detail of his life here and there, but he seemed to forget he’d already revealed that he knew what it was like to lack food. The idea of him growing up without, going to bed hungry, trying to fall asleep with his stomach grinding, not knowing when he would get his next meal, hurt her heart.
Respect for the strong man he became, and for his privacy when it came to painful memories, kept her from showing it. He had his pride—she understood that. “I think it was more than that. Why don’t you tell me about it,” she said.
He brought the carton of eggs and bowl to the island. He cracked shells on the edge of the sink as he spoke. “My grandmother taught me. Said no boy she raised was going to grow up needing a woman to survive. That it wasn’t a woman’s job to make sure our bellies were full.” He grabbed a whisk from the drawer in front of him and whipped the eggs, adding heavy cream as he went.
“I love your grandmother. Where is she now?” she asked.
A flash of sadness moved over his face, and Beatrice wished she hadn’t asked.
“She passed almost a year ago,” he said without meeting her eyes. He grabbed sliced ham, cheese, and mushrooms from the fridge.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He set down his knife, braced his hands on the counter and took a deep breath, rocking his head back and forth, stretching his neck. “Don’t be. She wasn’t. She was proud to see me become successful, and she spent the last three years of her life living in her dream home and going to all the places in the world she wanted to see. She would never want anyone to feel bad for her. She left this world feeling blessed.”
She leaned toward him, wishing she could circle around and hug him, but sensed that he wouldn’t welcome the action and might misinterpret it as pity. “Was she all the family you had?”
He picked up the chef’s knife and went to work on the ham, dicing it and tossing the pieces into the bowl with the egg. “Yeah. My parents died when I was three. Car accident.” He nodded at her as he worked, setting the mushrooms in the sink and running water over them while he finished with the ham. “What about you?”
“Well, my parents are both still here and breathe down my neck daily.”
“Any family besides your parents?” he asked.
“I have my grandmothers on both sides, who hate each other with a burning passion. I’m an only child, but I do have a couple of cousins. Of course, that leaves most of the pressure on me.”
He dried the mushrooms and shot her a questioning look. “The pressure?”
Her unruly hair kept sliding into her eyes, so she gathered it and pulled it off to the side. “To get married. Continue the line. Make my parents look good.”
“And you hate it,” he said.
“And I hate it,” she agreed.
He flipped a pat of butter into a hot skillet and waited for it to melt before dumping in the egg mixture. “So why do you do it, the whole family devotion thing?”
“The same reason you doted on your grandmother, I’m sure. I love them. It’s that simple, and that complicated.”
He grabbed a spatula and worked the food in the pan. “What about doing something for you?”
“That’s what my night w
ith you was,” she said with a smile in her voice. She knew the dopey grin she had on her face, just by the way her voice slid out like a giddy middle- schooler at a sleepover.
He flipped the omelet and sprinkled cheese on it. “It’s not over,” he said, giving her a hot glance over his shoulder, those smoldering dark eyes promising a whole lot more of the same to come.
Something in her eyes told her he didn’t mean their night, but the relationship neither of them had looked for.
“No, it’s not over,” she said, hoping she would be able to walk into her house and not look like she had spent the night drinking in a honky-tonk, riding a mechanical bull. Now that she had sat for a few minutes, parts of her she didn’t even know she had had begun stiffening up, making her ache with every movement.
“Do you have plans for today?” he asked as he took two plates from the cabinet and spread them out next to the stove top.
“Nothing I can’t get out of. Why?”
He flicked off the gas burner and turned to her. “Go skating with me.”
She gave him a tentative smile that grew bigger as the surprise over his request sank in. “Skating…as in ice skating?”
He split the thick omelet and transferred the steaming food to their plates. “Yes,” he said with a laugh.
“You ice skate?”
He slid the plate before her and handed her a napkin, fork, and knife. “Every New Year’s Day I skated with my grandmother. This will be the first year I do it without her. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather take.” He rounded the counter and joined her with his own plate.
She waited for him to sit before she answered, the urge to touch him too strong to deny, so she lay her palm on his forearm. “I’d love to.”
His gaze landed on her hand before he met her eyes. “Good. I can pick you up—”
“Oh, no, it’s okay. I live in Rye, but I have a driver, so I’ll have him bring me out. What time.”
“How does 4:00 work for you?”
“Perfect,” she said.
She lifted a bite of the fluffy omelet to her mouth and bit into it. Smokey cheese burst on her tongue, combined with the honey ham and thick, hot mushrooms. She didn’t know if the breakfast was quite literally the best she had ever had, even growing up with professional chefs, or if she was just so starved that it seemed that way. “This is excellent. Thank you,” she said after swallowing her bite.
“You’re welcome,” he said before taking a generous bite of his own, keeping his mouth closed as he chewed, a satisfied smile on his handsome face.
They ate in companionable silence, both starving after the hours they’d spent in each other’s arms. When she finished the last bite, she slid off her stool and rounded the counter. Standing at the sink, with the sheet tucked under her arms, she stiffened when Micah’s doorbell rang.
“Let me just go in the other room,” she said, pulling the sheet tighter around her.
“It’s okay. It’s Sebastian.” He pushed off his stool and set his plate in the sink before making his way to the front door.
“Who’s Sebastian?”
“He’s kind of my assistant, PI, bodyguard—a little bit of everything,” he said, flicking on the light in the entryway.
“You have a bodyguard?”
“Well, it’s not like I get shot at or anything. At least, not in the last decade or so.” He smiled and winked before reaching for the front door.
She bit her lip and watched him with narrowed eyes, unable to tell if he was kidding or not. Something told her this was another one of those comments made to look like one thing when it alluded to another. And she didn’t have the nerve to ask.
She ducked around the corner to his room, but stood at the edge, shamefully listening to him answer the door, curious what business he had on a holiday.
“Good morning, Sebastian. I take it you have the information I asked for.” His voice held an edge. Not anger, but it invited no arguments.
“Yes, sir,” came the unfamiliar, but pleasant voice. Not as deep as Micah’s, but polite and professional.
There was a shuffling of papers before Micah asked, “And this is all of it?”
“Everything we could get our hands on. You’ll notice there’s an event of special interest on Friday. You’d be wise to attend. Bring a date.”
“Thank you. Now, take the day off and spend it with the wife and kids. I’ll be in touch.”
At the sound of the front door clicking shut she scrambled about the room, looking for her dress. He’d taken it off her in the living room, but she could have sworn she saw it in his bedroom.
Just as she finished her thought she spotted it, right side out, and draped over the easy chair in the corner. She managed to get it up over her arms just as he walked through the door, tossing a manila folder onto his dresser and heading for her.
“You don’t have to run out.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up against him, his warm hands going to her back since the dress was still open.
“I do if you want me to skate with you. I need a bath. I need different clothes. I need to go to my parents’ house to get my skates,” she said, giving him a smacking kiss on the lips. She turned in his arms before he could distract her further. “Zip me up?” she asked as she tapped on the top of her dress.
“It would be my pleasure,” he said quietly. His fingers went to her ass, sans underwear since they had been destroyed, his finger dipping into the dress, reminding her of the way he’d touched her there earlier. She had never gotten into playing that way—the men she had been with never even thought to suggest it—but something about the taboo had sent her catapulting into a fierce orgasm, and she couldn’t wait to do it again.
He took his time, grazing his knuckles over the soft skin of her back as he went. He dropped a soft kiss between her shoulder blades before closing her up the rest of the way. He reached for her hand. “I’ll walk you out.”
She put on her heels, holding the chair for support. “I’m not trapped by your Bruce Wayne, high-tech system, am I?”
“Not at all,” he said with a hand to her back again, like when he walked her out of The Sliver the night before.
“Then stay here and deal with whatever it is you need to handle, and I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Rockefeller Center at four,” he whispered against her lips.
“At four,” she said, tasting him one last time before ducking out the door.
Chapter 7
Micah had never cooked for anyone other than his grandmother.
Beatrice’s warm vanilla scent lingered in his penthouse. He stood between the living area and kitchen just after she’d left, and surveyed the room. The same black leather furniture, marble tables, crystal lamps, yet different. She hadn’t touched a one, yet she’d left her mark.
And it wasn’t because she was the first woman he’d brought home. She wasn’t. He didn’t make a habit of it, but there had been a time or two where it worked better than the standing reservation he had at The Loews Regency. The few times he had brought home the occasional woman, they had never stayed the night.
He found himself wondering on the first day of the new year if he could fit a relationship in with his business ventures and the connections he needed to secure.
Images from their night flashed in his mind—the way she’d looked, smiling at him while they flirted. Watching the way her lips parted on a gasp when he entered her. The sly look in her eye when she experienced the thrill of his neighbor’s voyeuristic tendencies.
Then there was the shy way she’d accepted her breakfast, as if he had just handed her something special.
A plate of eggs, no more, no less, and she’d looked at him as though he’d handed her his heart.
Maybe a part of him had.
Shaking his head, he headed for the information Sebastian had dropped off. He needed to clear his head and focus. Whatever this thing with Beatrice was, he had time to think about it later.
H
e dropped onto his bed and pulled out the papers. Bank balances, loans, credit ratings lay on top. Addington sat on a healthy cushion of forty-four million dollars. He lived in his family’s estate, the same his parents lived in before him. The loan dates were old, probably loans he had gotten early on in his career, and from the looks of it he paid them off long before they were due. He had a top tier credit rating.
On the surface, Addington was a squeaky-clean example of continued success from old wealth.
Micah flipped the pages over onto the sheets and, boom, there was the money shot. Addington stood in an alley behind an eatery in the city, shaking hands with none other than Sal Bellini.
Sal was well-known for his mob ties, securing investments so the money men had legitimate businesses through which to launder their money. He invested in small percentages so as not to arouse interest, and over time scared the other investors into doing his bidding.
If Addington was in bed with Bellini, shit was going to veer sideways soon enough. From the looks of it Addington was dumb enough to think that, with his wealth and status, he was above falling victim to mob dealings. He likely thought his clout made him untouchable.
Only those who knew Bellini, and knew him well, could vouch that Bellini didn’t care if you were the president himself. Cross him and you would pay, but not before he made every member of your family pay painfully while you watched.
To men like Addington, those stories of abuse were tall tales told among drinking men. No more. Torture, rape, murders, fear used to wield power over weaker men, it all sounded like embellishments in a thriller novel. But some understood that every tale, no matter how exaggerated, comes from a grain of truth. Unfortunately, from what Micah had seen over the years, and heard during the early years when it paid to keep his mouth shut and his ears open, those tall tales were mostly fact.
As much as Micah wanted payback, he wasn’t willing to slog around in that shit. He had to think this through before going any further. He needed to put feelers out to see what kind of deals Addington had lined up with Bellini. Maybe he had only gotten into a few small favors or representation, nothing permanent.
