by Alam, Donna
Nice is not how I feel.
‘Come sit on my face, and I’ll show you exactly how nice I can be. Come and rub your sweet pussy on me like you did that first night in the car. Fuck nice, Olivia, come and be bad for me.’
She makes no protest as I strip her from her pants and heels, sliding my hands up the sides of her body to grasp the hem of her blouse. I yank it over her head, her palms falling flat against the wall as she pushes herself into my hands. Underwear next. I divest her of her bra and kiss my way down her spine to relieve her of her tiny thong . . . then I make her giggle as I help her slip her heels back on.
‘There’s a method to my madness,’ I rasp, biting the round flesh of her arse.
‘Ohhh. I just know there is.’
But I don’t reply, not as the moonlight hits her just right. She’s all satin and temptation, her hair like midnight in the shadows, her breath coming out in little bursts. I wrap my hand around her waist, feeding it between her legs to cup her heat and slickness while encouraging her to widen her stance.
‘You’re so wet for me,’ I whisper, and even I can hear the treasure in that. The awe in my tone. ‘I think I could take you right here. Your hands on the wall, bent at the waist while I fuck you again and again.’
The shadows we’d make.
The shapes I’d bend her in.
The way she’d take me inside her body over and over again.
I slide her hair over her shoulder, and she whimpers a small sound of desperation. ‘You like the sound of that, darling? Standing for me. Taking me—taking all of me.’ I grip her chin, twisting head to the side and bringing her lips to mine. It’s a kiss that’s mean and biting, all tongue and teeth as her hands come off the wall, feeding behind her as she scrambles for my belt.
‘Yes . . . Yes. Do it!’
‘I can’t wait for you to beg me to come.’ I lick the seam of her pretty mouth. ‘And I can’t wait for you to beg me to make it stop.’
As I release her head, she whimpers, rolling her lips in as though to mute the sound. If I wasn’t completely sober before, I am now. Her reaction . . . it’s everything. My hand on her breasts, her back pressed to my chest, her desperation chasing my touch as she fucks the air, her gasps all vowel and no sound. This experience is raw. Heady. Addicting. One word repeating over and over in inside my head.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
The muscles in my abs tense with raw need as I press her against the wall again, pulling on her hips as I drop to my heels like a penitent. In an instant, I’m sliding the flat tongue through her slickness as I worship at the altar of her pussy, and the room is filled with the sound of her sweet gasps and cries. The way she rocks back against me, the sounds she makes—it all drives me to fucking distraction, my hands tight and my tongue deep in her slickness, unable to get deep enough. Feel deep enough. Have enough. Be enough.
Chapter 28
OLIVIA
Oh. My. God. Drunk Beckett is another level of demandingly sexy.
‘Don’t come,’ he rasps, his voice thick with need. ‘Not yet.’
My hands spayed across the wall, my ass in his face. I’m wearing shoes because he we wants me to, and I am loving this. Why is it I despise being bossed around by him, but I thrive on his bedroom commands?
Is it the novelty?
Is it him?
‘Ohhh . . .’
So I like being bossed around by the man I tell myself I can’t stand?
‘Spread your legs. Wider.’
‘Yes!’ And, apparently, I also like having my ass spanked. And squeezed.
‘You’re so fucking sexy.’ His words vibrate right though me, and I cry out with my knees locked. My palms against the wall are the only thing keeping me upright. ‘I wish you could see this. How wet you are for me. How pink and pretty.’ My insides begin to pulse, and my knees tremble. I’ve never had anyone go down on me like this. Standing. From behind. It feels so dirty. I’ve never felt this much intensity—never needed the release of orgasm so hard as Beckett tastes me like he’s a starving man and my pussy is his feast.
I can’t process a thing—I think my knees are truly going to buckle as my orgasm begins to crawl through my insides, gathering and building until I’m fit to burst.
‘I can feel you,’ he growls. ‘I can feel you coming on my tongue.’
The dual sensations of his words and his tongue push me over the edge. It’s all too much—his touch is too much—and I try to move away, but his fingers spear inside me, pinning me in place. My orgasm twists, heightens, and threatens to wash me away as he begins to work me wetly.
‘Please, it’s too much,’ I whimper between panting breaths. And before I can process what’s happening, Beckett stands, turning me for a savage kiss, a kiss that’s mean and possessive. My back flat against the wall, I’m like a butterfly pinned as he pulls my knee over his hip, and his fingers slip between my legs again.
‘No more, please.’ I can taste myself on his tongue, hear how wet I am. ‘I need you inside.’
‘You want me to fuck you?’ his deep voice rasps.
‘Yes.’ More than anything. ‘I can’t come again,’ I whisper as his finger swirls my clit. ‘Not like this.’
I know in that second that I shouldn’t have spoken, not as he blinks, his dark eyes staring down at me in a dare. Not as he swaps the pad of his finger for the rasp of his thumbnail.
I cry out. I am pure electricity. And I am coming again. And again.
And then I’m limp, lying across him as Beckett lifts me as though I weigh nothing. My arms slide around his neck and my legs cross as we kiss. The surface of the dining room table is a shock, but not quite as shocking as how he grasps the backs of my knees, spreading me as though I were a magazine he has an avid interested in.
‘Remember this place?’
‘How could I forget.’ I roll in my lips to stop myself from giggling. ‘I ate my breakfast here.’
‘Hmm.’ His eyes narrow. ‘I seem to remember you wanted something else eaten in here.’ My body jolts, and I moan as he draws his finger through my wetness, my pussy reactive and overstimulated. ‘Maybe I was mistaken.’ His mouth suddenly ghosts over me, and as he straightens again, his lips shine with my wetness.’ Maybe you’re only in the mood for yogurt.’
‘Don’t tease.’ My tone lacks conviction, and as I run the backs of my fingers up my body, his eyes are dark and avaricious. ‘It’s not nice.’
‘I never claim to be anything I’m not.’
What is it about this man that makes me want to goad him? And what is it about him that makes him serve it right back? It’s like we were a perfect warring pair.
‘And you, my darling, are so much more than that.’
My thoughts drain away as he splays his hand over my stomach, his thumb slipping between my folds.
‘You’re so much more than nice when I’m touching you. Or kissing you.’ His words are soft, his gaze glued to where I’m shamelessly spread. Even the cool air is a brush too much. I groan as he slides two fingers deep inside, the intrusion so slick and sublime as I throb around him.
‘God, oh. Yes!’ My soft words become a hiss, a hiss that counters his masculine grunt as he unleashes his cock with his free hand, deliberately taunting me by sliding it through my wetness.
His forehead touches mine, our lips just a whisper apart, and it’s then I realise that it’s taking him some effort to execute his tease. And that I’m not the only one suffering.
I wrap my hands around his neck, pressing my mouth to his ear.
‘That feels so nice,’ I whisper, pressing my teeth to his lobe and relishing his carnal groan. ‘You’re so nice to me. In fact, I think this whole commanding thing is an act.’
His wicked grin falters, his eyes turning dark as he glides the fat head of his cock against me once more. We both watch as he breaches my wetness.
‘Fuck me, that is a sight to behold.’ He grunts, watching my body accept his as my back bows in a silent urge for him to thrus
t. I tighten my hands on his biceps as though I could keep him—to hold the unravelling sensation of being filled so beautifully.
He starts to move, slowly at first, but my whimpers turn to cries, and those cries become louder and little more desperate as he picks up the pace. Sliding from base to tip, he switches to shallow movements—small jabs and punches of his hips—until I’m writhing beneath him, desperate to come again. Desperate to come around his thickness.
‘I can feel your heart beating.’ His hand splays across my collarbone, sliding down to my chest, and his eyes are so dark and his expression fierce. He bends to flick the tip of his tongue across my nipples before he straightens and begins to fuck me solidly once again.
Our mouths meet on the up thrust, all jagged breath and teeth. I cross my legs behind him as though to keep him there, keep him inside me as my orgasm springs to life at his powerful thrusts. Everything inside me draws tight, my spine arching as a wave of pleasure rushes though me, heat and sensation spreading through my body so quickly, I feel I could surely burst.
‘God. Oh, God. I’m—’
I’m unable to process the waves of pleasure pulsing through me, the rush of sensation and heat overwhelming.
‘That’s it, darling,’ he grunts. ‘I can feel you coming around my cock.’
And if that wasn’t enough, his words plaster his broad chest against mine as our joint climax renders me a twitching, pulsing mess.
Chapter 29
BECKETT
Light pierces.
Air conditioning hums.
Soft furnishings plush under my cheek.
I blink and take in my surroundings.
At least I’m not in an alley somewhere, though I do feel like someone wearing steel-capped boots has spent the evening tapdancing on my head. Also, something appears to have died in my mouth. Something spiky and angry has lodged itself in my throat in an attempt to suffocate me.
I pull myself up, hands on either side of my thundering head to discover I’m on the sofa in the hotel suite, stark bollock naked and reeking of booze, the stuff positively oozing from my pores. The splitting head and aching throat? The result of spending much of the night vomiting.
Addiction will do that for you. A body remembers and will purge the results of the brain’s idiocy, given half the chance. It’s always the brain that’s at fault, those fucking neurotransmitters chasing the high of that dopamine release.
And what goes up must come crashing down.
In other words, I wake feeling the way only an addict can understand.
An addict who has slipped.
An addict who hates himself.
An addict who hates his own weaknesses, even after almost nineteen years.
There’s no such thing as a former addict.
I lurch to my feet and make my way into the bathroom, the bathroom farthest from the master suite where Olivia presumably still sleeps. I don’t even look at myself in the mirror, not yet ready to view the damage. The disgrace. Not yet ready to face myself. Instead, I switch on the shower and step immediately under the scalding stream. I press my hands against the tile, letting the water crash down on the back of my head and my neck, easing the knots in my shoulders and spine.
What the fuck happened?
Being in bars, pubs, clubs, and restaurants, being around wine, beer and all kinds of liquor—drinking the stuff, has never been an issue before. It was never my drug of choice to begin with, coke was my king. Booze was just to lengthen the buzz. But since getting clean, moderation has served me. The only difference between last night and a million others was the company I kept.
Was it the combination that pushed me over the edge?
Between booze and Olivia, I know which the stimulant was, and the high I craved was the one found between her legs.
Everything in moderation. Restraint and self-control are key.
A state of mind I can’t seem to embody when I’m near Olivia.
I straighten, pushing the thought from my head and water from my face as I reach for the shampoo. I’ve mixed my vices since recovery. Drank and fucked. Fucked and drank.
But never used. I’ve never needed to.
I get the high I need these days by making money. It’s not the same kind of high, but at least it’s an acceptable one. A high that drives me to fill my pockets, not empty them for the benefit of my dealer. Making money is an honest drug. Acceptable to society and one that keeps me out of prison. Out of a grave. So I drank a little too much and I fucked. What was the difference?
Olivia. Only Olivia.
My absolute desire for her was in the sensation of need crawling out of my skin, and once inside her, my pleasure centres lit up like a fucking pinball machine, as though she was the hit coursing through my bloodstream.
I soap. I rinse. I self-analyse a little more as the water serves as absolution, my sins sluiced away and swirling around my feet.
I towel off, the mirror too foggy to view the damage, then wrap the thing around my waist as I make my way to the master suite. Maybe I should’ve come here first and checked that she was okay. But no. The only person I’ve ever harmed while high is myself.
I stand in the open doorway. Why does it feel like I’ve spent so much time watching her from this position? She lies on her side, her hair fanned out against the pillows, her back to me, her shoulder rising and falling in a slow, easy rhythm. I’m not sure how long I stand there, just watching. And maybe just torturing myself. But I eventually move towards the dressing room without giving in to the need to crawl between her legs again.
A couple of hours later, Olivia appears in the dining room wearing the creases from her pillow. Otherwise, she looks perfect—fresh faced and recently fucked, her hair in disarray and her cheeks rubbed a little pink.
‘Good morning.’ I barely look up from my phone. Is it telling that I can detect so many details of her appearance in just one glance?
‘It was, at least, when I woke.’ At daybreak. Aching. Shaking. Forcing myself first into the shower and then into the gym to punish myself on the treadmill. To purge again. To seek endorphins elsewhere.
She takes her seat, the same one as yesterday, the same seat that puts her breasts in reach of my fingers and makes her lips just as accessible. But I won’t think of those things. I might not be drunk, but it seems I’m still craving. I reach for my coffee cup gratified by the fact that there isn’t even a tremor in my hand. The rest of me, though? I’m trembling with need just from having her near.
‘What is it?’ There’s a terseness to my tone that I can’t help. I don’t want to blame her for my reactions last night, but it’s easier than blaming myself. A body can only take so much self-loathing.
She doesn’t answer, but I can almost feel her frowning. And why wouldn’t she? Last night, she had the enjoyed the company of a man who’s more beast this morning. And beasts need keeping on a leash because they are prone to giving in to their baser selves without warning.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m perfectly fine.’
‘You don’t look fine.’ I’m acceptable. Satisfactory. Well enough. Good. I am a liar, and I am none of those things
‘Thank you for your observation.’
‘Are you . . . hungover?’ If only it were that simple. There wouldn’t be this level of hatred to myself. ‘I’m gonna guess that’s a . . . yes?’ I still don’t answer. ‘But how? I mean, we didn’t have a lot to drink. Champagne and a couple of shots, but—’
‘If you’re quite finished hypothesising, perhaps you’d like to pack.’
‘Why? Our flight isn’t until tomorrow.’
‘Our return has been brought forward.’ Because if I can’t avoid Olivia, I can at least return us to our normal lives where we’ll both have other distractions. Other habits to feed. ‘We’re booked on a flight this afternoon.’
‘I thought—’
‘Everything I came here for has been achieved. There’s no reason to linger.’
‘So, I guess the honeymoon is over.’
‘If by honeymoon, you mean the fucking, then yes, I believe it is.’ For my own self-preservation if nothing else. If I keep saying it out loud, maybe I can truly convince myself.
I hear the sharp inhalation preceding her tirade when we’re interrupted by the butler. The same one as yesterday; fresh faced and bright.
‘Good Morning, Mrs Beckett. May I serve you breakfast?’
‘No, thank you,’ she replies, rising stiffly from her chair. ‘I find I don’t have an appetite this morning.’
As I watch her leave the room, I wish I could say the same.
Chapter 30
OLIVIA
We fly out the same afternoon. The first-class cabin, not business class this time, but there’s no joy or excitement in the experience. I don’t avail myself to the use of the spa or the private suite prior to boarding. I just stay away from him. A spot of duty-free shopping, a coffee from Starbucks, a bookstore to pick up a couple of magazines. And then it’s boarding time, where I see the cabin lends itself to feuding couples, providing each a little pod of luxury, which means we don’t even have to look at the other, never mind converse.
At least if we’d been travelling economy, we’d be forced into the same space.
I spend the whole eight-hour flight going over yesterday. How the day had gone from bad to good to even better in the evening. Sure, there was no letup in how we respond to the other; the thrust and parry of our interactions, the jibes and complaints. But by the time we’d hit the bar last night, I’d really begun to feel I was gaining a better understanding of Beckett. Maybe even liking him a little. And later still, the sex was phenomenal. Raw and sensual, and about as far away as can be from the man at the breakfast table this morning.
