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Mother Faker: Chapter 30

Liv

Dylan: Cable stopped working

Shayla: That’s what that wire was…

Dylan: I told you not to cut the red one

Delia: Can’t blame this one on the house.

Shayla: Liv, when will you be back? We need Beckett.

Delia: We absolutely DO NOT!

Dylan: I wanted to watch hgtv. I had plans

Shayla: LOL. Delia probably cut the cord because the idea of you DIYing anything in this house scares the living shit out of her.

We’ll be back tomorrow. He says we can pick up a new wire on the way home.

Delia: There will be no DIY anything!! Ladies, we do not NEED a man to fix things. I’ll go buy a damn wire.

Shaking my head, I drop my phone to the floor beside me and go back to the task at hand: finding a damn matching pair of heels.

You have got to be kidding me. I chuck a shoe over my shoulder. Then another, and another. Is one matching pair really too much to ask for? From the looks of it, the leather boots I wore on the plane are the only complete set I have. Leather boots that would look ridiculous at an afternoon baseball game in Vegas.

With a groan, I collapse to the floor in front of my suitcase.

“What the duck is going on in here?” Beckett wanders out of the bathroom wearing the fuck out of a pair of dark blue jeans and a Revs jersey, his brown hair perfectly tousled.

I cannot go to the game with him today. He’s too pretty.

Pointing to the heap of clothes and shoes on the floor, I sigh. “I don’t have any matching shoes. You’re going to have to go to the game yourself. I’ll stay here and keep my phone close if you need me to work any emergencies.”

Beckett hovers over me, wearing a bewildered frown. “What?”

I blow out a breath and peer up at him. “I can do my job from here. You don’t need me there anyway. I don’t want to point out the obvious, because job security and all, but I can do the majority of my job from my phone. There’s really no need for me to be here.”

Swallowing audibly, he tilts his face to the ceiling and lets out a long breath, as if he’s exasperated by me. Right now I’m not sure I blame him. I’m lying in the middle of my own mess, my hair stuck to my face because I broke into a sweat while searching for my shoes, and I still haven’t changed for the game because I planned to wear a dress and I didn’t want it to wrinkle before we left. All I’m wearing is a waffle-knit robe supplied by the hotel that doesn’t quite fit me. One size fits all, my ass.

He crouches before me, elbows resting on his legs and his hands clasped in front of him. “You still don’t get it, do you?” He lets out a gruff sigh. “I don’t need you at the games; I want you there.”

I frown, a hint of unease lodged in my chest. “Right, because you like to be at every game. You have control issues.”

Laughing, he falls back on his ass. “No, Livy, I didn’t invite you to the game this weekend because I need you to work. I want you at the game as my wife. You’ll be there as the owner’s wife.”

Oh shit. Right. My part of the deal. Pictures as husband and wife.

“I don’t have shoes,” I mutter, dropping my focus to the floor between us.

Beckett pushes to a stand and holds his hands out to me so he can pull me to my feet. “I grabbed the ones you keep under your desk; they’re in my carry-on. Give me a second.” He disappears into the closet, and when he reappears, my black heels dangle from his fingers.

“Huh?”

Holding them out to me, he lifts one shoulder. “There isn’t a single matching pair in your closet. I’m not sure what Devil Spawn or the Shining Twins are up to, but I figured I’d bring these in case they got into your suitcase too.”

“You grabbed my shoes from beneath my desk?”

He frowns at me like he doesn’t get my confusion. But seriously, how does a man with a hectic schedule like his remember to grab an extra pair of shoes for me? A guy who, by all accounts, cares only about himself. At least, that’s what I always thought. But every day, I realize a little more that he cares more than most. And that when it comes to me, he sees more than anyone ever has.

He nods toward the bathroom. “I left you a matching jersey in there.”

When I frown, he rolls his eyes.

“I know you’ll probably wear a dress. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear jeans. But maybe you could wear the jersey over it?”

“A jersey over my dress?”

He shoots me a grin that’s damn near irresistible. “Please? For me. We’ll look good together.”

Right. In pictures. We’ve got to sell this marriage to the world. Dropping my shoulders, I sigh in resignation. I made a promise, and I never break my promises. I just wish I could do it in a dress instead of a jersey. For a woman like me, with big breasts and a tummy, there isn’t anything less flattering.

Resigned to keeping up my end of the bargain, I grab the Spanx from my suitcase, along with my black dress, and head to the bathroom to change.

Several jerseys hang on the hook next to the shower. On closer inspection, their designs are identical. The only difference is the size. My heart rate spikes, and my eyes well with tears.

Why is this man so thoughtful? He literally thinks of everything.

Once I change into my dress, I pick the jersey that will likely fit best. Turning so I can check myself out in the mirror from every angle, I can’t help but smile. The outfit may not be what I would pick to wear while standing beside Beckett at a game, but tying it at the bottom rather than buttoning it makes it look less boxy, and surprisingly, it highlights my curves well.

When Beckett knocks, I quickly open the door.

“Almost ready?”

Embracing the confidence the outfit and my husband’s thoughtfulness have imbued me with, I smile. “Thank you for getting different sizes. I appreciate it.”

His eyes go hungry as he gives me a thorough once-over. “Okay, wife, I’m not going to lie. The sight of you in my team’s jersey is doing something to me. We better leave before I bend you over that counter and fuck you.”

My stomach dips at the thought. No one has ever made me feel so desired. Taking his outstretched hand, I pop up on my toes and kiss him on the cheek. And when I follow him out of the room a minute later, I feel like the luckiest woman in existence.


Hours of smiling and cheering and dealing with the media after the game are followed by a limo ride to the rink to watch the other Langfield boys take on Las Vegas—a game they win in overtime thanks to Aiden Langfield and the right winger, Tyler Warren.

But all that means is that for the last twelve hours, I’ve been stuffed into a pair of Spanx, and after being on my feet all day, I feel like a balloon ready to pop.

The moment we step into the bedroom of our suite, Beckett is on me. “Fuck, today was long.” His lips are already on mine as he guides me to the wall and presses the length of himself against me, his hands traveling up and down my hips.

As tired as I am, I want to soak up every moment with him before we head back to reality tomorrow. Before we return to life in the brownstone with seven children and three judgy roommates.

Okay, Dylan and Shay aren’t judgy, but Delia’s constant commentary is enough for the three of them. And even if the other girls are supportive, they still watch us like we’re a circus act: Dylan waiting for vindication because she called this from day one and Shay studying us with silent scrutiny, like she just can’t quite figure out what we’re doing.

Or maybe that’s just my insecurities.

So, I allow Beckett to touch me. To work me into a frenzy alongside him. To kiss me so stupid I forget about my undergarments until the moment he slides his hands up my legs and reaches the sexiest panties ever known to man.

Spanx.

“What the fuck are these?” The timbre of his voice is low and harsh and sends a mixture of nerves and desire skittering down my spine.

Releasing my hold on his neck, I tug at the hem of my dress, mortified. Naturally, he’ll have none of it. Instead, he drops to his knees, bats my hands away, and pushes my dress up.

“Please, Beckett,” I beg, pressing my knees together in a vain attempt to hide the embarrassing undergarment. “How about you get undressed and get in bed? Give me a minute to get comfortable. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” I waggle my brows, though with the panic rising up in me, I can’t imagine the move is a sexy one.

He growls, “What is this?”

With a huff, I give up my fight and allow him to lift my dress so he can stand witness to my complete and utter humiliation. All the allure and confidence I garnered last night is long gone.

The black Spanx dig into my ribs and my thighs, making me look like a sausage.

So fucking sexy.

Beckett hooks his fingers under the black fabric, pressing into one thigh and tugs. “Fuck.”

I drop my head back against the wall and close my eyes, fighting off the sting of tears. “Just let me go.”

With a growl, he pushes my dress up to my abdomen. Once there, he yanks on the fabric, trying to pull it over my thick hips. “What is this? How the hell do you get this thing off?”

I groan. “It’s Spanx. It’s meant to keep in all my wobbly bits.”

“Your wobbly what?” He tugs again, eyes crazed. “We need scissors!” The pitch of his voice is high, panicked, like he’s seriously concerned, and for some reason, that makes me giggle.

“Beckett, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. Your body’s being strangled inside this contraption. And you’ve been wearing this all day? You could have lost blood flow.” He pulls at it again.

At the seriousness of his expression and the urgency in his voice, I lose it. Shaking with laughter, I keel over, taking Beckett with me with a loud thump to the floor.

“Are you okay?” he asks manically, his eyes impossibly wide.

I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe. He’s so worried, so concerned—about my Spanx—it’s ridiculous. A snort is the only response I can manage.

He pushes me off him and onto my back, prepared to what? Give me mouth to mouth? Perform surgery to save my wobbly bits? That thought sends me into another bout of laughter.

Wearing a look of pure terror, Beckett scans my face. “What is happening?”

“Baby, I’m fine,” I say, gulping in air. “It’s just underwear.”

“That is not underwear.” He digs a finger under the fabric at my thigh again, sounding affronted. “That’s a torture chamber.”

We both burst out laughing. This time, he’s the one to fall over. On our backs, side by side, we shake and sputter and wheeze. When we finally catch our breath, Beckett turns onto his side and props himself up on his elbow. “Why the hell would you wear that?” He reaches for my hand and twines our fingers together, waiting for an answer.

My exhale is long and loud as defeat creeps in. “I’m not like the women at the stadium or the rink today.”

He frowns, his brows set low. “What does that even mean?”

“The players’ wives, your brother’s girlfriend—they’re all young and gorgeous. They look good in a jersey. Adorable little things wearing their boyfriend’s names on their backs.”

“So… you want my name on your back?”

“No.” I tip my head back and groan at the ceiling. “My point is… I’m not a young little thing. This jersey? If I’d buttoned it up, it would look like a tent. And this dress? If I don’t wear Spanx,” I pull my hand from his and motion to my stomach area, “this would all be on display.”

With his hands gripping my waist, he lets out a feral growl. “Take this off.”

I huff out a sigh, but seriously, I’m so over wearing this girdle. It’s pulled down now anyway, leaving my stomach on display, no longer serving its intended purpose.

I head into the bathroom and turn on the shower, not bothering to shut the door. After twelve hours in and out of the Vegas sun, I’m done.

I’ve just settled under the spray, tilting my face to the hot water, when the glass door opens and Beckett steps inside. “C’mere,” he murmurs, holding out his hands.

“But you’ll see all my wobbly bits,” I whine half-heartedly.

He doesn’t allow me to hold back, though. He pulls me to his chest and hugs me tightly, pressing his lips against my forehead. “You don’t need to hide your wobbly bits from me. You’re beautiful.”

“That doesn’t change how I feel,” I murmur against his chest.

“I understand that, but can I tell you what I see? Can I tell you what feel?” He spins me so my back is to his front and drops his face to my shoulder, trailing his hands down my arms. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever wanted to spend hours with alone. The first woman whose body I can’t get enough of.”

Warm lips press against my neck, and his hands snake around my waist, caressing the part of my stomach I hate the most. “This right here? Fuck. It’s so soft. I love it.”

My chest tightens, and I have to fight the urge not to push his hand away. It’s the flappy skin left over from my pregnancies. It’s soft because it’s loose and never sees the light of day. “Please.”

It isn’t until this moment that I realize he’s turned me toward the mirror. It’s foggy from the heat, but I can make out his features and see the way he studies our reflection under the spray of water.

“You don’t like it when I tell you how to feel, so don’t tell me how I feel. This”—he smooths his hand across my stomach again and licks his lips in a way that isn’t forced; it’s innate, like he’s truly hungry for me—“feels so fucking good against my hands. Like you were made for me, Livy. I love how soft you are, the soft to my hardness. I love how the outside world sees one version of you, but you let me see another one, the more vulnerable one. That I get this part of you.” With another squeeze, he rubs his hard cock against me. “I love this part.” His voice is low, guttural. “Now, can I keep going?”

Entranced and a bit stupid with lust, I nod.

“These thighs? Fuck, I love when they’re wrapped around my neck and you’re riding my face. These tits? Don’t even get me started on how much I love them.” He squeezes one roughly and runs his thumb over my nipple. The sensation nearly makes my knees give out. “I’ve tried not to stare at these tits for years, Livy, years, but you’re my goddamn kryptonite. The only woman I’ve ever wanted as my wife, and now you’re mine.”

Whimpering at his rough touches mixed with his soft words, at the love dripping from every syllable, I spin around and reach for him. “I’m yours.”

“Good girl. Now tell me, wife, where do you want me to fuck you first?”

“I need your cock in my mouth.” Never in my life did I think I’d utter the words that rush out of me, but after all he’s given me over the last twenty-four hours, my body aches to give back to him.

Beckett pinches a nipple and lets out a ragged breath. “Such a fucking needy wife.” He bites down on my neck and then licks at it. “But I want you to watch me fuck you first. Can we do that? Can I hold you like this? I want you to keep your eyes on the mirror while I take you from behind. Can I show you how beautiful we look together? I want you to see us the way I see us.”

Studying his face, looking for any sign of untruth, I swallow thickly.

He brings the hand still cupping my breast to my neck. “Do that again,” he whispers in my ear. I obey, swallowing again, and he groans against me. “Fuck, I’m going to hold your neck like this later so I can feel it when I come down your throat.”

Oh my God. Liquid heat warms my core, and a shudder rushes through me.

He leaves his fingers where they are, squeezing a bit more. “Hands on the glass. Stick that gorgeous ass out so I can fuck you like you deserve.”

“And how is that?” I ask, emboldened by the obvious desire in his voice.

“Like you’re mine.”

Heat pools between my legs.

“Now grab my cock and line us up, my beautiful wife.”

He doesn’t move his hands. Still holding me by the neck and stomach, he forces me to feel every second from when we’re two separate people to when he pushes inside me in one hard thrust and makes us one.

With his fingers digging into the flesh of my stomach, he sighs. “So fucking good. My perfect wife. Made just for me.”

My eyes fall shut at the intense pressure, at the euphoria he’s bringing forth and the completeness I feel when he’s inside me. Never in my life have I felt this cherished, respected, and loved, all in the same breath.

Thrust. “Eyes.” Thrust. “On.” Thrust. “Us.”

Pulling in a sharp inhale, I watch our reflection in the mirror, locked into his haunted gaze. Every ounce of him is pure hunger and lust as he watches the pounding he’s giving me. He squeezes my neck a little tighter and bites down so hard on my shoulder I yelp. He doesn’t apologize, though. Without slowing, he drops his hand to clutch me between the legs, putting pressure exactly where I need it most.

“That’s it, wife. Ride my hand while I fuck you. Show us both how wild you can be, how beautiful you are with your husband’s cock inside you. How fucking greedy you are. Demand it all. There isn’t a thing in this world I won’t give you.”

Stars. I’m seeing fucking stars. The way he drills into me so deep. The pressure of his palm against my clit. The power he gives me with his words. The confidence he elicits with the hunger he has that only I can seem to feed.

“Now fucking come all over my cock, Mrs. Langfield. Soak me with your cum so I can paint you with mine.”

That’s all it takes to send me over the edge. I shatter in his arms with his name on my lips. My knees give out, but he holds me up. Pulling out, he spins me and slams his mouth against mine.

He strokes my cheek as water rains down between our mouths. “Do you see now?” he whispers, his green eyes cataloging my every feature.

“See what?” I’m breathless.

“How beautiful we are together. It’s how I’ve seen you every damn day since I first laid eyes on you.”

Still too raw to fully accept the praise, I avoid the question by giving him a flirty smile and a peck on his lips. Then I drop to my knees. “Eyes on the mirror, baby. Watch me make you come.”

He groans as I take him down my throat, but I should have known he’d never let me get off that easy.

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs, wrapping his hand around my throat. “The only one I watch when I come is you, beautiful.” With that, he lets loose, squeezing my throat and fucking my mouth until I swallow every last drop.

An hour later, we’re curled up together in bed. There isn’t a place in the world I’d rather be, and I’m starting to dread returning to reality tomorrow. Swirling fingers dance against my bare back, and he kisses my forehead. “Thank you for coming with me today. I know it was a lot.”

I blush under his praise, nuzzling against his chest. “Of course. It’s part of the deal. I hope I’m holding up my part of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

My throat tightens, and my heart aches, but I force myself to look at him. To pretend all is well. “How you wanted me to act like your wife today rather than your employee. Take pictures, ya know, for the PR stunt. So the public views you as a family guy. Hopefully it’s enough to help with ticket sales.”

Beckett is silent for a moment. He’s frowning, examining every inch of my face.

Worried I’ve said something wrong, I go on. “That’s why you wanted me to come today, right? You said I was there as the owner’s wife, not for work.”

Shit. Did I screw up? Should I have worked during the game, when all eyes were trained elsewhere? Did I act too much like his wife?

“I meant,” he grinds his teeth, “I wanted you there as my wife. Not for some PR stunt, but as the woman I want to show off because I’m crazy about you.”

My heart leaps into my throat, and my mouth falls open. “Oh.”

He uses two fingers to lift my chin and presses his lips to mine. “Yeah, oh. So, like I was saying, thank you for today. I enjoy spending time with you, Livy—maybe a bit too much. I know it was crazy, but unfortunately, that’s my life, running from one event to another, never quite getting to spend as much time with the people I want to.” He blows out a breath and looks out toward the Vegas skyline. “But it was nice that, just for today, I had you by my side as my wife. That I got to experience what that was like.”

He manhandles me until I’m sprawled across his chest, and just for tonight, I experience what it’s like to be truly happy, truly treasured, in this man’s arms.


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