I’m sore everywhere, and from the way Beckham keeps glancing at me with a smirk plastered on his arrogant face, he knows exactly why I can’t stop wiggling in the chair. I finally had to escape his room this morning so I could shower and get ready in mine. Anytime I’ve heard someone refer to “marathon sex,” I thought it was an exaggeration, but that’s exactly what Beckham and I had. I’m running on only a few hours of sleep. It shouldn’t be worth it, but it so was. The guy still annoys me, while I also admit it was the best sex of my life.
The woman we’re interviewing sits across from us, hopefully completely oblivious to my struggle.
Haley Daniels is in her late thirties, a self-made multimillionaire, and perhaps one of the most interesting people I’ve had the chance to meet.
Listening to her story, how she grew up with very little but always dreamed big and started her own marketing firm so young, is inspiring. She speaks of the charities her company donates to quarterly and how proud she is that the amount they’re able to give is always growing.
Beckham rises from his seat, snapping some photos of Haley while I chat with her—both taking notes and recording the interview.
Shockingly, Beckham throws out his own questions now and then, adding to the conversation. I’m surprised by how insightful some of his questions are. I realize I’ve been judging him on the surface level too much. There’s always more to people than we see.
Our hour with Haley is almost up, so I wind down my questions and begin to pack my things away.
“I have to admit,” Haley begins, smoothing her already-impeccable hair down, “I was a tad disappointed when Jaci said she was sending others in her place. I’ve been friends with Jaci for a while now, but we’ve never had it work to meet in person, but I must admit you two are lovely. I’ll be sure to let her know.”
I smile, pleased. This is good. Great, even. This was Jaci’s whole purpose in sending us, for us to learn to work together and get along, though I don’t think she expected me to go to the extent of riding Beckham’s cock. But what our boss doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
“Thank you, we appreciate it.” I extend my hand to shake hers. “Hopefully the next time you’re in Manhattan, we’ll see you again, and of course, I hope you finally get to meet Jaci in person.”
Beckham finishes packing up his camera and says his goodbyes.
As we exit the room, he places his hand on the small of my back. I wonder if it’s an unconscious gesture or intentional. There’s no telling with him. We take the elevator down to the first floor and head out onto the street. Our hotel isn’t too far away, but I am wearing heels, so I’m grateful when Beckham gets us an Uber.
He holds out his arm, indicating I should slide in first. He closes the car door behind us, his leg pressed right up against mine. I stifle a gasp of surprise when his hand lands on my thigh, his fingers toying with the edge of my skirt where it’s ridden up.
I shoot him a look and he stares right back, not moving his hand.
I figured last night was it for us, but the way he’s staring at me says it was only the beginning. My body tightens with anticipation from the promising look in his gaze. I’m still sore, but I can’t exactly say I don’t want this.
The Uber driver lets us out at the hotel, and Beckham takes my hand, tugging me from the car and heading inside, straight to the elevator.
It’s just us two inside, the warm wood-and-citrus smell of his cologne permeating the air. The space feels even smaller with the way he looks at me. There’s a glint in his eyes, one that says he’s barely holding back. Something inside him must snap because he wastes no time in pressing my back to the wall and kissing the breath from my lungs. I can still taste the hint of coffee on his tongue.
“Beckham.” He skims his hands over my body like he’s trying to memorize me by touch alone. I don’t think any guy has ever managed to make me feel like I’m on fire like he does. My body prickles with awareness in every spot that his scorching touch has held.
The doors slide open, and he practically drags me down the hallway since it’s hard for me to keep up in my high heels.
“Your room or mine?” he asks, already reaching for his own key despite not having an answer from me yet.
“Yours.”
We’ve already debauched practically every surface in his room, so we might as well keep at it.
He curses when the door doesn’t open with the first swipe of the key card. After another try, it opens, and we stumble inside.
I have a moment of thinking, I can’t believe this is happening . . . again. Kicking off my shoes, I work my fingers against the slick buttons of my blouse. I’m absolutely insane to be sleeping with Beckham not once, not twice, but . . . how many does this make it at this point? And all in one sordid weekend, to boot.
Laurel is going to wallop me . . . after she wipes her tears of laughter away, of course.
Beckham sets his expensive-looking camera bag down on the desk in the room and strips down to only his dress pants. They hug his thick thighs, molded to him like a second skin. I can’t help but wonder if he has them tailored. Surely, he can’t walk into a store and buy something that fits that well off the rack.
My breath seems to catch in my throat the longer I look at him.
When I was a girl, he captured my heart, and I realize now that I’ve unconsciously been comparing every guy I meet to him, which is insane since we were so young, just teens when it all fell apart. I guess sometimes we can’t help who our heart continues to pine for.
Him working for the same magazine was a shock—a complete bulldozer, if I’m being honest—but maybe this is all a good thing because I can fuck the guy into oblivion and move on. Meet the kind of man I want to settle down with. Get married. Have kids. The whole pretty picture. It’s exactly the kind of thing my mom would love for me—especially if she had a hand in picking the guy.
“You’re staring,” he says, his voice deep and a tad breathless. He squeezes his erection through his pants, his tongue sliding out to moisten his lips.
“So are you,” I argue, my blouse fluttering to the ground behind me.
He licks his lips again. “Can you blame me?”
I roll my eyes at him, closing the few feet of space separating us. “Shut up.” I grab the back of his head, threading my fingers into that silky-soft hair, and tug his mouth down to meet mine. The kiss is firm but somehow soft—almost gentle when he takes my cheeks in his hands and guides my head back.
God, Beckham can kiss. It’s slow, sensual. I feel it through my whole body.
One of his hands skims down my body, settling at my waist to pull me in tighter. I moan into our kiss, turned on by the hard press of his erection, specifically of what it means.
Beckham Sullivan wants to hate me, but his body certainly doesn’t.
He kisses me long and slow as my hands explore the planes of his chest. Neither of us is as hurried as we were last night. It’s nice, just kissing him, touching him, taking my time to learn his body.
The unhurriedness between us makes this different from last night.
We can’t blame this on alcohol, or a spur-of-the-moment bad idea, or an itch that needed to be scratched.
This is deliberate.
“Turn around,” he commands in that deep, sexy voice that manages to rattle my insides.
I know later I’ll curse myself for thinking anything about this man is sexy, but for now I do as he says.
He slides the zipper of my skirt down, and I wiggle my hips to help him get it off. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to the back of my neck, making my breath catch. His fingers are warm against my back when he unclips my bra. I let it slide down my arms to the floor.
Beckham’s hands skim my hips, his fingers toying with the smooth edge of my thong. Then it’s gone, too, and he’s turning me back around, taking me in.
“Beautiful.” He utters the word so softly that I’m not sure he means to say it aloud.
He circles his thumbs around my nipples, my skin pebbling all over at his touch. Dipping his head down, he captures one peak in his mouth, rolling his tongue around the bud. His hands slide down my stomach, grabbing beneath the curve of my ass until he lifts me up and my legs are forced to go around his waist.
His erection presses against my aching core. I can’t help myself when I roll my hips against him. I should be embarrassed to be so eager, maybe even worried that he’ll use this information against me, but with my body aching with desire, I can’t bring myself to care.
“Fuck, Lennon,” he curses, his fingers digging into my ass so hard that I won’t be surprised if I find bruises come tomorrow. “Keep doing that and this won’t last long.”
He lays me down on the bed, stripping the last of his clothes. I wiggle impatiently on the bed, almost shy beneath his stare, even though he’s already seen everything, and at every possible angle as well.
Bending down, he grabs a pack of condoms from his pants pocket. I didn’t even know he’d gone and bought more—I guess we used them all up last night and in the wee hours of this morning. It probably shouldn’t please me as much as it does that he was hopeful we’d end up right back here.
“I’m sore,” I warn him as he rolls the condom on. “You—please be gentle this time.” I blush at my own request. I loved how rough he was before, how it was like he couldn’t control himself, but if we’re doing this again, then my body definitely needs tenderness.
“Gentle,” he repeats, drawing a moan from me when his fingers rub against my throbbing pussy. “I think I can do that.”
Gripping the base of his cock, he guides it slowly to my entrance, sinking in until I’m filled with him. His body is lying over mine, close, intimate. My breath catches when our eyes make contact. He quickly looks away, like he’s scared I’ll see too much there.
But I know what this is—what we are. Temporary.
He doesn’t need to worry.
