Halloween is around the corner, only a few days away, and I’m freaking out a bit. Or a lot.
Because this means I can’t put off the inevitable much longer—telling my family about the baby. I should just do it, rip it off like a Band-Aid, but pathetically I’m not sure I can. I know I’ll be seeing them for the Thanksgiving holiday, and Beckham will be headed back to Connecticut as well, so maybe it’s best to wait until then and do it in person. I’ll definitely be showing, but I think with an oversize sweater I’ll be able to hide it temporarily.
“Are you nervous about the interview?”
My head swivels in Beckham’s direction. I forgot he was beside me, which is quite a feat since his presence is so potent. Not that I’ll ever be telling him that.
“Huh? What? No.”
“Oh.” He types something in an email. “You seem distracted. Worried, almost.” He lifts a mug of coffee to his lips, peering at me over the rim.
We’re seated inside a diner, not far from the office, to meet our first interviewee for our project. Her job is nearby, this location being her suggestion, which worked great for us.
“It’s not about the interview.” I mouth a thank-you to our waitress when she delivers my glass of sweet tea. I don’t know what it is about the drink, but it’s become my first real pregnancy craving. I can’t get enough. It’s one I don’t give in to often—too much sugar and caffeine wouldn’t be good for the baby—but right now I need some.
He clicks “Send” on his email. “Then what’s it about?” He drapes his arm over the back of the booth behind me, using the gesture as leverage to lean closer to me. I am effectively caged by his body.
I know he means nothing by it, at least nothing sexual, but tell that to my body, which doesn’t seem to know better.
Apparently, I’ve hit not only the craving stage but the sexual-yearning one as well.
My vibrator is getting a workout tonight.
“Why are you looking at me like that? Are you okay? You’re breathing funny.”
I shake my head roughly, trying to rid myself of the internal tangent I’ve gone on, not to mention the mental flashbacks of everything he did to me in Chicago.
“I’m fine, I swear.” Heat is rising to my cheeks. I hope he can’t tell I’m blushing.
“Are you sure? You’re worrying me.”
And to his credit he genuinely does look concerned. “I’m fine,” I reiterate. “Truly. Just have a lot on my mind.”
Not a total lie.
I do have a lot on my mind these days. It just so happens at this particular moment that I’m thinking about him.
Naked.
Mouth on—
“Here’s that cinnamon bun for you. Your sandwich will be right out.” The waitress sets the plate in front of me, and I immediately forget about my sex-ravenous thoughts, because this cinnamon bun looks like the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.
“That looks good.”
I glare at the man beside me. “If you even think about stealing a bite, I’ll gut you like a fish with my fork.”
His eyes widen in surprise, lips threatening to curl in amusement. “You’re feisty today.”
“I suppose I am.” I dig into my cinnamon bun, watching the door for Cassie Locke to arrive.
Beckham closes his computer before tucking it back into his bag. I’m not even sure why he’s here for the interview. He brought his camera, but we spoke about doing one massive photo shoot with all the women we interview at the end, if our proposal is the winner. We wanted to have some interviews complete already, to round out our pitch. Despite his presence being unnecessary, I haven’t given him any shit about it.
Oh my God, does that mean there’s some part of me that wants him here?
I shudder at the thought.
“Is the cinnamon bun that good?”
I give him a mystified look. “Huh?”
He shakes his head. “You’re way too lost in your thoughts today.” He’s not wrong.
“I’m fine.”
Just then the door to the diner chimes, and Cassie enters. I lift my hand in a wave, flagging her toward our table.
She smiles as she weaves her way through the tables to reach the booth we snagged in a corner.
“Hi, so sorry I’m late.” She extends a hand to each of us before sliding into the booth. “My meeting ran over.”
“It’s no problem at all. It’s nice to formally meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“This is Beckham,” I say, introducing the man at my side. “I’ve mentioned him in our chats. He’s a photographer at Real Point and my partner on this project.”
“Yes, yes,” she chants, unzipping her jacket. “I remember you saying that.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and order. Then we’ll get to it.” I pull out my notebook and pen.
“That would be great. I’m starving.”
After she’s placed her order, I turn on the recorder and start my questions. I feel Beckham’s eyes boring into the side of my face the entire time. It’s distracting, but I do my best not to show it. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s thrown me off my game.
“You’re currently leading a major PR firm. It’s a huge accomplishment you should be proud of, but we know with success oftentimes comes critiques. Can you tell me about some of the worst comments you’ve had?”
Cassie tucks a piece of dark hair behind her ear. “Yeah, sure. As a woman it can be tough in almost any industry to be taken seriously, especially as an authority figure.” She reaches for the soda she ordered. “I worked hard for my position, as much as anyone else. I went to school, started from the bottom, and moved up in the company over the years. But it didn’t stop the rumors, the whispers from my fellow coworkers—particularly the men—that I was sleeping my way up the corporate ladder.” She laughs humorlessly. “Despite the fact we all had the same degrees, similar work experience. They didn’t take into account that I put in more hours, and frankly had better ideas than them. They couldn’t comprehend that maybe I was merely good at my job—no, I must be fucking the boss to get there.” Rubbing a hand over her face, she gives us a small smile. “I’m sorry. It’s a sore subject, but that’s why I agreed to do this.” Her pointer finger flicks between us. “I think it’s important to bring to light the injustices women can face in the workforce. That’s not to say there aren’t good people out there that would never say those kinds of things, but we should hold the ones who do accountable.”
Beckham stiffens beside me. I think I know why, but I won’t comment on it. It’s not the time or place.
I move on to more questions for Cassie, and before I know it, our hour is up and she has to head back to work. As do we. Beckham did snap some photos, explaining he thought Jaci would appreciate some candid interview shots along with the more editorial-style shoot we have planned for the end of this project, if we get chosen. I have to give him credit: it’s a good idea.
Before we leave the diner, I ask for a to-go cup of sweet tea.
“Is this a craving?” He pulls out his wallet and lays some loose bills down on the table to cover the tip. “I’ve watched you down at least two glasses of the stuff since we’ve been here. Is that even good for you? The baby? Isn’t there a lot of sugar in sweet tea?”
I gape at him. “It might be,” I hedge. “Okay, it isn’t the best for the baby if I have too much, but please don’t judge my craving. Let me enjoy my tea. It’s the only thing bringing me joy at the moment. I promise not to overdo it.”
He snorts—well, he comes as close to the sound as he’s capable. “That’s all that’s bringing you joy? I thought pregnancy was supposed to make you glow with joy?”
“I’m pretty sure the glow is just sweat.” I accept the to-go cup from the waitress so we can finally leave. “Seriously, I’ve never sweated so much in my life.”
He looks at me over his shoulder before exiting the diner. “I didn’t need to know that.”
“You got me pregnant—that means you’re obligated to hear all the gross details. Speaking of gross details,” I continue on, dodging people speed-walking in the opposite direction on the sidewalk, “I’m so constipated. I haven’t pooped in like three days.”
He chokes, rearing back. “Lennon. Jesus.”
“I know, it’s terrible. Maybe I should get a pumpkin-spice latte? Those always make me go to the bathroom.” I start to turn in the opposite direction, to head to where I know there’s a Starbucks, but his hand loops around my arm, holding me prisoner.
“Let’s wait until after work for that. I can’t let you destroy the work toilets. I’m not sure they could handle both you and Brendan when he has his Chipotle.”
I bite my lip, trying to hold in a giggle. “Good point.”
We head back to the office, and he nearly shocks me speechless when he actually holds the door open for me.
“Don’t look so flabbergasted. I’m capable of being a gentleman when I want to be.”
Damn him, those words make me think about how very ungentlemanly he was in the bedroom. Not in a bad way, but it’s Beckham. He’s going to be dominant. It’s in his nature. He’s always had this commanding way of carrying himself. Even when he was young.
He falls into step beside me, heading for the elevator bay. “Are you cold?”
“Huh?” I give him a confused look.
“You shivered.”
“Oh . . . um . . . I’m not cold.” Am I blushing as much as I think I am? I hope not.
“But you—”
“Drop it,” I plead, pushing the button repeatedly to call the elevator, even though I know that won’t make it go any faster.
His eyes narrow, no doubt taking in my flushed state. “Are you turned on right now?”
“No!”
He gapes at me, looking both surprised and intrigued. “You definitely are.”
“I am not.”
He looks me in the eyes. I can’t help it when I start to wiggle uncomfortably. “I’m going to help you.”
“What?” I blurt out, but he’s already pulling me away from the elevators. We’ve just turned the corner when it dings its arrival. I was so close to escape. Beckham glances around, then opens a door and tugs me in after him. “What are you doing?”
“Like I said, helping you out.” He flicks the lock closed on the door, and we’re inside some small empty office space with desks and computers. “If you think for a minute I’m going to let you find someone else to take care of you, think again.” He shucks off his jacket and tosses it onto a chair, then loosens his tie and the cuffs on his shirt. Rolling the sleeves up his forearms, he arches a brow at me. “Don’t just stand there. Hop up.” He pats the table like he wants me to sit on it.
“Beckham, this is ridiculous. I’m fine. I don’t need . . . you don’t need . . .” I hide my face in my hands.
“Lennon.” He says my name like he knows I’m moments away from running from the room. “Does it look like I’m feeling any sort of hardship at the thought of pleasuring you?”
He points to the crotch of his pants, where it becomes painfully obvious that he’s turned on.
“I . . . oh.”
“Now, please, for the love of God, get your ass on this table and let me lick your pussy.”
I don’t argue with him further and instead just listen to the man.
I’ve barely sat down when he encourages me to lie back. Blood roars in my ears. I don’t want to want this, but I do. He pushes at my skirt, rolling it up my hips. I rise to help him, and soon it’s bunched around my stomach.
His blue eyes hold me frozen for a moment. I can’t take my eyes off him when he slides my panties to the side. My breath catches when he rubs two fingers over my folds. A slow grin spreads over his lips.
“You’re wet, Lennon.”
“I am?” Of course I am. I’ve been struggling most of the day, and even though I don’t want to admit it, this man does something to me. Something dangerous that consumes me in a way that terrifies me.
“Mmm.” He rubs again, letting his fingers slide in just a little. Not enough, not near enough, but I moan anyway. “You want me.”
I shake my head. “N-no. It’s not you.”
Annoyance flashes across his face. “Don’t lie to me.” He presses his thumb against my clit, my back bowing off the table. “You can hate me and still want to fuck me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
He arches a brow. “You sure about that?” I give a broken cry in response when his fingers curl inside me. “It’s okay if you do,” he goes on, eyes dilated as he watches the pleasure on my face. “It doesn’t mean I can’t still make you feel good.”
He swipes his tongue over my clit, eliciting a surprised gasp from between my lips. My fingers delve into his hair as he works me with his tongue and fingers. I grip those strands of hair roughly, pulling, tugging. He groans at the bite of pain but doesn’t ask me to stop. If anything I think it turns him on even more.
My hips rock against his mouth, begging and demanding. My orgasm is right there on the cusp. I know it won’t take much to set me off, to fall over that cliff into bliss.
“Yesyesyesyes,” I chant, my words blurring together. “Don’t stop.” I can feel sweat dampen my skin. I’m not sure how I’m going to collect myself enough to go back to the office, but I can’t dwell on that right now, since there’s zero chance of me stopping this. “Beckham,” I beg, practically crying with need.
His groans and moans fill my ears. I feel myself grow wetter just listening to him.
“You taste so good, honeybee. So fucking good. Here, have some.”
I mewl in protest when his fingers leave my body. Then they’re nudging at my lips, pushing inside my mouth. I wrap my lips around his fingers, tasting myself on him.
“Good, right, baby?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He takes the hand whose fingers were just in my mouth and wraps it around my throat, applying a hint of pressure. His tongue laps at my pussy, my body squirming again on the table.
“Please,” I beg, my nails scraping against the fabric of his shirt. “Fuck me, Beckham. Please.”
He strokes himself over his pants but doesn’t pull his cock out.
I want it, I want it, I want—
My orgasm shatters through me, his hand moving from my throat to my mouth to cover my cries. My breaths are ragged as pleasure rattles inside me, my body shaking with aftershocks.
“Holy shit,” I finally mutter, slowly coming to in time to see Beckham straightening his clothes. “You . . . ?” I gesture vaguely to his crotch area, where the erection tenting his pants is still painfully obvious.
“Are fine.” He shocks me speechless when he places a gentle kiss on my forehead. “I’ll head upstairs first while you clean up.” He picks his jacket up from the chair, draping it over his arm.
“Okay.” My voice still sounds breathless, shaky.
He excuses himself from the room, leaving me alone with my skirt still around my stomach, my pussy on display to any hapless person who might be unlucky enough to happen by and open the door. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’d leave me behind like some trussed-up turkey. I give a small laugh and wiggle my skirt down as I hop off the table. I didn’t realize my heels fell off, but they lie haphazardly on the ground. After putting them on, I fluff my hair and slip from the room to the restrooms on the main floor to wash up.
By the time I make it up to the office, at least ten or fifteen minutes have gone by.
Beckham is talking to Brendan, somehow managing to look completely put together and not like he had his head up my skirt only a little bit ago.
His jaw moves back and forth, chewing gum.
When he catches me staring, he winks.
With a shake of my head, I settle back at my desk and force thoughts of him from my brain so I can finish the article I was working on before we left to meet up with Cassie.
Beckham Sullivan is dangerous—for my mind, my body, but most importantly my heart.
