Chapter 20
twenty
HANNAH
The TV was on in front of me, the only light illuminating the living room. I was staring right at it, but I didn’t see any of what was going on. I was too busy picturing Beau with a woman. His date.
The images flashed through my mind. Him, back at her place, her clothes off, showcasing expensive French lingerie and a body toned from Pilates. Him fucking her, kissing her.
I was torturing myself with the graphic scene, consumed by fury, jealousy, and sadness. None of which I was entitled to since he was nothing more than my employer, and he was well within his rights to fuck whomever he wanted.
But I wanted him to fuck me.
I was attracted to Beau from the moment I saw him.
My hatred was born out of hurt. When he turned into a cruel, cold, asshole.
When he made it clear that he didn’t want me back.
But even then, all of that made me want him more.
Witnessing him be a wonderful father was endlessly sexy; the way he cared for his daughter was indescribably endearing and attractive.
And he wasn’t always cold and cruel with me.
I thought of the way he’d sprinted toward me after the car accident, his protective stance with Waylon, and him taking me to the police station and lawyer’s office.
And then there were the hints of his hunger for me.
Clara’s birthday party, Calliope and Elliot’s wedding, and all the little micro glimpses before that I’d told myself were all in my head.
It was no longer deniable, though. I didn’t dream it up, imagine it, or misconstrue it. Beau wanted me.
Even though he was on a date with another woman.
I startled when headlights illuminated the living room. I gritted my teeth, not letting myself hope, since there had already been a couple of false alarms.
A quick peek through the curtains confirmed it was his truck in the driveway, his large form stepping out of it. I immediately stepped back, not wanting to look like a total stalker.
The wise decision would’ve been to turn off the TV and escape back into my room, pretend I hadn’t been waiting for him, acting like his personal life did not interest me or bother me.
I always made the smart, safe choice—a lifetime of watching a mother do the opposite, ruining her life, would do that to you. My decisions were always the opposite of hers. Well, if you didn’t include me marrying an older man who I thought would save me from it all.
For the second time in my life, I didn’t take the smart route. I stayed rooted in place, my heart crashing against my sternum.
It was only when the door clicked as he unlocked it that I registered what I looked like.
I was in my camisole—no bra, short boxers, tube socks, my hair piled messily atop my head.
Then I thought about the woman I’d dreamed up that Beau had gone on a date with.
Glamorous. Put together. Likely older than me.
Without debt. A stable job. A car that wasn’t one oil change away from falling apart. No estranged ex with substance issues.
Beau was coming home from a date with her and being faced with me, a nursing school dropout, trailer park kid with nothing but bad credit and a duffel bag of cheap clothes to her name.
The door opened, and it was too late to escape.
Beau froze when his eyes found me in the middle of the room, illuminated by the TV flickering behind me.
Neither of us said anything. For five seconds—Mississippi five times seconds—neither of us said anything, he just stared at me, hand still on the doorknob.
It was all I could do to stay in place, keep breathing. I didn’t seem to have the power to move or say anything.
Very slowly, Beau closed and locked the door before turning to face me. I couldn’t make out his expression because he was cloaked in shadows.
He took one step forward, the dancing light showcasing his harsh glare.
“Go to bed, Hannah,” he growled, irritation stark in his tone.
The rough timbre of his voice raised goose bumps along my flesh. The sensible part of me screamed to listen to him before I did something foolish.
“Did you have sex with her?” I somehow summoned the courage to ask.
So I wasn’t going to do something foolish, I was going to say something foolish.
Beau recoiled as if I’d struck him. Granted, it was an out-of-left-field question that thoroughly exceeded all the parameters of appropriate conversation to have with the man who employed you to nanny his daughter.
“That’s none of your business.” Again, his tone was harsh, aggressive, but in the soft light of the room, both of us in the shadows, it didn’t scare me.
It excited me.
Beau walked over to the console table, dropping his keys with a clatter before taking his wallet out of his back pocket.
Having been possessed by something wanton and possibly unhinged, I moved to where he had shrugged off his jacket. He didn’t realize how close I was until he turned around.
I could smell him. And her. Her perfume was cloying with its elegance and obvious expense.
I didn’t wear perfume. Couldn’t afford the indulgence. I used natural, vanilla-scented body cream. Although Beau didn’t explicitly police my personal care products, I cared about Clara being exposed to possible fragrance irritants.
“Hannah.” His voice was deeper, rougher, his eyes skirting over my tank top, my bare legs. “Go the fuck to bed.”
Beau always kept a certain control with me. Each word was measured, even if it was harsh. His glowers were calculated. Even his movements seemed almost robotic, like he thought carefully about where he’d put his body when I was around.
Yet there was no control in his voice then.
I could hear it fraying, and not because he was irritated.
Because he was turned on. Of that I was certain.
The looks he’d given me, the intensity between us, the flicker of his eyes on my skin that flared in hunger for a split second.
Where I’d previously been shy, self-deprecating, I was suddenly imbued with a confidence I hadn’t known I was capable of.
A confidence given to me by Beau.
The way he’d looked at me at the wedding gave me all the courage I needed.
“I’ll go to bed.” I gulped down my nerves. “If you tell me you didn’t have sex with her.” I stepped forward, my shaking fingers sliding down the buttons of his shirt. “If I can go to your bed.”
I felt as if I were suspended on the ceiling, watching myself say these words.
Who was this person? I didn’t hate her, but she terrified me. She was giving in to all my desires. My heartbeat was becoming painful, my body shaking with fear. With need. A need I’d been suppressing, denying, no longer able to be stifled.
Beau let out a harsh breath, his body going stock-still as my fingers ascended the buttons of his shirt, brushing where it exposed the smooth column of his muscled neck, grazing over the rough hair of his beard. I smelled the oil he used in it tonight—vanilla and spice. Deep and pleasing.
I tilted my head upward, the TV flashing at the perfect moment to catch the twitch of his iron jaw beneath his beard, his wild stormy eyes, and a vein pulsing in his neck.
“I hope you didn’t fuck her,” I whispered, the harsh word tasting strange in my mouth. I didn’t curse because, again, it made me like my mother. Also, I worked with a small child whose brain was like a sponge.
But I liked the sharpness of the word. My hand crept up to the column of his neck, brushing his Adam’s apple as he visibly swallowed. “I want you to fuck me.”
The second I got the words out of my mouth, Beau clasped my shoulders tightly, though not enough to hurt me.
A man with hands that large, with that much obvious strength, could bruise someone of my stature by accident.
I knew all too well how easily a man could hurt a woman.
And I also knew that Beau would never hurt me.
I thought he was gripping me like that to push me away, my stomach sinking in embarrassment and biting rejection.
But then my back hit the wall, his body pressing into mine. He lay his palms flat, caging me in.
His breath came in rough pants as his eyes consumed me with a hunger that had only been hinted at in the glances I’d caught.
Clearly, I hadn’t experienced the pure breadth of it.
It was like viewing an iceberg underneath the surface, seeing his desire stripped away from whatever barriers he’d created.
It took my breath away. Never had anyone looked at me with such naked need.
“Hannah.” The way he uttered my name was a warning, a prayer, a term of endearment, a four-letter word, a threat … all in one.
My body sang in response to just seeing my name on his lips, his expression, the heat emanating from his body. From the power that pulsed through my veins at seeing Beau undone.
“Beau,” I whispered, my voice breathy with need, tipping my head back.
One of his hands left the wall, and his fingertips traced over my jaw, trailing down the column of my neck then between my breasts.
My thighs squeezed together as my pussy pulsed, my nipples pebbling against the thin fabric of my camisole.
I arched my back into his hands, aching for more than just the tip of his finger.
But he didn’t give me that. His fingertip crept between my breasts then down, over the top of my camisole, missing my aching nipples, brushing over my navel, then down to the side of my hip where he palmed my ribs, grasping on to me with the same grip on my shoulder—tight enough to show his urgency, his need, but never enough to hurt.