Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
RIAN
Callaghan pulls the Bentley up to the curb. The polished paint glints beneath the street lamps. I hate being chauffeured around—I prefer to be in control. But truthfully, am I ever in control when Rebekka is around?
Staying sober tonight simply wasn’t an option.
Not when I’m surrounded by loved up couples who can’t keep their hands off each other.
Mind you, my hands weren’t much better. I’m sailing dangerously close to the wind—without a life jacket.
There’s no way I’d send her home with just a driver though.
Not that I don’t trust our staff—they’re all vetted and vouched for.
I’m simply not ready to say goodbye yet.
I guide Rebekka into the back first, my palm steady at the small of her back.
She slides across the cream leather, and I drop in beside her.
The door thuds shut behind us. The city noise dulls to nothing, replaced by the smooth purr of the engine and the faint creak of leather as she shifts, pulling her dress down over her thighs, but not before I get a glimpse of a lace topped hold up and an inch of smooth, satiny skin.
The urge to slip my hand beneath her dress renders my dick solid in seconds.
Fuck.
We sit silently for a few moments as Dublin’s familiar landmarks whizz by.
I don’t have the words to cover what almost happened tonight. What I’d still love to happen tonight. What unequivocally can’t happen tonight.
Eventually, she breaks the quiet. ‘Did you tell him we were out together?’
‘No.’
Her head turns, those stunning jade eyes find mine in the dim light. They’re sharp. Searching. ‘Why not?’
I swipe a hand across my jaw, the admission already burning my throat.
‘I couldn’t bring myself to say the words, “she’s with me”, because it wouldn’t have sounded like an alibi. It would have sounded like a claim. And no matter how much I fucking hate it, you’re not mine to claim.’
Her lips part. ‘I wish I was,’ she admits. Her breath hitches, and I want to kiss the sound straight from her mouth.
I lean in to whisper in her ear, close enough that I’m certain my breath will brush over her skin. ‘If you were mine,’ I pause, wetting my lips, ‘I would worship the very ground you walk on.’
‘I bet you say that to all the ladies,’ she says, but she doesn’t pull away from me. ‘With lines like that, it’s no wonder you have a different one every week.’ I think it’s supposed to be a joke, but there’s a slight edge to her tone. She stares intently down at her lap.
‘Firstly, I’ve never said that to anyone but you. Secondly, it wasn’t a line. And thirdly, if you must know, I don’t have a different woman every week, though admittedly, there have been… a few.’
‘It kills me,’ she whispers. Her voice cracks. So does my heart. An image of her flinching last night when Scarlett mentioned me dating flashes to the forefront of my mind.
I never meant to hurt her.
It never occurred to me that she felt as deeply for me as I do for her.
I place a finger beneath her chin and tilt her face until our eyes meet. Hers are wide, woeful, but blazing with raw heat. The desperate longing in them mirrors my own. ‘I lose myself in women because the only woman I truly want is already taken.’
She draws in a ragged breath, jolting away from my fingers like she’s been electrocuted.
The silence that follows is brutal.
Callaghan drives on, eyes forward, a professional mask in place. The air in the back seat, though—it’s alive. The space between Rebekka and me sparks like a live current. We’re one wrong move from an explosion, and the consequences are deadly.
Ten minutes later, the Bentley pulls up outside her apartment block.
Anthony’s apartment block. The tower looms above us, a gleaming wall of glass and steel framed by polished marble columns.
Discreet uplighting washes the facade in soft gold.
The double doors are smoked glass, their brass trim polished to perfection.
I’ve been here a thousand times before, but never just with her. And never like this.
I step out first and circle to her side, offering a hand as she emerges.
She freezes, then blinks up at me. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Walking you to your door,’ I answer simply.
She stares at my hand for a long apprehensive beat before slipping her palm in mine.
The crackling sensation of her skin on my skin is a given now, but it doesn’t diminish the intensity.
If anything, after my admission, it’s only heightened it.
We walk into the lobby and past the concierge.
Two vast orchid arrangements in chrome vases punctuate the space on either side of the lift doors.
Cameras blink red in every corner, silent sentinels to the secrets hidden within these walls.
The security guard nods in recognition. The lift doors haven’t even properly closed before he plucks his phone from his pocket.
Another one of Anthony’s spies, no doubt.
I look down. Her hand is still in mine. It looks tiny, feminine, and utterly fucking fabulous. I drop it reluctantly, then glance up at the tiny red light glinting above me in the corner of the lift ceiling.
If we gave into this attraction between us—even once—would it be enough to quell some of the sexual tension that permanently suffocates me any time we’re together?
Anthony is a shark. I’m surprised he hasn’t smelt the blood we have permanently pumping for each other already.
It’s painfully obvious. Zara spotted it months ago, which is why she was shocked when I asked her to bring up the pancake mix for Rebekka this morning.
Zara knows what an ass Anthony is to Rebekka.
All my family do. But that doesn’t mean they’d condone an affair.
The lift rises, along with my body temperature.
The urge to touch her again consumes me.
I clench my fists at the side of my body, flexing and releasing them in time to my slow inhales and exhales.
Finally, the doors ding and slide open. I motion for her to step out in front of me, check the wide, high corridor, then follow her to her front door.
She opens it, then turns her head, glancing over her shoulder at me. ‘So… this is me.’
‘I know.’ I nod, my jaw ticking. Every bone in my body screams at me not to leave her alone. Not to leave her here in Anthony’s soulless penthouse.
Our eyes meet.
She holds my stare, hovering in the doorway.
‘Thank you,’ she swallows, ‘for tonight. For everything.’
‘I wish…’ I shove my hands into my suit pocket for fear they’re going to grab her of their own accord. ‘Never mind.’ I shake my head. ‘Sleep well, Beks.’
Her tongue darts out to wet her lower lip and, fuck, it does things in my stomach—and lower. I need to move. Get out of here. Walk away before I do something stupid like try to fucking kiss her again. But my feet aren’t getting the memo. They’re glued to the fucking spot.
‘You sleep well, too, Rian.’ She reaches up on her tiptoes then, without breaking eye contact.
Her face inches closer to mine. I suck in a breath as she presses her lips to my cheek.
The last cord of restraint inside me snaps spectacularly.
Before I know it, I’m pushing her back inside the doorway, my hands are in her hair, cupping her cheeks.
She reaches up to palm the nape of my neck; our mouths crash together—lips, tongues, teeth.
She tastes like champagne and hunger, and I am fucking starving for her.
White-hot lust lances every cell in my body.
This.
This is what I’ve been dreaming about.
Finally, I feel like I’ve come home.
I run my hands over the curve of her hips, and she slams her body against mine. Heat radiates from her every pore, and as our lips meet she moans needily into my mouth. My cock is rock solid in a fraction of a second, pressing into her stomach.
All too soon, she rips her mouth from mine, ripping my insides open in the process. My soul bleeds from my body.
‘Fuck.’ Her oval eyes widen to saucers as her hand clamps over her mouth.
‘Sorry,’ I raise my hands and leap back—but I’m not sorry. Not one fucking bit. Even though I should be.
Maybe I will be when I wake up tomorrow and there’s no alcohol coursing through my arteries, whispering in my ear that no one will ever know.
Whispering that her husband is with someone else tonight—why shouldn’t she be?
Two wrongs don’t make a right, yet everything about our kiss screams at me that actually—it might.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Her hand drops to her chest, resting over her heart.
‘We shouldn’t… We can’t. Fuck.’ Her face falls, genuine horror inching into her expression.
Guilt floods my chest then, not because of him, but because of her.
She’s already struggling. She doesn’t need me complicating an already brutally complicated situation.
‘That was selfish of me.’ I back away until I reach the door, fingers tightening around the circular handle. ‘I’m going. Before I do any more damage.’
Her throat bobs. She drags a hand through her hair. Her breath is coming in ragged gulps. Wild eyes dart over my body. My face. My chest. The bulge in my suit trousers. Then back to meet my eyes again.
‘I think it’s best we try to stay away from each other…’ she trails off. ‘For a while. Until this thing between us—’she gestures between us with her index finger‘—blows over.’
A long, low bitter laugh bursts from my lips. ‘Sweetheart, it’s been three years, two weeks and four days since we met. Tell me… do you think this thing between us is going to blow over? Or blow up in our faces?’
‘You… you… counted the days?’ Her pristinely shaped eyebrows knit together.
‘I can’t help it. Every fucking second has felt like an hour.
Every minute you’ve been with him felt like a month.
Your wedding was the worst day of my life.
’ If I had any sense, I’d shut my fucking mouth.
But I’m not known for being the shrewdest Beckett.
I’m known for being the boldest. And I’m dangerously close to telling my best friend’s wife that I don’t just like her, no.
I fucking love her. Because I do. There’s no other word for this agony.
To the point it causes me physical pain, and has done from the second I learned she could never be mine.
She exhales heavily. ‘If it’s any consolation, my wedding was the worst day of my life too.’ She twists her head to look at the wedding portrait blown up on a massive canvas hanging on the hall wall beside her. It’s her turn to laugh bitterly.
‘It’s no consolation.’ I murmur, low and steady. ‘I don’t want you to be miserable, sweetheart. You deserve every happiness this life has to offer. I’m just sorry I can’t be the one to give it to you.’
Her eyes brim with tears, but she blinks them back. ‘ You’re a good man, Rian Beckett.’
‘Shh.’ I press my index finger to my mouth. ‘Don’t tell the others—you’ll ruin my reputation.’
A strangled laugh leaves her lips.
‘I’ve known him my entire life,’ I pause, unable to say his name right now, ‘but you’re my friend too. I’m only a phone call away if you need anything, okay.’
She nods, and I get the impression she’s holding it together with a single thread.
‘See you,’ I force myself to leave—while I’m still physically able.