Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
REBEKKA
Drinking an entire bottle of Bollinger on an empty stomach probably wasn't my brightest idea. Flirting with Ireland’s biggest player wasn’t either.
But it’s Christmas, and I had to mark it somehow, which is why the log fire is roaring, and the Christmas tunes are pumping from the sixty-five inch television on the wall above the mantle.
I scan the penthouse. The enormous open plan area twinkles with the fairy lights I put up last night after a mammoth sized glass of mulled wine. Thankfully, I managed to dissuade my parents from visiting, especially when they heard my in-laws were off skiing.
To some people, it might seem tragic, drinking alone on Christmas Day. Not to me. It was the best—and the only—gift my douche of a husband gave me this year. And I am fucking milking it.
Rian’s phone call was unexpected. And him coming over here is probably unwise. No, not probably—definitely. But I can’t bring myself to care.
I squint down at my attire—boy shorts and Rian’s t-shirt. I wasn't expecting company. I should probably change. Though what does one put on when their husband’s best friend is calling over on Christmas Day?
I pad through to the main bathroom, turn on the shower and strip.
Hopefully it’ll sober me up a bit. Then again, who wants to be sober at Christmas?
I step in, lathering myself from head to toe in the Jo Malone shower gel Avery gifted me.
The hot water hits my back as I scrape my hair up into a messy upstyle, securing it with a ponytail holder.
I’m dicing with death allowing Rian to call. Especially because every cell in my body burns for him. But I can control myself.
I can.
And I will.
It’ll just be nice to have some company.
I’m not going to do anything stupid.
I’m not going to do anything at all.
The flirting is just for fun. We both know we can never act on it.
And to make sure of it, I’m going to put something really unsexy on.
Yes. That’s exactly what I’ll do. Something that’ll ensure we stay in the friendzone, because whatever else is burning up between us, I know without a shadow of a doubt that Rian can be counted on as a friend.
Firstly, I need to get out of his t-shirt because nothing screams stalker like a woman who steals your clothes.
I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a giant fluffy towel and slather on a mountain of moisturiser in the hope that I don’t look my age.
Baby Beckett is five years younger than me, and while he said older women are sexy—I’m still not entirely convinced.
Maybe because my husband hasn’t looked at me like I was sexy since our wedding night.
I strut through to my bedroom, pull on a white bra and pantie set—nothing racy, I remind myself.
I’m not aiming for “sexy”, I’m aiming for “married”.
Digging in my chest of drawers, I find a pastel pink Abercrombie sweater and short set.
It’s cute, but definitely not sexy. It’s not particularly festive, but at least it doesn’t scream fuck me, even if that’s exactly what I’ve been fantasising about from the day I met Rian Beckett.
I’m dragging a brush through my hair when the buzzer goes. Three squirts of my favourite Charlotte Tilbury perfume later and I’m ready.
Ready as I’ll ever be, anyway.
I switch off the TV as I’m passing. There’s only so many times one can endure Shaking Stevens in a day. Standing behind the thick solid wood door, I take a deep breath. This might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I swore I wouldn't be alone with him again. Not after the last time.
Your husband is in Dubai with his mediocre dick inside his poor unfortunate PA.
Live a little.
I reach for the brass knob and turn it, opening the door slowly. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of the man before me. He’s fucking beautiful in that dark, rugged, masculine way that only a man who knows who he is can be.
‘Merry Christmas.’ He thrusts two bottles of Beckett’s Black Label, his family’s vintage champagne, towards me.
I accept them, glance guiltily around the corridor—even though there’s no one else up here but us—then beckon him in.
He looks both formal and formidable in a black fitted suit and crisp white shirt.
The scent of his familiar aftershave envelops me as he steps in.
‘Merry Christmas,’ I murmur, trying to bite back the smile stretching my lips. This is so wrong. So, so wrong. So why does it feel so right?
‘You look fantastic.’ His eyes rove over my bare legs.
‘I don’t have any make up on,’ I blurt. Ha! That’s the least of my problems, and we both know it.
‘You don’t need any.’ His pupils bore into mine, smouldering with sincerity. ‘I’ve told you before, Rebekka, you are stunning.’
‘And you are so good for my ego.’ I usher him in towards the kitchen.
‘I aim to please.’ He smirks, his long legs eating up the space in front of him.
‘Shall I open this?’ I place one bottle on the island and brandish the other in the air.
‘Unless you’ve got a better idea.’ He shrugs, sliding into one of the tall, leather stools across from me. ‘How do you Yanks celebrate Christmas?’
‘The same way you Irish do—we get lit.’ I beam at him. Just being around him fills a void in my heart that I’d never openly admit exists.
He takes off his suit jacket, tosses it on the seat beside him and rolls up his shirt sleeves.
My focus falls to his forearms. I never understood forearm porn until this very second.
Thick veins pump beneath the surface of his tanned skin like a road map.
Oh. My. God. Thank goodness there’s an eight-foot island between us.
The urge to throw myself at him is all-consuming.
His eyebrows wing up as he catches my less than subtle stare. ‘You okay?’ He rolls his lips, and I’d bet my life he’s biting back a smile.
‘Uh-huh.’ I tear my eyes away, busying myself trying to open the bottle.
‘You want me to help you with that?’ He’s on his feet and round the island before I even open my mouth to answer him. Not a good idea, buddy, not a good idea.
He doesn’t get the memo, clearly, because before I know it, his chest is pressed to my back, his arms reach around my torso to grab mine, stilling them from their feeble attempt to open the bottle.
‘I’ll do it,’ he murmurs into my ear, sending shivers over every inch of my body.
My nipples are like bullets beneath this sweatshirt.
My hands fall to the island. I rest my fingertips on the cool counter, watching as they turn white, wondering what he’d do if I curled myself forward, pressed my chest to the marble and backed my needy pussy onto the bulge that’s pressing into my back.
I stand rigid, barely daring to breathe.
When he finally pops the top, I almost jump out of my skin.
‘Easy, Bekka, I’ve got you.’ He drops the cork to the island, and rubs what I think is supposed to be a reassuring hand over my bicep, but there’s nothing reassuring about it.
In fact, what’s the opposite of reassuring?
Alarming? Disturbing? Unsettling? Erotic?
Yep—every single one of them is how his touch makes me feel because I crave it more than I’ve ever craved anything in my life, and that’s fucking terrifying given the situation.
His hand slides up to my shoulder. Thank fuck for the sweater. His skin on my skin would probably set me feral. Fingers gently press into my collarbone, silently nudging me to twist to face him. I do, because I can’t not. His body commands mine, whether he knows or not.
Suddenly we’re hip to hip, chest to chest. I tilt my head up to meet his burning stare. Seconds pass. Maybe even a minute. All the things we can’t say, can’t do, hang heavily in the air between us.
I’m so acutely aware of the thickening bulge in his suit, pressing against my stomach. My body begs my backside to hop up on this island and spread my legs for him, but I can’t, I won’t. I took a vow. If I break it as well, then what are we left with?
Then again, like Ivy said, we don’t exactly have a lot to start with.
No, Bekka, No.
I shove him to the side before I do something reckless like shove myself at him. ‘I’ll get some glasses.’
He takes a step back and buries his hands deep inside his suit pockets. ‘You should know, champagne makes me drunk,’ he warns.
I pad barefoot across the kitchen, then reach on my tiptoes to grab two crystal flutes from one of the high shelves. ‘Isn’t that kind of the point?’ I crane my neck around to look at him, only trusting myself again now there’s a bit of distance between our bodies.
Big mistake.
His eyes are on my ass, and the expression on his face is positively primal.
They snap to mine after a long beat. I caught him, and he knows it.
But he doesn’t look one bit apologetic, and neither am I.
It feels so good to be wanted. To feel desired.
I didn’t realise how lonely I was until he arrived.
I gravitate towards him and pass the glasses to him. I’ve got a feeling my hands, like every other limb I own, are shaking way too hard to pour straight right now.
This man, he’s everything I want, and everything I can never have. Even if I wasn’t married to his best friend, Rian Beckett is a notorious player. I’ve watched him leave so many parties with so many women over the years. He’d break my heart in two as quick as look at me.
Wouldn't he?
As he pours the champagne, his big espresso eyes study me like he can read my every thought.
‘Your husband’s a dick. Just so we’re clear.
He’s not the same man I grew up with. Or if he is, I’m only seeing his true colours now.
And I don’t fucking like them one bit.’ He hands me a glass, and I raise it to my lips, feeling like I’m going to need it.
‘It is what it is,’ I shrug with more nonchalance than I feel.
Those razor sharp pupils skim over my body from my head to my pink painted toes. Thank God I put fake tan on. ‘If you were mine, I’d worship you every second of every fucking day for the rest of my life.’
I take two large sips and do my best to regulate my erratic heart. I have no idea what I’m meant to say to that, so I keep my mouth firmly shut and say nothing.
He steps forward, closing the distance between us again. ‘Cat got your tongue, Bekka?’
I inhale deeply, dragging the scent of his dangerously intoxicating aftershave deep into my lungs. ‘I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to say to that.’ My tongue darts out to swipe over my lower lip; his eyes follow the motion.
‘You’re supposed to say, “where would you start?”’ His irises blaze with a hunger that mirrors my own.
I swallow thickly. This is not good. Not good at all. Yet… it feels fucking fantastic. Heat floods my entire body, and a needy throb thrums in my core. It’s getting stronger with every passing second.
‘Where would you start?’ It’s barely more than a whisper, but he hears me loud and clear.
A wolfish grin rips open his face, displaying perfect white teeth and a tongue that I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like between my legs.
He takes a sip of his champagne before slowly lowering his glass to the counter.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees in front of me, without breaking eye contact.
His fingertips brush over the tops of my toes.
My mouth runs drier than the Sahara. ‘I’d start here.
’ He trails his index finger over the top of my foot gently until he finds my ankle.
He pauses for a second. Something in his devastatingly dark eyes makes me think he’s searching for permission.
I still can’t speak, so I simply nod. His finger brushes around to the inside of my ankle.
My lingerie, white or not, definitely doesn’t feel virginal anymore.
It’s drenched, and he’s barely touched me.
I should stop this right now.
Stop him.
But I can’t.
I don’t want to.
‘Then, I’d move to here.’ The pads of his fingers sweep over my calf in small teasing motions.
When they hit my inner thigh, I can barely remember my own name, let alone all the reasons why we categorically should not be doing this.
‘Then I’d spend a long time worshipping this sensitive little spot right here. ’
I’m squirming, writhing with need, my legs trembling like a newborn fawn.
He stands then, slowly, but his hand remains on my inner thigh, light as a feather, yet the weight of it hangs in the air like a guillotine ready to slice through whatever self-restraint remains between us.
He stares down at me with heat and hunger in those huge eyes and says, ‘Then I’d worship your pretty pussy for days.’
It’s official.
I’m fucking ruined.