Chapter Twelve
Scarlett
That night with him at the masquerade ball was the only time I’d ever had sex.
As soon as I found out I was pregnant, I didn't want to date, so I focused on my schoolwork and the ballet.
Now that I am living with him, even though we are at odds, I crave Beckett's touch.
I want to use his body. Well, I want more than his body, but with two months to think about it, I realize he is never going to be the kind of man I can forge a relationship with.
He hardly talks to me during my convalescence.
He comes in several times a day to make sure I am taking my medication or have eaten a balanced meal, but he is a doctor; of course, he would.
He checks in with me a few times to plan the menu, but I always feel more like his patient than his wife.
Then, of course, there is the contract I signed which says I agree to divorce him in five years' time.
I even have a date in May to seal the deal.
That makes me sad, but five years is a long time, and with him being such an ass, I think I’ll have to claw my way to the finish line.
I understand he has no desire for a wife, and so I am being naive expecting that he would show me at least some decency or care.
The extent of Beckett's interest in me is obligatory at best. Yet there he is with his tongue in my mouth and his cock stabbing my belly, and all I want to do is spread my legs and allow him inside.
“You have an IUD, right? We had one put in.” He pants in my ear as he starts to undo the belt on his trousers.
“Yes,” I pant too, but mine is more mocking. “Right next to the carburetor.”
“Cute.” His pants drop, and he hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs, then off they go too.
Completely naked, he swipes my lounge pants down and literally rips my blouse off my body.
Since I am breastfeeding, I don't bother with the nursing bra because I never see anyone to be modest around.
Mia, who still comes almost every day to see me, wears a tank top with no bra, and Gloria doesn't care.
So instead of fumbling with granny breast armor, I decided just to go au naturel on top and bottom.
What I didn't plan was for Beckett to require easy access.
He dips his fingers in me, and that is unexpected too because I am dripping wet.
“Well, Mrs. Myers, you’re rarin’ to go,” he teases. So that is good, right? He isn’t going to rip right through me if he is being playful.
“I still hate you.” I lick his soft pink lips and rake my fingers through the silver in his hair; he is so dangerous and irresistible.
“Same.” His thumb grazes over my nipple, which is raw and sore from breastfeeding, but his feather-light touch sends shivers through my entire body.
He picks me up, scooping me into his arms and off the wall, placing me at the end of the bed with my hips almost hanging off.
Before I can gather my wits, he has my legs spread and his face between them, drinking me in like I am the only water in the desert.
His soft wet tongue laves over my heated skin.
All I want is to buck into his face. The short, prickly stubble grazes across my inflamed flesh, hurting just enough to burn a little.
Grinding on his tongue, which is already lodged deeply inside of me, I gasp. “Oh my God,” I say, not even realizing I am speaking.
“God is right.” He looks at me with a dark, feral expression. “But it’s you who makes me kneel.”
Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck.
I realize then he is on his knees as he pulls me closer to his mouth.
As soon as his teeth circle my clit, I am done for.
I come so hard, so fast, so… um, much, it makes him growl against my skin.
It isn’t angry but feral, dangerous, and possessed.
When he rises from the floor, his arms hook under my shoulders and he drags me to the head of the bed.
“So I’m going to fuck my wife if you don’t mind.” His face is lusty and determined before he dips it to my neck and kisses me hard, pulling and biting, leaving his mark.
His rigid cock stabs my hip and feels so ardent and demanding.
“Might as well fuck me while you have me,” I breathe, wanting him to ride me as hard as he can. “Stop eating my neck, husband, and give me your cock.” Maybe a little too demanding, but oh well, he is a captive cock, and after all I’ve been through, I totally want to get off.
I am not a Beckett Myers fan. In fact, I almost hate the guy for marrying me without giving me a choice.
But to be real, what I hate most is that he is so damn controlling about my well-being but doesn’t like me enough to be my friend or even try.
I still hope to have his love; I just will never admit it.
“Such a filthy mouth for a wife and mother. I thought ballet dancers were prudish,” he says, dipping to my breast and kissing each of my painfully aroused nipples.
Thank God Rayne just nursed because Beckett massages them and makes them feel so much better. There might be some benefits to being a ‘wife’ to a doctor.
“Why aren’t you fucking me?” I am not going to get into a cultural debate about ballet dancers while he has me all hot and bothered.
“Because I don’t take demands.” He looks sinister and evil.
I bite his pec and leave a mark. “You do now!” I lick the bite, and all he does is laugh.
“Was that really necessary?” he asks, unable to hold back his mirth.
“As necessary as my hickey.” I touch the side of my neck that is still a little tender and sore after he sucked a bruise into me. “I can always return the favor.” I open my mouth wide and head for his neck, and he stops me with a hiss.
“We aren’t in tenth grade,” he says through gritted teeth, then slowly licks his way down my body to my clit again, and I almost come just with the tiny bit of pleasure he is offering.
That’s when I see the massive dragon tattoo on his back.
I rake my hands through his hair, wanting to touch the tattoo… and then it hits me.
The same dragon. The same dark lines curling over his shoulder blade.
The man who took my virginity in a Waldorf Astoria suite wearing a golden rooster mask… was Beckett Myers. My breath catches so hard it hurts.
I freeze beneath him.
“Scarlett?” His voice is rough, still thick with need, but he feels me go still. He lifts his head, searching my face. “What’s wrong?”
I stare up at him, heart slamming against my ribs.
“The dragon,” I whisper. “I’ve seen it before.”
His eyes darken. He knows exactly what I mean.
“That night,” I say, voice shaking. “The Waldorf. The golden rooster mask. The man who called himself Mr. Cock… that was you.”
For a second he didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Then he lets his forehead drop to mine, eyes closed like he is bracing for impact.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “It was me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My voice cracks. “All this time… you knew.”
“I didn’t know your name until the hospital,” he says, raw.
“You ran, Red. You left me with nothing but a broken shoe and the taste of you on my tongue. I spent months trying to find you. When I finally did, you were bleeding out on my table and I had a daughter I never knew existed. I wasn’t going to risk scaring you off again. ”
I swallow hard, tears stinging my eyes. “I thought you were just some rich asshole who wanted to buy a night with a girl.”
“I was,” he says simply. “Until you opened your mouth and called me on it. Until you refused the money and still let me have you. Until you walked away and took half my soul with you.”
He brushes a tear from my cheek with his thumb.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I was afraid you’d run again. I was afraid you’d hate me for what I did to you that night… and for what I did after.”
I reach up and trace the dragon on his shoulder, feeling the raised ink under my fingertips.
“I don’t hate you,” I whisper. “I hated not knowing. I hated thinking I’d never see you again.”
His eyes soften, and for once the cold mask is gone.
“You’re seeing me now,” he says. “All of me. No masks. No lies.”
I pull him down and kiss him—slow, deep, claiming.
“Then make love to me like you mean it, Beckett Myers. No more pretending.”
I want to touch it, but before I am able, he abruptly flips me over. Not harshly, because I am still recovering from injuries that have left me a little out of whack, but swiftly.
“Ass up,” he demands. “This will be easier on your ribs if you have them elevated.”
I look back at him. “No. I’m not doing this doggy style.” I frown at him as he lifts my hips in the air, definitely relieving the pressure on my ribs.
And without saying anything, he slowly slides into me, millimeter by millimeter, making me insane for him. Gently setting my knees back on the bed, he continues his excruciating journey.
“What were you saying, Mrs. Myers?” The asshole barely moves in me. “Something about doggy style? I’m not a dog and neither are you. I’m a loving husband, giving my wife pleasure.”
“You don’t love me, so just fuck me.”
“Oh no, that’s not true at all,” he says sarcastically. “I love everything about you, little wife.” He pulls out, and I actually whimper.
If I want to stick it to the man who is presently crouching behind me sliding his pierced cock over my swollen clit, I will have to be feistier and fight back harder. He is getting away with too much control.
“What part of this assignment do you not understand?” I breathe, goading him on.
“I’m sorry, what?” He slams himself into me but holds my hips so my body doesn't jostle, only my insides do, and boy do they. Fuck me. Yowch and yes… and I am a mess. “You were saying?” He thrusts into me again.
“Carry on,” I choke out, clutching the soft white pillowcase in my clawed fingers, and brave the demands of his very powerful, super-pierced dick. Yes… oh fucking God, yes, yes, yes… I think I might be drooling.
In. In. In. I throw my head back, his piercing scratches my G-spot, and I shiver. “I’m going to come,” I whisper, because yep, I am going to do it for the third time tonight.
“No,” he says softly. “Save it, the reward will be sweeter if you do.” Is he denying me for my own pleasure?
He slowly pulls his cock out of me while bending down and kissing my back, my shoulders, and parting my hair to kiss my damp neck.
He then bites my trapezius hard enough to leave a mark.
Boy, we really need to find a way to communicate with each other, or we’ll leave one another bitten and bruised.
I cry out and thrust back on him, chasing my orgasm, and he laughs.
“Little dancer,” he thrusts into me. “You’re a feral cat.”
“Golden cock, you’re an asshole.” My hips press back on him, but all he does is stroke my skin.
His touch is measured and practiced. He not only has the skill of a surgeon but the experience of years.
His maturity and slow pace show the power he possesses.
His restraint is as lethal as a gun because he waits for the moment it suits him to deliver.
He moves back from my neck and kisses down my spine as his fingers dance over my clit, and he finally presses his hips in far enough to fill me with the size of him.
He is enormous, but we fit—oh how we fit together.
His cock and my cunt are the only things about us that do fit, but I don’t care.
If it’s all I’ll ever have of him, I take it day and night.
“I love the feel of you,” I confess. My mouth definitely is going to get a time-out when this is all over.
In response, he pulls out and I groan, needing so much more, and then…
I get it. Oh, boy do I. He thrusts back in, pistoning and pressing over and over, all while kneading and pulling on my turgid little clit, until I come so hard after holding it back.
He keeps going, and I come again, and again, and by the time he calms down, my pussy is so sensitive you couldn’t blow on it without me coming.
But finally, after all of that, he grunts and yelps, a very unmanly little cry as if he too has been holding back and his orgasm just seizes him by the balls.
Whatever the reason, he comes so hard and so much, it squeezes out and runs down my thighs, hot and warm, and for a perverse reason, I feel bathed in him, baptized by my husband, who isn’t a husband at all.
I collapse, and before my body hits the mattress, he pulls out of me and drags my damp, over-heated, over-exerted, totally and completely fucked body to his chest and wraps his big man arms around me.
He kisses my hair and my cheek, and I am feeling everything and nothing at the same time.
His hand makes lazy circles on my belly, which is flattening after giving birth to Rayne but will never be the same straight plane it had been.
I am sort of glad. I carried her for nine months, and it wasn’t an easy pregnancy.
It was hard both physically and emotionally, and so I love the tiny little cracked white lines and slight swell that remain.
It reminds me that I was Rayne’s first home and will always be her safe space.
Beckett on the other hand… God only knows what he feels about it.
“I still hate you,” I breathe, though hate may be too harsh a word as postcoital tears drip down my face for no real reason I can discern.
“I hope you always do,” he says lovingly and kisses my tears away.