3. Beckham
Chapter three
Beckham
W alking into my studio, I groaned internally. The chaos I had made peace with was beginning to annoy me. Paintings stacked on one another, sketches piled on the table; paint splattered across the floorboards in a mess of forgotten inspiration.
It was suffocating, overwhelming, and exhilarating.
It was also time for a seasonal reset.
Sitting at my desk, I received a call from my father.
“I need another storage warehouse,” I muttered in place of “hello.”
He sighed into the phone. “You already have six, Beckham.”
“And I need another one.”
“Sometimes I wonder if your mother and I spoiled you as a child… given your ripe age of thirty-two and my willingness to give into your every request, I’d say the problem is still me.”
“What do you want?” I asked, my impatience only growing by the minute.
“Speaking of storing your art somewhere, I have something for you to do potentially.” My father paused. “There’s a museum… well, three. Relatively small. Two women running them, doing their best to keep it all afloat. Help support them. Give them a hand or two.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes, knowing his “fatherly” intentions all too well at this point. “So, you’ve already gotten attached, haven’t you? Another person you so graciously decided to indirectly ‘help?’”
My father’s so-called generosity was nothing new. When he got attached to people, he helped them using his connections. All under his control. Of course they never knew that.
He wanted them to feel as though they were in charge, and their efforts got them where they wanted to be, not the money and resources he poured into it himself. It was selfish and generous at the same time.
“Well, yes, actually. They ‘ re both impressive and lovely young women who did their best to feed my ego, and you, son, create extraordinary works of art only to store them away in my warehouses, which you have yet to pay rent on, might I add.”
I actually rolled my eyes this time. “Take it out of the trust account you beg me to use on a daily basis. I’m not interested in your charity case.”
“Just look her up and see what she and her assistant are capable of. If you’re not a fan, then it’s no problem. Her name is Rosenna Hart.”
Dropping my pencil, I turned to my computer once more and reluctantly searched for the woman online. The first thing that popped up was the website of her three locations. The advertising was solid, but I wasn’t too keen on actually doing anything. Going to her “About Me” section, I laid eyes on the woman herself.
Rosenna . She was the embodiment of a woman. Classy, determined, charming… all from the single picture, I could tell she was a force to be reckoned with. Her biography discussed in detail her education, company goals and passions, connecting it all to her Filipino and Albanian roots. They were somewhat phased out of her now modern life with her parents, but she still held dear to said roots as they inspired her love of art.
Her demeanor in her photos was what some might consider aggressive or assertive, but her features and smile were all too soft, innocent, captivating… alluring . I couldn’t help but examine every inch of her, her beautifully layered hair always done to perfection in each photo and her facial features delicate and sharp, nothing short of what one would call perfection .
I’d never given women too much of my time. As my father put it, I was too busy putting my emotions into my art that I didn’t have enough to spare for others. Art in all of its forms made me understand what it meant to be passionate, angry, and even happy at times. Even if I couldn’t truly feel in those ways.
I wasn’t the most expressive growing up, and to channel that, I drew, painted, and sculpted my feelings and emotions. Afterward, I would analyze my art to understand what it meant to be sad, what it meant to be happy… what it meant to feel .
This could explain why my father walked on eggshells around me and let me live as a full-time artist. He told me I didn’t have to worry about money as a child, so I never did, and as a result, I wasn’t materialistic. I didn’t have urges for things that people often desired: sex, money, power. It was all arbitrary.
This woman, however, made me finally feel something. Something almost dark … as I analyzed her every curve as if she was truly art. This… feeling … wasn’t healthy, I would assume, as I briefly imagined her pinned under me as I fucked her little cunt relentlessly or choked her as she gazed up at me submissively.
Something about potentially dominating or cherishing such a powerful woman did something to me. I wanted to make her fucking squeal , to break her, use her… The urge clawed at my chest. The thought of her under me, coming apart because of me… fuck . Just looking at her made my cock twitch. I had never felt this way before about anyone or anything.
“Schedule the meeting,” I groaned with a rather sudden raspy and dry throat.
“On second thought, no.”
My grip on the phone tightened. “Why the fuck not?”
“You sound excited. You don’t get excited, Beckham.”
I found a few of her social media links and continued digging into her life through the screen.
“Well, maybe I had a change of heart,” I muttered, gazing at her while she stood next to a man in a wedding dress. She’s fucking married. What the fuck does he have that I don’t?
Going through more of her photos, I noticed there wasn’t much romance between the two of them. At least, that’s what it looked like. They had different last names, for God’s sake. What kind of marriage was this?
While I didn’t truly know how to “feel” romance or love, I knew what it looked like and how to let it speak through art.
This is a broken marriage . She needs an out. She needs to know she ‘ s worth more than this broken relationship. She needs me to show her…
She needs me to fuck her into oblivion until the only thing she can think about is me.
“Beckham,” my father said, bringing me out of my thoughts.
“Schedule the meeting, Father.”
Entering the museum, I was decently impressed by the art Rosenna had been able to acquire and display. The architecture and level of detail in the arrangement was impressive. Elegant. Thoughtfully curated. But none of that mattered, far lower on my list of concerns at the moment.
My father sent along a few of his associates, with which I had no real problem as my objective wasn’t truly to be anyone’s client. It was to finally meet the woman who had been tormenting my mind for the last fucking week.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Please make yourselves comfortable. My name is Kira, and I will be assisting in today’s meeting and tour,” Rosenna’s assistant said with a smile.
I simply followed as we ascended the grand steps to the next floor.
She soon began introducing the group, and that’s when my eyes locked on her at in the middle of the gallery hall. Rosenna…
The world didn’t stop. No…that would have been too merciful. Instead, it twisted and narrowed, pulling me into a realm I couldn’t escape.
I drank her in. She was exquisite, absolutely captivating. I had no choice but to study her, capture her in every shade and stroke, just to make sense of what the fuck she was doing to me. And even then, I knew it wouldn’t be enough.
She must have noticed my somewhat primal and obsessive gaze, and we made brief eye contact before she looked away. It made me even harder … I wanted her to feel vulnerable. I wanted her to know I was solely looking at her. That she had my attention, no one else.
Once she began to speak, I could barely control myself. Her voice was fucking lovely, like the voice of an angel. I’d wondered what she’d sound like, crying my name and moaning for my neighbors.
She continued the tour, and soon, we entered a conference room. Standing behind her, I leaned down slightly and practically trembled at her scent. Lavender, honey, and a hint of vanilla… She made me feel so fucking feral it was almost unreal. She was absolutely mouthwatering.
As she noticed me once again, she looked up and over her shoulder to be met with my gaze. She seemed so innocent, her mind possibly racing at what I could be thinking.
Her deep brown eyes, gentle and sinister at the same time. They were the key to seeing her determination, though there was a doe-like essence to them, one that revealed the vulnerable tenderness and kindness with her. I could easily imagine them filling with pleasurable tears.
She was taller than most women, standing at 5’7”, around 5’10” in heels, but I still easily towered over her with my 6’4” frame.
She did her best to ignore me throughout the meeting, and I couldn’t blame her. My eyes had never left her from the second I’d noticed her. Her hair, dark brown, almost black, luscious waves fell to her mid back… begging for me to wrap it around in a fist as I took her from behind. Her lips, willingly taking my cock, allowing me to cum down her throat. Her thighs, using them as my own handles as I fuck her little cunt… I was slowly beginning to lose it for sure.
The meeting was a blur. I didn’t give a shit about the terms, the contract, the money. I was too busy memorizing her. The slope of her neck. The way her lips parted slightly when she was thinking. The way her pulse fluttered when she could no longer ignore my gaze.
By the time it was over, everyone else was moving, filing out. But she stayed behind… and naturally, so did I.
She was startled by my lingering presence for a moment but spoke nonetheless. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”
I stuck my left hand out for her to shake as I greeted her formally. “Beckham Garcia… Clearly, you are Rosenna Hart.”
Her eyes hesitated as they glanced down, probably debating whether or not touching me would be a mistake.
Slowly, she slipped her hand in mine as she kept her composure, a small grin coming to her face… though I could tell she felt the sensation, the slight spark between our hands that complemented the sexual tension that was slowly beginning to build. “It’s nice to finally be acquainted.”
Fucking hell, she was so soft. Warm.
My hand moved before I could stop it as I unintentionally ran my thumb over her wedding ring that most likely wouldn’t be there for much longer. I wonder how easily I’d be able to slip it off .
She inhaled sharply.
We both looked down for a moment before she quickly pulled her hand away and turned back to what she was doing.
My hand twitched as irritation flickered through me. Why the fuck was she pulling away?
For a moment, I’d almost give in to my hungry thoughts, but I had to reel it in.
Nothing about this was natural… she wasn’t fucking natural. She was ethereal. The kind of beauty that didn’t belong in this world, the kind that made men like me reckless. Every breath of her, every glance, was a slow unraveling of my control. I’d just met her, and already, I fucking needed her.
Not fucking natural.
Leaning in more, I took another deep breath. Fuck, that scent… I swore I could taste it.
She went to step back, and I unconsciously placed my hand on the small of her back. She looked up at me through her eyelashes, and I couldn’t look away. Why would I?
The shared look in the silence between us spoke volumes. This tension that was building surely wasn’t one-sided.
Unintentionally, my hand seemed to press into her spine, almost like I wanted to feel her against my touch.
Once again, the thought of her under me plagued my mind. The thought of possessing her mind and body was all I could think about.
“Rosenna, would you be so kind as to help me escort our guests out?” her assistant said in a hurry from the door, and I quickly pulled away as I tried to compose myself. Not trusting myself any longer, I wordlessly left the room and exited the building without looking back.
My jaw clenched, fingers twitching at my sides. I felt her on my skin, her scent, her presence… It should have been enough. But it wasn’t.
This couldn’t be normal, obsessing over a married woman—but it was my new normal. For my entire life, I’d had to imagine, draw, and paint what it meant to feel… to love… and this new feeling, this exhilarating feeling of fixation, I couldn’t just let it get away. No… I wouldn’t let it get away.