31. Rosenna
Chapter thirty-one
Rosenna
S tepping into the living room, I toyed with the buttons on Beckham’s dress shirt as he sat at his art station, portraying his visions with ease from pencil to paper. I stopped by the wine cart before I grabbed a bottle and two glasses, making my way over to him. How I could walk straight after the last few hours and my quick hour nap was a mystery in itself to me.
Setting it on the far side of the desk, he lifted his eyes curiously as I poured us both a glass of his 1996 Vintage Dom Pérignon. It may have cost upwards of thirty grand, but I don’t think the billionaire’s non-materialistic son cared much. Not when his eyes were watching my movements the entire time, absolute hunger in them as if he hadn’t broken me only a few hours ago.
Walking over to him, he leaned back silently, grabbing his glass from my hand before rubbing his thigh, anticipating me to sit on it. Agreeing with his unspoken idea, I took a seat, getting comfortable against him as he shamelessly held his hand against my ass cheek like he owned it. I took a small sip of the wine as he eyed me silently.
“You sure know your wine, Flower,” he muttered, and I smiled softly, tilting my glass toward him. His lips sensually wrapped around it, his eyes remaining locked on me as he sipped.
“I think should be the one saying that to you…” I giggled lightly.
His lip twitched up, wanting to go into a grin.
“It was a gift from my father…” he began, “when my mother passed.”
I almost choked the wine as he soothed my back, unfazed. I looked at him incredulously as he let me pour out the wine like I wasn’t a sacred gift without saying a word.
“That bottle alongside the other nineteen he has stored away for me in his wine cellar.”
I narrowed my eyes at him as he wrapped his arms around me fully, before placing a small kiss on my neck.
“Not funny.”
Beckham hummed against my skin, his lips lingering just below my jaw as if my irritation amused him. “Didn’t say it was.” His breath was warm against my neck.
Finishing the last sip, I placed the glass next to his untouched one, the liquid making me feel warm and light as I nuzzled into him.
“She was a lot like you…” he began, and I looked up at him as he continued, staring off into the room. “Stubborn, beautiful, determined… fought the cancer like it was nothing. For how long she fought, you would’ve thought she’d won, kicking its ass everyday she felt better, damning the tumor to hell.”
I smiled softly. “She did win. Especially with a son like you.”
Beckham scoffed, his fingers tightening around my waist, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he traced slow, idle patterns against my skin, as if grounding himself in the present while his mind drifted elsewhere.
“She would’ve liked you,” he murmured after a beat, his voice lower now, almost distant. “She hated pretentious people, loved my father but despised the world he lived in. Made me into the detached artist I am today.”
I brushed a stray hair from his forehead, watching as his gaze flickered back to me, assessing, waiting for criticism, for something to judge his openness. “What was she like?”
He studied me for a long moment, as if debating whether or not to let me in further. Then, finally, he exhaled, rubbing his thumb along my hip absentmindedly.
“She wasn’t afraid of anything,” he said, his voice carrying a slight sense of relief. “Not my father, not her diagnosis, not the people who whispered about how she didn’t belong. She had this way of making you feel like you mattered, even when the rest of the world made you feel like nothing.”
I felt my heart clench, my eyes wanting to swell with tears as his face remained emotionless.
“You matter, Beckham,” I whispered.
He looked over to me. “Like I said… you ’ re just like her. ”
Shifting my in his lap, I straddled his thighs as he held me firmly, possessively, almost as if he didn’t want to let go.
“You make living look easy,” he began, “you make it look effortless, just like her. Hiding your pain. Hiding the way you hurt inside. Wanting to see the best in the world and everyone in it... making those around you feel like they’re worth something.”
Grabbing his face in mine, I lifted it, ignoring the way his words unintentionally picked apart my faults. “You are worth something. I see you , Beckham. I see your passion. I see your artistry. I see everything that makes you who you are.”
“And yet… you can’t seem to see yourself. You can’t see you’re worth more than the shit Gavin does, than the treatment you receive.”
I swallowed hard, my breath catching in my throat as I lowered my hands. Beckham’s words sliced through me, exposing wounds I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.
His grip on my waist tightened as he studied me, his dark eyes searching… challenging me.
“You see me…You don’t think I see you ?” he murmured, tilting his head, meeting my eyes as I looked away. “That I don’t see how you bend over backward to please a man who will never be satisfied? How you shrink yourself just to fit into the box he’s put you in? How easy you make it all seem to the outside world?” His thumb traced small, deliberate circles against my hip, his touch gentle, but his words anything but.
“You fight for everyone but yourself, Flower,” he whispered, his voice a low murmur, thick with something I couldn’t quite place. “You tell me I matter, that I have worth—but when was the last time you believed that about yourself?”
I tried to pull back, to escape the weight of his words, but Beckham wouldn’t let me. His hands tightened around me, keeping me still, forcing me to listen.
“You don’t have to answer,” he said, his tone softer now, less cutting but just as firm. “Because I already know.”
I looked away, my throat tightening as tears burned at the edges of my vision. My entire life, I had convinced myself that if I just tried harder, gave more, sacrificed enough, I would be enough .
But Beckham? He saw through it. Through me. And that scared me more than anything.
No matter how much I gave, it was never enough.
Not for Gavin.
Not for his parents.
Not even for myself.
And that’s when the cycle started. After I had nothing left to give, I’d leave, searching for air, searching for something real, and I’d find Beckham, the reminder that I was enough—the reminder that I did deserve more, his presence, his touch, his words, stripping away every lie I told myself.
Then Gavin would apologize. Swear he didn’t mean it. Promise he’d do better.
And like a fool, I’d go back.
Only to end up right here again.
“Rosenna,” Beckham murmured, his fingers brushing along my jaw, tilting my face back toward him. “I see you.”
My breath shuddered, my fingernails unintentionally digging into his skin to cause him the pain I felt. He didn’t seem to mind, he welcomed it even.
“Stop,” I whispered, shaking my head. “Don’t do that. Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” His lips ghosted over my cheek, his voice a low rasp. “Don’t tell you the truth?”
Tears welled in my eyes as I stared at him. I hated that he was breaking me open like this. I hated that he knew me so well, saw past every excuse, every carefully constructed lie I told myself.
And yet, deep down, a part of me didn’t hate it at all. A part of me craved it. The way he stripped me bare, leaving nothing between us but the truth.
“I could fuck you again, make you forget if that’ll make you feel better… That’s what you want, isn’t it?” His voice was lower now, almost dangerously soft, like he was coaxing the inevitable out of me.
I swallowed hard, my breath catching at his words, at the sheer certainty in his voice. He wasn’t asking. He knew .
And the worst part? He was right .
I could feel the heat radiating off him, the slow, taunting drag of his fingers down my spine as his grip remained firm, unyielding. He was giving me an out, but it wasn’t real. Not really.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my body to stay still, to fight the pull of him, even as the ache in my core begged for the relief he promised.
“That’s not fair,” I whispered, my voice hoarse, uneven.
Beckham chuckled, low and dark, the sound taunting me. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns against my hip, a reminder of just how easily he could undo me.
“Fair?” he mused. “But I thought you liked to play fair, Flower. Wasn’t that the whole point of tonight? Playing the good wife? Fixing your marriage? Tell me…did it work?”
I remained still, tears streaming down my face. He wiped my cheek with his thumb, a heavy sigh escaping him.
“Nothing about this has ever been fair, Flower. Not for you. Not for me. But since you’ve suddenly had a change of heart—”
I barely bit back a moan as he ground his hips into me. He let out a sadistic smile, watching me like he already knew how this would end.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “And I will.”
I stared at him, my pulse hammering. He watched me, the lust growing in his eyes as he lifted my shirt, revealing my panties. His thumb found my clit, brushing it in slow, teasing circles. “Go ahead,” he murmured, watching me squirm beneath his touch. “Tell me.”
Tell him to stop.
Tell him to let you go.
Break the cycle.
Tell him you don’t need this.
I parted my lips, the words fighting at the edge of my tongue—but nothing came out.
His grip tightened, and I felt his smirk against my skin before he whispered,
“ That ’ s what I thought.”
Leaning over his desk, I could barely think straight as he fucked me from behind. My mind had gone to mush. Fully consumed in him, tears streaming down my face in a constant river, legs trembling as he used me for his own pleasure. I could only watch as his wine glass that had gone virtually untouched rippled every time he thrusted into me.
Feeling his cock slip in and out of my aching core, I felt blissfully sated. His hands roughly forced me against him, the anger of my actions for the night evident in his brutal force.
“It’s going to be a long fucking night for you,” he muttered, making sure he was deeply seated inside of me. I held back a sob as he never let up his brutal pace, reminding me this was what I wanted. Instead of wanting my husband, wanting our family, I wanted this .
“You can cry all you want, baby. Still doesn’t change the fact that your pussy is creaming all over my cock.”
Grabbing my phone from the counter, he opened it, scrolling through it as he continued his torture on me. Close to my release, I sniffled pathetically, as he grabbed me by the hair, yanking me up to arch further into him as he leaned over me. He held the screen in front my face.
Gavin
Just wanted to check in, Rose. I ’ ll be home tomorrow night.
All right, Gav. I miss you.
The words on the screen taunted me as my legs trembled, aching for my next release. “You miss him, Flower? Hmm? Are you thinking about him now while I’m ramming you with my fucking cock. You can tell me, baby.”
I rose to my tiptoes, my body shuddering as my release was coming in full force.
“Go on, say it. I want to hear you while you come apart for me.”
I shook my head and felt my pussy clench as he gripped my hair tighter in his hand as he pulled my head back.
“ I told you to fucking say it,” he seethed.
As I looked up into his eyes, I could feel my release coming as I tried to whisper the words.
“I-I m-miss you… G-Gavin,” I choked; however, the moan that followed as I came proved that was simply a lie. Forcing me through my orgasm as he fucked me relentlessly, my mind shattered as I came harder than I probably ever had in my life. His grip never faltered as he continued driving me over the edge like I hadn’t already fallen and sunk to the bottom.
“That’s right, Flower. Say it while you fall apart on my dick. Say it while your pussy milks me dry.”
Falling onto the desk, I shuddered, finally able to breathe as Beckham slowed his thrusts. Stroking my hair, he tsked, his voice filled with false pity. “Poor baby… look what you’ve done to yourself.”
I tried to move but my legs wouldn’t let me, my pussy still wanting him despite feeling sore.
“It’s okay, Flower. You’re okay, baby…That’s my good girl. Just letting me fucking ruin you . Doesn’t it feel better this way?” he asked, his soft kisses against my skin voiding my mind of any worries, filling me with bliss.
I opened my mouth to deny, to fight, to say anything to break the spell, break the cycle—but then he rolled his hips forward, filling me again, stretching me open. A moan threatened to escape me as my body trembled, clinging to him despite everything.
And then I answered him with the honest truth, watching as the previously filled pristine wine glass lay shattered, broken on the desk as the wine dripped down to the floor.
“…It does.”