Chapter 41
Forty-One
Madison
The cursor blinks on my laptop screen. I should be at the office. I should be in a glass-walled conference room dismantling a scandal before the morning edition hits the stands.
Instead, I’m in my kitchen, wearing nothing but a crisp white button-down that smells like Beckett.
Across the table, he’s leaning back in a chair, perfectly content.
He’s shirtless and wearing those thick-rimmed, slutty reading glasses while he flips through the newspaper.
He’s also wearing those slutty gray sweatpants, which isn’t helping my focus.
He looks entirely too comfortable for a man who just upended my entire sense of professional discipline.
“Are you listening, Madi?”
Grant’s voice crackles through the laptop speakers, pulling my eyes away from the flex of Beckett’s forearm. I blink, refocusing on the grid of tired-looking men in suits on my screen.
“I’m here, Grant,” I say. I adjust the collar of Beckett’s shirt, making it look like an intentional, oversized fashion choice for the camera. “I’m just reviewing the digital footprint of your client. It’s a mess.”
Grant sighs. “The board wants him out by noon, and the press is circling like sharks. We need you to spin the video as a targeted hit.”
This morning’s disaster Grant is trying to drag me into? A CEO was literally caught with his pants down.
Why can they never keep their pants on?
“It’s not a hit if he actually did it, Grant,” I say, my tone sharpening.
I’m mid-sentence when I see Beckett’s head tilt. He’s looking at me over the rim of those glasses, his brow arched so high it’s practically in his hairline.
Madi? he mouths silently.
I feel a flush that has nothing to do with the conversation.
I shrug one shoulder at him, a defiant little spark in my chest. There’s a toxic part of me that wants to see him react.
I hate it when Grant calls me Madi because it’s a tactical move on his part, a way to remind the room that he once knew me in a way they don’t, a subtle stripping of my authority.
It’s juvenile, and usually, I shut it down.
But watching Beckett’s jaw tighten? That’s a new kind of fun.
“Anyway,” Grant continues, oblivious. “The client is willing to triple your retainer if you can get the newspaper to kill the op-ed.”
Suddenly, the air in the room shifts. I didn’t hear him move or get up, but suddenly, a warm, broad hand slides onto my bare thigh under the table.
I nearly leap out of my skin. My breath hitches, catching in the back of my throat.
“Madi? You still there?” Grant asks.
“I’m… I’m good,” I choke out, gripping the edge of the table. “Busy here. Just… technical difficulties. Continue, Grant. I’m listening.”
Beckett’s hand is a brand. His fingers are moving upward with terrifying intent. He’s not looking at the paper anymore. He’s looking at me, his eyes dark, possessive, and entirely unbothered by the fact that I’m currently advising on a multi-million dollar crisis.
He slides his hand higher, his palm grazing the damp heat between my legs. I’m already wet, a treacherous reaction to the way he’s claiming me while I’m supposed to be the one in control.
“I’ve got some confidential files to open here,” I say to the camera, my voice trembling just enough that I have to cough to cover it. “I’m turning my camera off, but keep talking. I’m listening to every word.”
I click the camera icon. Total darkness. I hit the mute button for a heartbeat.
“Madi?” Beckett asks.
He doesn’t wait for an answer before he slides two fingers inside me.
I gasp, my head hitting the back of the chair. “We dated… very briefly,” I whisper-hiss, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He thrusts his fingers deep, his thumb finding my clit with precision. “And he calls you Madi? When you’re working?”
He sees it. He sees the disrespect I’ve been swallowing for years in this male-dominated shark tank. He isn’t just jealous; he’s offended on my behalf. And his way of correcting it is to make sure I can’t think of anything but him.
“Beckett, I have to—”
“Turn the mic back on,” he commands.
My eyes widen. “Are you insane?”
“Turn it on. Let them talk. I want to hear how important you are while I do this.”
He moves his fingers again, a slow, torturous rhythm. I click the mute button off.
“—so if we can just get a statement by ten,” Grant is saying. “What do you think, Madi? About the timing? We need to know if you’re on board.”
Think? I can’t even remember my middle name. Beckett is relentless. He grabs my left leg, hoisting it up so my foot rests on his knee, spreading me wide for him. He’s looking at me with such raw, territorial heat, I feel like I’m melting into the chair.
“The timing…” I start, then swallow a moan as he circles his thumb. I grip the armrest so hard my knuckles turn white. “The timing is… critical. If we… ah… if we wait too long, we lose the lead.”
“Exactly,” Grant says.
Beckett thrusts harder, his fingers hitting a spot that makes my toes curl. Every time Grant calls me Madi, Beckett lays claim to another inch of me. It’s not a punishment; it’s a branding.
“You okay? You sound out of breath,” another voice asks.
“Fine,” I lie, my voice strained. “I think I’m coming down with something. Don’t stop… talking.”
Beckett’s smirk is lethal. He’s working me into a frenzy, his eyes never leaving mine. I’m vibrating, the pleasure building into a sharp, tight knot that’s seconds away from snapping.
“We need a face-to-face,” Grant says. “Can we meet tomorrow, Madison?”
The use of my full name—ironically because he’s annoyed I’m being “difficult”—hits me right as I reach the edge.
“Yes,” I gasp, my eyes fluttering shut. “I’m coming.”
There’s a beat of dead silence on the call.
“Now?” Grant asks, sounding baffled. “You’re coming to the office now?”
“Shit,” I hiss, biting my lip. “No. No, I meant… let me check my diary and get back to you… about tomorrow.”
Beckett reaches over and clicks the mute button so they can’t hear.
“Come,” he commands, his voice dropping to a predatory growl.
I don’t just come; I shatter. I scream his name, my body arching off the chair as he watches the ripples of the orgasm take me, his fingers still moving, still owning every single part of me.
He pulls his hand back and leans in to give me a quick kiss.
“Good talk, Madi,” he whispers. “I think I’m definitely on board with your services.”