Chapter Twenty-Four
Scarlett
“That went much better than I was anticipating. In fact, unbelievably well—so good I question whether any of this is real.” Beckett seems to have been pondering as he speaks out loud.
“Do you think your friend would betray you?”
Already my head hurts with how uncomfortable the night has been—listening in on a conversation and trying to watch my words around Beckett's friend whom I don't know well.
Could we trust a police officer working outside of his job description to identify men who held positions of power and likely wanted to remain anonymous?
“Griffin is a jerk, but I’ve known him my whole life.
He wouldn’t take a bullet for me, and I wouldn't take one for him either. He isn’t going to betray me, not for something like this.
We’re on the right side of ethics here.” He approaches me with a slow, seductive walk.
“Now it’s time to celebrate. I can approach the head of CSS with this information and leave it in his hands.
I don’t believe Carl is acting on his orders. ”
His big hands bracket my sides as he slips them under the straps of my shirt before sliding it off my shoulders.
“Bold move wearing only this.” He dips his head and kisses my tit, making it harden and spike with need. He bites the fabric, threatening, enticing, making me want him. “Bedtime.”
He lifts me into his arms and carries me to the suite.
“Don’t you want to go home?” I ask as he sets me on the massive bed draped in gauzy sheer curtains.
“My cock can’t wait. We’ll go home in the morning.”
I laugh at my husband—still strange to think I have one.
“Your cock is as demanding as you are,” I laugh, kicking out of my sweats and ducking my tank top over my head so I am lying there naked before him.
As a dancer, I am very used to being naked; however, what I am not as accustomed to is the heated look in Beckett's eyes.
“Fuck me, Scarlett,” he says under his breath. “You’re a fucking goddess.”
He quickly undresses and stands before me naked and hard as a rock, his cock piercing glistening in the low light.
We've been having sex every night, and I still haven't gotten over that first initial look of him.
He is tall and so muscular, chiseled like he is made of stone.
Every time he disrobes when I am in front of him, his cock is rock hard, rigid, and standing upright with pre-cum already beading at the pierced tip.
It is as if just the sight, smell, or thought of me has him aroused beyond comprehension.
“Oh, your cock is ready,” I tease as he nudges me to move over and make room for him.
“It always is with you,” he says, confirming something I already know.
Possessive and demanding, his mouth claims mine in an ardent kiss.
Throughout the day he peppers my forehead, cheeks, and sometimes my lips with soft, passionate kisses.
His lips are pillowy and warm, and he takes advantage of any opportunity to deliver a kiss, but this isn't that.
It isn't a warm welcome to a wife or an affirmation of some kind of glowing adoration swelling within him.
No, this is possession. This is lust. This is fueled by a manic need to satisfy his urge.
Luckily for me, I am just as hungry for him.
Our lips lock with one another, and I taste the mint and manliness of his mouth.
His tongue demands my attention, as does his hand roving over my back into my buttocks, massaging my cheeks as his cock grazes up and down my belly, hard as stone.
We kiss for some time until my chin grows raw with the stubble on his face, and then he pulls away to stare at me, looking deep into my eyes.
“You are the most beautiful thing,” he says.
“A dangerous temptation that makes me forget everything except you. I could get lost in you, in the idea of you, in the experience of you and everything that you are.” He kisses me again and continues pressing kisses into my neck where he sucks hard against my bone, marking me with his desire. “You are all.”
I arch into his kisses, my hands banding around his back, feeling his buttocks mirroring his movements as my heart races and my skin prickles with desire. His touch is practiced and confident—the touch of a man who has mastered the art of pleasure.
“You’re dangerous too,” I breathe into his chest.
“I’m your sun and moon.” His voice is hot and heady. “Not dangerous if you surrender to me day and night.”
“And so arrogant,” I tease as he dips to my tits and nibbles at them, sending shards of electricity like tiny pricks of glass through every nerve.
“So arrogant? I just said you eclipsed my world, little dancer.” His cock nudges at my entrance.
“There’s no arrogance in the truth.” His mouth finds mine again.
“You're brave and beautiful and irreverent and hard to please. I love you, damn it, Scarlett. I love you,” he says as he presses inside of me with his huge erection filling my entire world.
I don't think I'd ever not love that initial thrust of his massive cock. He starts with slow pulsing motions like a dancer. His long thick cock slides in and out, using my wetness to glide along my tight center. His cock ring grazes my sensitive inner walls making me shiver.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he moans against my mouth. “You have the tightest pussy I've ever had my cock in.”
His confession of my tightness makes me laugh because I don't want to know about other pussies he'd had his cock in, but I don't tell him.
Beckett is a complicated man, and we are getting to know one another.
His absolute adoration of me—especially during sex—makes me feel desired and loved and singular above all others he'd had before me, so I let the comment go.
“Yes, I am,” I confirm. “And the only one you will ever have. Good thing you like it.”
This makes us both laugh.
“Audacious little wife,” he moans as he picks up the pace and starts fucking me in earnest. Wanting to get deeper, closer, and more in tune with me, he lifts my legs and spreads them even wider as he lays his body down and sinks his cock into the very heart of my body.
There he thrusts in, hard, pounding deeper and deeper until I am a part of him.
Fucking me with such reckless abandon, he wraps his arms around my back and rolls us so that I am on top and I slide down onto him.
“Ride me,” he yells out. “Take everything from me. Make me give you all that I am, make me surrender to you, Scarlett. Make me your slave.”
I drive myself down on him, chasing the pleasure that his cock has already ignited inside of me, as I kiss his lips and whisper in his ear.
“You already are.” With that, I can feel him hitting my G-spot.
I chase the sensation with his hands bracketing my hips and pressing me down until everything blasts apart.
All I can feel are the shivers and explosions of electricity.
I come so hard I slick his cock to the point that he rolls us again.
I am on my back bearing his weight as he presses into me and comes, grunting and thrusting.
Shot after shot, his orgasm is intense. With a tiny cry, he empties into me and then collapses.
“Fuck, I'm so undone. You unravel me. I’m fucking nothing but a tangled mess right now. My cock has never been so drained. We're going to have an entire football team,” he laughs.
“Or ballet corps.” I smooth the damp hair away from his face as his cock slides out, and with it some of what he’d left in me. “You could stay inside of me,” I say softly. “I like the feeling of you and our physical connection.”
He kisses my hot flushed cheek. “I’d love that.”
“I know you like sex; that’s how we met. But…” I sigh, this next question is hard. “Do you, um… Do you like me? I mean as a person? I sort of hated you at first.” I laugh to ease the tension.
“You hated my money. And my position in the world, and I still think you hate that,” he laughs.
“Yeah, I still think I do.” I laugh as I move into his chest and he brings the covers over us.
“I love that about you. I have to impress you with who I am, not what I have. We have years to get to know each other,” he says, though his voice is a little distant.
“Are you sorry you married me?” It isn’t exactly how I wanted to ask the question, but that’s how it came out.
He turns to me with a look of honesty and care.
“I was never going to get married to anyone. And I’m not sorry I married you.
You’re lovely, Scarlett. Rayne and I are lucky to have you.
But the bigger question is, are you sorry you married me?
Or rather, that I forced you to marry me?
We do have a prenuptial agreement; this can end in five years.
” His voice dips a little after saying that.
“No, Beckett, I’m happy. I’ve never been so happy. You know I go back to work next week, and school starts again the week after.”
“You don’t have to go back if you’re not ready.” His voice is deep and hazy.
“Maybe because of all I've gone through, I’m not as enamored with dance as I was. When I was younger it was my way of escaping, but now that I have a child and a husband, an entire world has opened up to me that had never been available before. Dancing is still an outlet and a sanctuary. As a dancer, I’m providing entertainment for the public to enjoy, even in the corps, dancing in the back with the rest. I don't need to be the leading dancer, I don't need to change the world, but I want to have a bigger impact on it,” I say, feeling like now is the time to have this discussion.
“Why did you become a doctor?” I ask, as I’ve wondered since I found out who Beckett was.
There is love and sweetness in his expression. I think he appreciates that I am trying to get to know him better.
“I was raised by rotten people. Nobody really cared that I existed or gave me their time.
I was a legacy. I was born to be an extension of my family, specifically of my father.
I figured my whole life was already planned out, so what could I do to fill the time until I became my father?
What drew me to medicine was the challenge.
It was something that required a lot of intellect and problem-solving.
I didn't actually get into medicine to save lives, though that is an outcome of my curiosity about how medicine, science, and chemistry balance our longevity against our mortality.
It was all sort of a curious experiment because to me life didn't have dimensions.
It wasn't emotional but functional, and within that function, I wanted to have a power, like curing cancer.
I desired power over death. I don't care about dying one day—it’s inevitable—but since I was born to fill the shoes of someone when they died, I wanted control over that death.
It's a little convoluted, but that's why.” He gives me a squeeze as he brings me into his arms as my eyes grow heavier.
“I want to help people like my mother,” I say, feeling sleepy. “Dance saved me from becoming her, and now I want to help people in recovery and with mental health challenges to find freedom in their own bodies and maybe their lives. Is there a job that can do that?”
I am fading, but I want to know. What can I do to give back to the world?
“Yes, love. You could become a dance therapist. It’s a growing field and a much-needed one.
You'd have to get a degree in dance therapy and probably a master's degree.
It's a lot of work, but I think it's something you'd excel at.
I am a scientist without a heart and you're a dancer who is nothing but love and kindness despite your snarky attitude.” He bops me on the nose and then chases it with a kiss.
“I think you would really be an incredible dance therapist, my love.”
Sleep is ready to claim me after our rigorous lovemaking, so I nestle into his embrace. “You’ve inspired me, Beckett. I know it wasn't your intention, but you've saved lives, and you might save the world legitimately.” I look up to see his expression.
“I wouldn't go that far,” he balks.
“I would,” I say. “I want to do my part. I think Rayne would be happy to have parents like us. We're changing the future so that her childhood is nothing like the lonely, terrifying, trauma-filled shit shows ours were.” I look up at him and give him a bright smile.
“I’d love that, my dear.” He kisses me one last time before I fall asleep.