Chapter 17
Ellery
By nature, I am not a superstitious woman. There is nothing wrong with the number thirteen. Black cats are adorable. I have never spilled salt and then tossed some over my left shoulder.
That said, something today has me feeling off-kilter. Nothing so blatant to set off any internal alarms, but enough to have me on edge. Strange prickling sensations run along my skin, like when static electricity in the air causes hair to stand on end. Or, like someone is walking over my grave. Outside, the sky is gray, dark, and dreary. Rain has fallen off and on all morning and into the afternoon. Thunderstorms linger overhead, threatening to let loose. At least we managed to get some work done before the weather shifted.
With the help of Beckham and his construction crew these past several weeks, we have made a ton of headway on our plans for Unity Art Co-op. My dream is starting to feel more like reality. We still have months of work left, but I can see my vision taking form. Even with today’s progress being cut short. There is no way around it, though. Once Mother Nature unleashes her fury, we will have no choice but to stop.
Unfortunately, despite hoping for the best, the sky soon makes good on its threat. At the first clap of thunder, Beckham sends the rest of the crew home, leaving the two of us to handle the cleanup. Lena offers to help, but I send her home, as well.
No sense in all three of us getting caught in the storm.
And, yes, maybe I want to take advantage of spending some time alone with Beckham. A time where we don’t have to hide or pretend.
We have been an official couple for a few weeks now, but we are still having to keep our relationship a secret—at least until we can pin Simon down and admit the truth. Something that has proven to be much more difficult than I imagined. Not just timing, but every time I think I might have an opening, I chicken out.
Beckham, too.
Still, I have to believe things will work out for the best. Simon loves me. He loves Beckham. Surely, he wants us both to be happy. And if we are happiest together, that’s even better, right?
That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.
Once Beckham and I have put away the equipment and collected the trash into bags, I stretch and move to peek out the windows at the storm. The steady, rhythmic pattern of rain hitting the roof is soothing. I find myself hypnotized while watching as water streaks the glass and blurs everything outside.
After a moment, Beckham steps up behind me. He slips his arms around my waist and I lean back against him. His warmth covers me like a blanket. We are silent and comfortable in each other’s arms, content to watch the storm rage. And we stay like that until I reluctantly pull away.
“Come here,” I say. Then I turn and reach for his hand.
Beckham takes the hint and threads his fingers with mine. He lets me lead him toward the front foyer. It is one of the first rooms we finished, and the space has been transformed into a fully furnished reception area—complete with a plush, cozy couch along one wall. We stop just inches from it. I tilt my head. His smile stretches at the silent invitation. He lowers his body to the couch, limbs extending out along the cushions. I quickly follow. My body wedges between his and the back of the couch, and then I tuck myself under his arm to rest my head on his chest.
There are shades on these windows. They block our view outside, but I can still hear the rain. My eyes start to grow heavy from fatigue. Beckham’s breathing slows as he relaxes. He absently runs a hand up and down my back. We stay that way for a long while, lightly drowsing, until the rain lulls us into a deeper sleep.
My eyes open sometime later when I feel Beckham’s lips press against the crown of my head. Shadows dance along the walls. The room has grown dark, and everything is silent outside.
“What time is it?” I ask groggily.
Beckham shifts, lifting an arm to look at his watch. “A little after seven.”
Three hours since the storm started. I must have been more worn out than I realized.
“Have a good nap?” Beckham’s voice is warm. I can feel his smile pressed against me.
“Not bad.” I peek up at him. “My pillow was pretty comfortable.”
His shoulders shake with silent laughter.
“What about you?” I ask.
“The nap was okay.” His voice is gravelly from sleep. I bite my lip as the sound reverberates through my body. “The dream I had was better.”
“Oh? What kind of dream?”
“You tell me.” My eyes follow his hand, breath catching in a quiet gasp when he reaches down to adjust himself. He lingers there for a moment and I clench my legs together in response.
Licking my lips, I ask, “Was I in it?”
“Starring role.”
“Want to tell me about it?” I say the words casually, but I can feel my cheeks warm.
Beckham watches the flush spread along my skin, eyes hooded and swirling with desire. My pulse wildly flutters when he traces the hand holding me down my back, sliding over my hip and massaging one soft cheek. His fingers are dangerously close to the apex of my thighs.
His lips find my ear. “I would rather show you.”
Then his other hand fists in my hair, tugging my head back. My lips part with a sweet sigh of surrender when he captures my mouth with his. He tastes like heaven and feels like home. I take my time, just savoring him until I can hardly see, feel, or know anything other than him.
“This. Off. Now.” My hands grip the front of his shirt, making my demands in between each kiss.
We separate long enough for him to shuck the shirt onto the floor. I move a little slower, pushing myself up to a seated position, my thighs straddling his hips. Then, I tease him with brief glimpses of skin while I lift my tank top an inch at a time. My hips gyrate to a song in my head, rocking gently back and forth but barely grazing his hard length. Close enough that he can feel my heat, but too far to relieve any pressure.
Torturing both of us.
With a sudden, frustrated growl, Beckham rears up until we are face to face. He reaches out and grabs the collar of my flimsy top in his fists. Then he rips it right down the middle. Shocked laughter bubbles out of me.
“Holy shit, Beck!”
My laughter cuts off with a gasp when he tugs my sports bra down and buries his face in between my breasts. He nips at the sensitive skin left exposed, then soothes it with his tongue.
Together, we tumble back onto the cushions. He hovers over me for a moment, just staring into my eyes before he settles himself between my legs. His body drapes over mine. I welcome the pressure and weight of him.
“Do you have any idea how sexy you are?” Beckham asks in awe.
He kisses me once.
“How bewitched I am?”
Another kiss.
“You drive me to distraction.”
He traces the freckles dotting my skin with his fingers, then his tongue.
“I can’t get enough.”
My hands do some exploring of their own. Open-palmed, I follow the hills and valleys of his torso. My fingers scrape against the soft hair on his chest, following its trail down, down, down toward the waist of his pants. I stutter to a stop when I feel his hand slip inside my leggings. He shoves my panties to the side and starts to caress the silky wetness. I shudder at the onslaught of sensation, unable to focus on anything other than pure need.
He slips one finger inside, then two. Pumps slowly in and out, spurred on by the moans he drags out of my throat. His head burrows into the crook of my neck. He kisses, nibbles, and licks the sensitive spots there until a buzzing starts in my ears and a shiver races down my spine.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispers against my skin. “Such a greedy little thing.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You want to come?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out in a hiss while my hips chase the motion of his hand. The same hand that suddenly goes still. I cry out in frustration.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, please! Please make me come.”
“Fuck.” He groans and pumps faster, his thumb circling my clit. “Love when you beg me so prettily. Play with your tits, baby. I’ll get you there.”
So I do. Pinching and squeezing them, pretending that my fingers are his. Beckham’s dirty words, coupled with the frantic motion of his fingers, hurtle me toward the edge.
Within seconds, I detonate.
Back arching, I cry out, every molecule in my body exploding outward until I am nothing more than pure sensation. Beckham holds me tight. His embrace keeps me together until I come back into myself.
His lips hover over mine, and the expression on his face is soft. More open than I have ever seen before. I know without a doubt that I love this man. Have known for a long time. But here, at this moment, I start to believe that maybe—just maybe—he loves me, too.
“Beckham…”
There is a loud knock before the front door slams open. The sound startles me out of our little bubble. Beckham and I tense, frozen in shock, wide eyes locked on each other. Simon calls out to me from the entrance. His voice is followed quickly by heavy footsteps.
We jump apart. Before I can do anything more than tug my bra back into place, I look over to see Simon. He is standing only feet away, still in uniform. A large takeout bag dangles from one hand. His stunned gaze takes in the scene, mind trying to puzzle things out.
All at once the pieces snap together. His skin turns a mottled red. The forgotten bag of food falls to the floor, spilling open. Its contents spread out onto the hardwood.
But Simon’s focus stays on the two of us.
He looks seconds away from pulling the gun from his holster. His voice booms out in the weighted silence. “What the hell is going on?”