The Complete Arrogant Series (68 page)

ODESSA

I’m barely out of the elevator
when Beckham takes me, his lips smashing mine, his fingers in my hair. I’m
pressed against the wall of his foyer, half wondering what the hell I’m doing
here and half not giving a fuck.

His mouth trails hot kisses down
the length of my neck, and I pull his clean scent into my lungs again and
again. My fingers search his
hair,
still damp from the
shower he must’ve taken before I arrived.

Melting with each circle of his
thumb around my woken nipple, my
mouth parts
with
silent pleas. His hands glide down my sides, rounding my ass and lifting me up
until my legs wrap around him.

We’re one, he and I. And he
carries me to the sliders leading to his balcony. It’s late, and the city
lights sparkle.

The city’s alive.

I’m alive.

Beckham twists me away from him,
his hands dragging down the sides of the black dress I wore over here. I chose
it solely for easy access reasons, this being an impulsive booty call and all,
and paired it with a shiny pair of red fuck-me heels.

His free hand gathers my hair and
tugs my head back as he nibbles my ear. Beckham’s other hand pulls the hem of
my dress up to my hips and slicks back down until he returns to the warmth
between my thighs.

“No panties,” he breathes into my
ear. I feel his smile when he speaks.

A steady finger runs the length
of my slit before slipping in. My stance widens, and the outline of his swollen
cock presses against the back of my thigh. Beckham presses a second finger
inside me, aided by my abundant arousal, and takes the skin of my shoulder
between his teeth.

I glance to the left to find a
neighboring balcony empty, though I’m not sure I’d care much if anyone were
occupying it. The fresh night air swirls around us, and a symphony of honking
cars and city life below paints this risky, but my mind isn’t there. My mind
obsessively concentrates on the feel of his fingers grazing my body, the
command in his kisses, the buckle in my knees,
the
track of tingles running the length of my spine, and the aching wetness in my
core.

With his hands digging into my
hips, he turns me to face him and lowers himself. Devouring me, his tongue performs
miracles that threaten to bring me to my knees if he keeps it up much longer.

I’m not ready for this to end
yet.

“Beckham,” I whisper.

“Mm, hmm,” he mumbles, still
tongue deep inside me. The pressure intensifies.

“I want you…I want you inside me…”

He swirls my clit a couple more
times, I’m sure to spite me, and lifts himself up, leading me by the wrist
inside to his living room. I expect him to bend me over, take me from behind,
but he sits down first.

Unzipping his pants, the sight of
his swollen cock pressing against his boxers makes my mouth water. Before he
has a chance to speak, I fall to my knees, freeing his member and wrapping my
lips around it.

He settles back into the seat,
his hands resting behind his head. It’s my turn to devour him, and I fully
intend to. Beckham’s face tenses and relaxes, and he rakes his tongue across
his bottom lip. Blowing Jeremiah became a chore after a few years, but watching
how much Beckham enjoys this has reignited my appreciation for the art of
sucking cock.

His hand lowers to mine, pulling
me off his cock and up into his lap. Retrieving a gold foil packet from his
pocket and handing it to me, I tear it and sheath him in a darkened living room
backlit by the most exquisite view of the city.

We fucked here.

That first
night.

Just like this.

Same spot.

I’d forgotten.

I force the memory from my mind,
convincing myself that Beckham’s not a sentimental man, and straddle his lap.
With his one hand at the base of his swollen cock and the other guiding my
hips, I grip his shoulders and impale myself with his hardness.

Closing my eyes, I let my hair
drip down my back and dip my head. I feel it all. He fills me with everything
he has, and my hips circle his lap before lifting up and letting him fill me
all over again.

His fingers tear at my dress,
grabbing fistfuls and pulling the entire thing over my head. Like a seasoned
pro, he unhooks my bra and chucks it across the room.

“That’s better,” he half-grins.
“Keep going, Dess. Keep fucking me…”

I grind against his cock, slow
then fast, desperately longing for that sweet release.

My fingers trail his shirt,
working his buttons as best I can until his bare chest is exposed. He pulls me
against him, burying his face in my neck as my breasts press against his warm,
muscled skin.

I could ride him all night, press
my body against his, drown in our delicious friction, and wrap myself in that
slow, dangerous burn.

A strain in his neck indicates
he’s just as close as I am, but neither of us is ready for this to end yet.
Grabbing my wrists, he guides me off of him and presses my back into the sofa
cushions.

His finger runs the length of my
seam and his thumb stops to circle my clit seconds before plunging his cock
into me all over again, only this time it’s slow,
inch by
inch
. Our gazes lock, accidentally I think. Beckham’s forceful thrusts
hurt and satisfy at the same time, and I stifle the groans that threaten to
escape. I don’t want him to stop. He can’t stop. I’m so close. I’m on the edge.
I’m right there.

Dipping down to take my swollen
nipple in his mouth, he swirls the aching bud with his tongue and rises back
up, gripping my hips and fucking harder. His jaw tightens, clenches, and his
eyes squeeze.

I relax, welcoming the power in
his thrusts and riding the waterfall of anticipation building, trusting Beckham
to take me where I need to go.

The burn. The pleasure. The
intensity.

He explodes inside me, triggering
an electric wave that commands my entire body as I come on his writhing cock.

Beckham collapses on top of me,
our bodies sticking as we attempt to collect ourselves and catch our breath.
The unapologetic scent of shameless arousal lingers in the air.

When he stands a minute later, I
steal a glimpse of his half-hardened dick as if it might be the last time. This
was sudden and unexpected, and perhaps it shouldn’t have happened, but I’m glad
it did.

I needed to get him out of my
system one last time.

Glancing around the room, I spot
my dress half-hanging over a leather wingback chair by the fireplace. My heels
are still covering my feet. My bag is somewhere in the foyer.

Beckham tosses me my dress and
wanders into the next room, and I take it as my cue to leave. Tugging it over
my head and fixing my hair, I stand and pull it down past my hips and smooth my
palm along the wrinkles until it’s straight.

“Want something to drink?” He
comes back in a white t-shirt with sweats tied around his waist, and heads to
the kitchen to pull out a couple bottles of water.

“I was going to take off…” I
point toward the foyer.

“You don’t have to leave yet. If
you don’t want.”

He returns to the sofa, handing
me a pristine bottle of Fiji water and sinks down next to me. I appreciate not
feeling used, though I’m not sure it’d be classified as being used when I
wanted it just as much.

My lips part, and for a moment, I
consider asking him if he wants help assembling the rest of the baby gear.
Opting to keep my comment to myself, I say nothing. Not in a mood to be
crucified for kindness again.

We sit in silence, sipping
waters, and basking in our respective orgasmic afterglows.

“I should go soon.” For the life
of me, I can’t come up with a valid excuse other than the fact that sitting
here like this is awkward.

Sadie whimpers from the next
room, and I spot a baby monitor on the kitchen island, the one I ordered for
him last week. Beckham says nothing. He leaves the room and returns with her a
couple minutes later.

“She’s wide awake,” he says. “You
mind holding her while I make a bottle?”

He lowers her into my arms. She
smells like baby fabric softener and lavender. Her dark eyes are especially
bright as she focuses in the dim light. I can’t resist running my fingers
through her soft tufts of straight black hair. Her dainty features are
ridiculously adorable, and I grin as she wraps her tiny fingers around my
thumb.

Beckham returns with a warm
bottle and takes her, cradling her in the corner of his arm. He still holds her
like he’s terrified he’ll break her.

“She looks so much like you.” I
lean in, convinced these two were meant to be in each other’s lives. They were
made for each other in the most beautifully divine way.

The corner of his mouth pulls
down as his brows lift. “Yeah, well…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence,
and I’m positive the thought of her not being his resides in the forefront of
his mind every second of every minute of every day.

“It’s going to be a while before
we can get a DNA test,” he says. “Eva’s still at the hospital, and there’s this
whole process…”

His voice trails, like he doesn’t
want to discuss it.

“Have you considered one of those
drugstore DNA tests? I’ve seen them. I mean, I don’t know if the results will
hold up in court or anything, but at least it’d give you an answer. Peace of
mind. I wouldn’t be able to stand not knowing.”

“I wasn’t aware those existed.”
His gaze never leaves her.

“I swear I’ve seen them. I don’t
know how long they take, but I’m sure you’ll get an answer before you get your
legal stuff sorted out with Eva.” I shrug. “It’s just an option.”

He huffs. “The last thing is to
be seen buying a mail order DNA test from a Duane Reade. The tabloids would
have a field day with that. Page Six would eat me alive.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll pick one up.
Nobody knows me.”

He turns to me, his bottom lip
jutting out as he contemplates my offer.

“I’ll grab it on the way home
tonight,” I say. “Bring it to you tomorrow at the office.”

He pulls in a deep breath, his
chest swelling and falling. “Yeah. Sure. Why the hell not?”

***

There it is.

The DNA swab kits sit
inconspicuously along a bottom row, two spots down from a row of pregnancy
tests.

I swipe the box and flip it over,
reading the instructions. There’s a rush option, where results will come in two
weeks, otherwise typical handling time is four to eight weeks.

Perfect.

I drop it in my basket and head
to the check out lane, stopping dead when I see
her
.

Annelise.

 
I refuse to smile, and I make no effort
to hide my disappointment in seeing her here. She’s dressed in a cream cashmere
twinset and black leather leggings tailored to her perfect physique. Her face
is covered in the kind of makeup a woman buys from a counter at Barneys.
Annelise doesn’t belong in a Duane Reade.

It’s too much. We’re past
happenstance and coincidence.

“Annelise.” I grip the basket
handle until my knuckles whiten and the plastic digs into my palm.

“Odessa.” She pulls her shoulders
tight, and dons a devilish smirk. She doesn’t fidget or dither and her eyes
don’t shift. If someone told me the woman standing before me was Annelise’s
evil twin, I wouldn’t argue.

“What are you doing here?”

Her eyes fall to my basket,
landing on the DNA test. My stomach twists. I bet she followed me here after
seeing me leave Beckham’s place. If that’s the case, my sympathy for this
broken-hearted girl is quickly morphing into concern that she might need
professional help.

“I knew the baby wasn’t his.” Her
arms fold.

“No clue what you’re talking
about.”

Her blue eyes roll. “Not falling
for that.”

“You need to distance yourself
from him,” I say. “It’s not healthy. And please stop following me.”

She smirks, shaking her head.
“Don’t act like you know him better than I do.”

The awkward, shy Annelise I met
weeks ago is dead and gone. This psychotic woman is officially leading the
charge.

“I’m not going to discuss him
with you anymore,” I push past her, heading for the cash registers. My gut
tells me not to engage with crazy.

The clicking of her heels
match
my strides as she follows me. A cold sweat trails down
the back of my neck. This woman is completely obsessed with Beckham on a much
larger scale than I previously assumed.

“He’s a monster,” she calls after
me. “I created him, and only I know how to love him.”

My lips tighten and my skin
flushes.