“Don’t feel sorry for me, Odessa,” I huff. “Please. Fuck. Don’t.”

“It’s shitty what happened to you. Nobody deserves that. Certainly not an innocent child.”

“I’d say I came out ahead in the deal, wouldn’t you? Jesus, Odessa.” On what planet does a homeless kid with an eighth grade FLDS education grow up to be a billionaire playboy with the entire city of Manhattan for a playground?

“Do you miss your mother?” Her hand flies to her chest, her eyes laced with sadness despite my specific instructions not to feel sorry for me. I’m positive the mother she’s picturing in her head is nothing like the one I knew.

“Nope.” I don’t miss a beat. “Hardly knew her. Barely remember what she looked like.”

The memory of her face fades in and out of my memory. Every year that goes by makes it harder to remember if her eyes were blue or gray. She was going gray at the temples. I recall that much. And she always smelled like baked bread.

My father, at least the one who headed the fifty-plus children and eight wives who shared his name, was another story. Desperate for approval and acceptance from The Prophet, he auctioned off his daughters like cattle and handed over his spare sons with a crooked smile on his wrinkled face and not so much as a second thought.

I was born into evil, my adolescent future mapped out without my knowledge and before I had a chance. Beckham Ford Townsend came into this world unwanted, unloved. Beckham King was born the day I set foot in Manhattan.

I made two promises to myself back then: never rely on anyone and never fall in love.

I broke them both the day I met Sophie Glass.

Walking away from that relationship broken, bruised, and barely breathing only deepened and renewed my commitment to myself. Uncle Leo once drunkenly declared only fools make promises and under whispered breath he added, “But only men keep them.”

I renewed my promise the day I walked in on Sophie getting plowed by some D-list actor snorting a line of coke off her tits. Our fairytale love story was reduced to nothing but tabloid fodder and erroneous speculation after that.

“We should head back.” I bring the car to a crawl and turn around in a nearby field.

Odessa nods, silently soaking in all the things I never should’ve told her.

Chapter Thirty

ODESSA

I watch from the doorway as Beckham lowers a sleeping Sadie into her bassinet. The ache in the back of my throat prevents everything I want to say from coming out all at once.

He’s broken.

Broken open.

But he’s the strongest man I’ve ever known.

Every part of me wants to tell him. He deserves to hear it. I doubt anyone’s ever told him how magnificent he is. Underneath the playboy façade and the emotionally frivolous lifestyle, there’s more to him than I ever could’ve imagined.

“You’re staring.” He’s facing me now, his dark brows pinched. Everything about him is hard and painful. I wish I could absorb it all.

“You’re a natural with her,” I say, approaching him as if I’m coming up on a venomous snake that could strike at any moment. A ragged breath drags across my lips, and without thinking, I reach to brush his dark hair from his temple. “You’re not who I thought you were at all.”

My whispered words linger between us, resting on the bed of tension we’ve created. Beckham is still, his gaze fixed on me as his chest rises and falls.

“I should go to bed.” My hand falls from his face as my gaze falls to his mouth, a dangerous spot to land. Turning softly, I pad out of the room and head next door. With the quick twist of the plated doorknob, I’m safe in the confines of my sprawling suite.

I wash up, slipping into pajamas and crawling under the silky blankets. My body begs for sleep, but my mind won’t give up the fight.

A sliver of light illuminates my door. I sit up, eyes adjusting to make out the form of a man in the doorway. He closes the door before taking determined strides to the bed where he crawls under the covers with me.

He’s shirtless, blanketing me with his masculine scent and body heat.

I ask no questions.

He offers no explanations.

The familiar warmth of Beckham’s lips pressing into my flesh ignites a burn between my thighs my fatigued body fully embraces. My body comes alive in the seconds that exist between his kisses.

Running his hand along the inside of my thigh, his fingertips trace over the outside of my mound. I’m stirred instantly, aching to feel the way his fingers search inside me, priming me.

Burning kisses send a swirl to my belly as he climbs on top of me, moving down toward my hips. Pulling my pajama bottoms and panties with one smooth tug, Beckham’s tongue wastes no time finding my clit in the dark.

He devours me. Lick after lick, stroke after stroke, suck after suck. Two fingers slip inside, curling up with each insertion as his tongue circles my nub.

It’s not enough.

I want more.

I need more.

Beckham rises on his knees, the outline of his fully erect cock grazing my thigh. He tugs his pants down, and I sit up, gripping his hardness and wrapping my lips around it. His hotness fills my mouth, my tongue raking the underside and swirling around the tip with each oral stroke.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but Beckham’s never been so big and this hard before. And I’ve never needed anyone this desperately.

He sweeps my hair into his hand, pulling my head back and off his cock after only a few minutes. Even in the darkness of the room, I see the glint in his eye. I lean back into the pillows as he retrieves a condom from his waistband and tears the packet between his lips, spitting out a piece of gold foil that flitters to the bed.

The second he’s covered, he grabs my hips, fingers digging deep into my flesh, and pulls me toward him. The sensation of his sheathed cock resting above but not in me sends a stirring sensation through my body. My nails dig into his arms, silently begging.

His right hand grips his cock at the base, directing it toward my slick entrance and pushing it deep inside me. My thighs widen, relaxing, accepting every inch of him. With every plunge our bodies and minds make a silent agreement never to attach meaning to this, never to speak of this.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, not tonight, not ever.

Beckham fucks me harder, each plunge faster and deeper than the one before. Our skin sticks together, our scents mingling.

“Harder,” I whisper.

He needs it.

I need it.

“More…” My fingers get lost in his hair, tugging, pulling, ripping.

My nails drag down his back until they arrive at the curve above his perfect ass. Gripping his hips as he dives into me, I push him deeper.

This…

This is what I’ve been missing my whole life.

A closeness more than words and empty promises and store-bought, clichéd proposals could ever deliver.

“Don’t stop…” I plead as his lips silence mine.

Never stop.

The rhythmic bucking of his hips take us somewhere only we belong, and when it’s all over, he rolls off me. I close my eyes for a moment, just to catch my breath.

 When I wake the next morning I’m cold. And alone.

Chapter Thirty-One

BECKHAM

In a moment of weakness, I did what I had to do. It was selfish to charge into Odessa’s room and take her without so much as a single word, but words complicate things.

It was better to take her in silence than to offer her thinly veiled reassurances attached to something we both knew was purely carnal.

I needed a release, a moment of emancipation. She was the only one who could give it to me.

And like a fucking coward, I crept back to my room the second she drifted off.

I shower off as soon as Elizabeth comes for Sadie. A half hour from now I’ll be face to face with Odessa, and if she’s in a mood, she’s going to demand an answer.