“Crib’s done. Starting on the changer now.” I prop up the changer and twist it to face me. A couple shelves and it’ll be done.

“Two down, ten to go,” she chuckles. “I’d offer to help you, but I don’t want to be too nice. God forbid you think I’m a doormat again.”

Glancing around the room at the never-ending packages of all things baby, I sigh. Help would be nice.

“You’re quiet,” she says. “Too proud to ask me to help?”

I bite my lower lip, stifling a smile. She may frustrate the hell out of me, but I’m glad she’s back.

“I think you want to help.” A bit of reverse psychology never hurt anyone.

“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong.” The sound of running water trails through the receiver. “I’m sitting here in my bathtub, surrounded by bubbles, sipping on champagne.”

My cock stiffens when an image of a soaking wet Odessa flashes in my mind. “Celebrating something?”

The clink of glass chimes. “Absolutely. I’m celebrating my freedom. No more Jeremiah.”

“Lucky you.”

“I’m starting to see why the single life appealed to you so much,” she muses, a hint of a smile in her voice. “I can get all gussied up tonight, walk down to the bar, go home with any man I want, and not have all that extra bullshit to deal with the next day, you know?”

I sit up, the image of her hooking up with some random schmuck sending an unexpected heat to my veins.

“Don’t be that girl,” I say, hoping to God she doesn’t see through me. “Don’t be that lonely girl who sits at a bar waiting for some horny asshole to pick her up and make her feel special for an hour or two.”

The gentle splash of cascading water fills my ear, as if she’s sitting up now.

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” she says.

“Obviously.”

“How about this? How about you just not worry what I do after the sun goes down, hm?”

“Believe me, you’re the last person on earth I’d worry about.” Uncle Leo always said anyone who prefaces their statements with ‘believe me’ is almost always lying. He’d be right.

“Right.” She doesn’t believe me.

“Why don’t we stop whatever it is we’re doing here,” I say. “And you come over here and fuck the shit out of me, and I’ll fuck the shit out of you, and then we can get it out of our system. Start Monday with a clean slate.”

“You and I both know it doesn’t work that way.”

“So we should fuck anyway.”

God, I want to fuck her. Need to fuck her.

She’s silent.

“My cock is throbbing right now, Odessa. It’s fucking massive. It’d be a shame to let it go to waste all because you want to prove a point.”

I hear her sip her champagne and listen for the clink of the glass when she sits it down. “You’re something else, Beckham.”

“You coming or not?”

 She makes me wait a minute longer than necessary. “Give me an hour.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

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.