did this happen?’ he asks, showing genuine wonder.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. I did everything to stop it, but it proved unstoppable. I’m just so happy that it’s something Becker is equally perplexed by.
‘I told you not to fall in love with me.’
‘Did you tell yourself not to fall in love with me?’
‘Every fucking second of every fucking minute of every motherfucking day.’ He’s truly exhausted by it.
I grin. ‘And how did that work out for you?’
He laughs under his breath and bites the end of my nose softly. ‘Work it out for yourself, princess.’ He sighs on a shake of his gorgeous head, as he pushes me up so I’m sitting, straddled on his lap. Then he takes my hands and starts to play with my fingers, weaving and fiddling while he watches. ‘This is huge, Eleanor,’ he says quietly. I could laugh, but I don’t because he’s so right. For Becker, the man who’ll never allow anyone in, this is fucking colossal. Like ground-breaking huge.
‘I know that.’ I try to pacify him, like I’m holding his hand so he can get through this revelation. I can only hope he holds my hand, too.
‘But if you feel like I do,’ he goes on, keeping his eyes on our hands. ‘Then that’s good, right?’ Looking up at me, he gives me a tiny smile. An unsure smile.
‘Right,’ I exhale, and his twiddling fingers stop with their playing.
‘How do you feel?’ he asks. This is so strange. He’s like a child who has found they’re in an unfamiliar situation and is seeking reassurance – any comfort to put them at ease. And I realise, that’s exactly what this is. He’s frightened, and it’s understandable after all of the losses he’s suffered. His mum, his dad, his nana.
The anger.
The deep-seated fury that’s eating him alive from the inside out. Mr H’s blind fury, the words he yelled at Becker when he found out he’d ripped off Brent Wilson. Revenge. I want to know about his father, ask why he holds the Wilsons responsible, but I’m also very wary of the nerves I might hit. The pain I will spike.
You’ve taken enough from me already. You’re not taking Eleanor.
The revelation I’m faced with right now, the fact that Becker’s in love with me, is causing him enough stress. I need to let him get used to it, get used to me, before I ask any more about the Hunt family legacy. Shit, I need to wrap my own head around this, too.
A sharp flick of Becker’s hips upward knocks me from my daydream, and I blink my eyes, finding him regarding me closely. ‘How do you feel?’ he asks again.
I smile and flex my hands, prompting him to release his hold so I can trace the sharp edges of his lean chest. I concentrate on my slow drifting finger as I ponder what I should say. ‘I feel light,’ I say quietly, circling his tight nipple, smiling when it stiffens under my touch.
He flicks his hips up again, jolting me. ‘You don’t feel very light to me.’
Pinching his nipple, I twist, throwing him a dirty look. I don’t take it to heart. He loves my arse.
Becker seizes my hand, eyebrows high in warning. ‘Don’t make me spank you,’ he says seriously. I wriggle a little, missing the delicious warmth that his spankings leave behind.
‘You have an arse fetish,’ I say coolly, holding back my grin.
Becker doesn’t. He gives me a blinding, adorable, cheeky smile and slides his hands onto my bottom, squeezing gently for a few teasing seconds, watching me. Then his hands leave my skin and I suck in breath, holding it, waiting. And damn if I don’t lift a little, giving him better access, inviting him.
Slap!
Both hands come down hard, knocking me forward a little. ‘Only a fetish for your arse, princess.’
My hands plant into his pecs, bracing myself, and my hair falls forward onto his chest as I breathe through the discomfort. ‘Holy shit,’ I whisper brokenly.
He performs a calculated swivel of his groin and takes the tops of my arms, pulling me down to him. ‘What else do you feel?’ he asks.
‘Like my backside’s on fire.’
‘Shhhh . . .’ His pouting lips nearly touch mine, the low sound of his sexy shush sending a flurry of tingles down to my toes. ‘Tell me how you feel about me,’ he pushes.
‘Right now, I want to slap you.’
‘I feel like that about you all the time.’ Becker’s grip of my arms