the orgasm that’s looming and letting it possess me like the devil himself, my whole body going up in wild flames.
I scream for as long as my lungs will allow, ignoring the scratching in my throat that feels like I’m swallowing nails. My arms are useless lumps of nothing braced against the wall, my head rolling and when I hear Becker take in a deep breath and hold it, I know he’s about to tip over the edge, too. His sudden silence defies the brute force with which he’s still taking me, smashing repeatedly against my bottom as he bangs every tiny piece of pleasure out of me. Then he releases his breath and seizes another long lungful, giving me no break from the attack my limp body is under. I’m spaced out, accepting, still riding out the release of a thousand accumulated orgasms.
His gasp for breath overrides the slapping sound of our sweaty bodies, and I’m jacked up on to him with very little effort. He moans and drops a level, now grinding forcefully. And I feel it. The swelling, the thundering of his heart, and the relief as he finds his release, mumbling incoherent words into the heavy air.
For the love of every Greek god in existence. Damn.
My orgasm has zapped me of the ability to feed instructions to my brain. It’s stripped me of the ability to think, to speak, to move. He collapses against my back, and I fold to the floor, Becker following me down.
‘Fuck me,’ he heaves, rolling on to his back, leaving me a pile of sweaty uselessness beside him. ‘That was better than . . .’
‘What?’ I pant, rolling on to my back too, kicking off my shoes when it registers they’re still gracing my feet.
His chest rises and falls on long, strenuous breathes, his soaked face frowning. ‘That was better than seeing Brent’s face when he finds out he’s spent fifty million on a lump of marble.’
Every other muscle has failed me, but that right there makes my face muscles twitch. Because I know how much Becker would enjoy that face. ‘It was good.’
‘Good?’ He lets his head flop to the side until he finds my eyes, bringing his knee up to rest the sole of his foot on the floor, his palm on his rippling stomach. His hair is all mussed up, sexy as fucking hell. ‘That wasn’t good, princess. That just blew my fucking world in two.’
The twitching of my mouth transforms into a full-blown smile. I feel good. So, so bloody good, like I could run through London naked and not give a shit. Because I, Eleanor Cole, have just blown Becker Hunt’s world in two – a man who I expect has been blown by half of London before he blew their world in two and fucked them stupid.
‘Me and you have something pretty fucking phenomenal, princess.’ It’s like he knows I needed to hear that. Like he’s telling me no other woman compares. Chemistry. He’s talking about chemistry, and Becker and I have it by the bucket load. Tons of the stuff. The thought of anyone experiencing what I just had with him sticks in my throat like an old oak tree. A huge fucking oak tree. My nose wrinkles in revulsion.
‘All right?’ He rolls on to his side and cheekily pinches my nipple, snapping me from my uninvited thoughts.
‘Very.’
He grins. ‘Of course you are. You just hit a ten on the pleasure scale.’
I scoff and bat his hand away, earning a snarl and a harder tweak. ‘Ouch.’
‘Mine.’ He raises his eyebrows, daring me to correct him. ‘All of it.’
I don’t argue. Wouldn’t dream of it, because madly and quite unexpectedly, I want this cheeky maverick twat to take it all. So, I lie here and let him touch what he deems his. Me. And I hope beyond all hope, more than anything I’ve ever hoped for, that Becker might accept himself as mine. It’s an alien prospect with a whole heap of complications attached to its arse. Me and Becker. Becker and Me. Secrets, Becker and me. The Haven, Becker and me. Here. Us. Working and screwing and . . . loving.
Loving?
‘All right?’ He asks the same question again, pressing the pad of his finger under my chin and lifting it, searching my eyes. His observation of my deep thinking disturbs me, and I find my cowardly arse shying away from the inquisitiveness in his stare and, more importantly, the direction of my thoughts.
Stupid thoughts.
‘I’m