Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology Book 2) Page 6

  I’m in control here. And all I’ve ever wanted to know is that I’m not wasting my love. To know that if I’m to risk it all, Becker has to give me something in return. Him. All of him.

  This is a guy who fucks like a god on steroids and looks like a god, too. He’s a proper man – all masculine, toned, and rough behind those deceiving Ray-Ban spectacles. And he’s shaking before me, pouring his heart out, waiting with fear and anticipation for me to speak. I should run fast, leaving a cloud of dust in my wake.

  I should.

  But I won’t.

  Because ever since I ran away from him, ran away from London, I’ve felt misplaced. I’ve not been me. I’ve just been . . . existing again. I don’t want to exist. I want that sense of belonging back. I want the thrilling, exciting adrenalin. I want him. Goddamn me, I want him so much. He’s validated all of my hopes. His words are golden.

  He’s been honest with me.

  I steel myself to take a gigantic leap of faith, never letting my eyes stray from his. I’m not out of fight – I have plenty of fight – but am I fighting the wrong thing here? I can’t ignore my heart. It’s telling me to believe. ‘I’m miserable without you,’ I admit. ‘Empty. Lacking purpose. Unfulfilled.’

  Becker deflates before my eyes and moves, taking my chin and getting nose-to-nose with me. ‘You never have to be without me.’ He takes my mouth gently, kissing me with a tenderness I’ve never felt from him before.

  I whimper. It’s a sound of surrender.

  Becker growls. It’s a sound of power.

  And those two signs pave the way for my future.

  Is it wrong to want him this much after everything? I don’t know, but I feel like a valve has been released on my head, relieving my mind of the pressure of thinking. All I can focus on is my heart, and it’s telling me I’ve chosen right.

  I meet his soft rolling tongue and cling onto him. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispers, working kisses up to my ear and back down again. ‘Jesus, Eleanor, I’ve missed you so much.’ He bites my bottom lip and drags it through his teeth, watching me as he does. ‘I want you to repeat after me,’ he says, pushing his groin into my lower tummy, hiking that unrelenting desire for him. ‘Becker Hunt owns me.’ He watches me closely. ‘Say it.’ His jaw pulses from constantly biting down on his back teeth, his angel eyes darkening as they stare me down. ‘Say it, princess,’ he breathes, desperate and hungry, every part of him spilling with need. Need for me. It only enhances my fortitude and reinforces my decision. Becker Hunt needs me. And this, this thing he’s doing now, demanding I confirm he owns me, is his way of acknowledging that he doesn’t have the control here.

  I breathe in his face, the strength of his body compressed to mine feeling natural. His weakness makes me feel stronger. ‘You will never own me.’ I strain the words into something close to a promise, and he smiles. We’re still playing that game, except both of us now know the rules, and I definitely know the consequences. Becker is more unpredictable than ever before. More exciting. More irresistible. More magnetic. He’s also more desperate. I’m in. Because out isn’t an option. I’ve made my choice. I love him, and his wicked truths can’t change that.

  He drops a soft kiss on my abused lips, and then licks across the seam, from one side to the other. Slowly. ‘Your ride awaits.’ He weaves his fingers through my hair gently ‘Do you need to speak to your mother?’

  I glance to the side, seeing the lights from the pub glowing through the windows into the darkness. She’s fine, I tell myself. She doesn’t need me. But it seems Becker Hunt does.

  Chapter 7

  I don’t remember the drive home. I can only assume the stupid amount of alcohol that I consumed caught up with me and knocked me out. I called Mum as soon as I was deposited in Becker’s car, telling her where I was going and why. She dashed out of that pub in those heels like a pro and pretty much dragged me from the car. I was worried for a moment. Until she squeezed me tightly and told me to show Becker what I’m made of. I smiled, because this time I know exactly what I’m made of. And so does Becker.

  I conked out within minutes, hearing Becker in my subconscious humming along to Ed Sheeran’s ‘Shape of You’. I know I was smiling in my semi-conscious state.

  I’m in his bed. It’s dark, my body warm, the smell oh so familiar. As is the sense of belonging. Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling, my mind a storm of thoughts. I drop my head to the side, finding I’m alone. Where is he?

  I sigh and get up, taking the sheets with me, set to go find him. As I break free of Becker’s bedroom space, my steps falter when I register music playing. Soft music. It’s familiar, one of those tracks that you know but can’t name. Glancing around, I spot a strip of blue illuminated light glowing in the wall, and I pace slowly over, finding a music system built into the wall. The neon display has the name of the track drifting across the window on loop. The Beloved’s ‘The Sun Rising’.

  I watch the letters pass across the lit window for an age, the hypnotic tones making my skin tingle and my heart skip one too many beats. I swallow hard and look over my shoulder, my senses going into overdrive, all the while the words of the track stabbing at my mind, speaking to me, trying to tell me what Becker’s state of mind is. He’s close by. But he’s not here.

  My feet are moving before my brain engages, taking me slowly and mindlessly towards the glass wall that guards his grand hall. I hold the sheet close to my body, like it can protect me. But I don’t think there’s anything that can protect me from Becker Hunt and his debased world. Not my conscience, not my sensibility, and definitely not my heart.

  The Grand Hall comes into view below, and I drink it all in, every exquisite inch of it.

  And then I see him. He’s the most beautiful thing in a room full of some of the world’s most stunning treasures. He’s naked, sitting in a Louis XIV armchair, his body slumped, his elbow resting on the arm, his heavy head propped on his palm. Every muscle on his torso is accentuated by his position. For once, they don’t keep my attention for very long. I look up at his blank face staring at nothing, his glasses resting on his perfect nose. He looks . . . lost. Because he is. He’s lost in our maze, and it is unfamiliar territory for Becker Hunt. My hand comes up to feel the glass, like in a strange sense I’m telling him I’m here. He left me in his bed to immerse himself in the chaos of the Grand Hall. To find calm amid the bedlam. I know that. Because I know him.

  I smile, ignoring the irony of me standing here looking down on him. He’s a statue, unmoving for ages, but then his head tilts and his eyes slowly climb the empty space under the mezzanine floor beneath me until they reach the base of the glass wall and take their time creeping up my legs.

  Something inside of me explodes when our stares meet. I struggle to catch my breath, my hand dropping from the glass, my body discreetly heaving.

  That bang was my heart. It’s his, there’s no denying it. I’m all his, and it is the best thing that has ever happened to me.

  His face is still straight, the contours of his jaw sharp, almost annoyed as he stares up at me like I’m an intruder. I guess I am. To Becker, I’m the worst kind of intruder. I smile knowingly down at him, and he starts to rise from the chair. I watch as he straightens to his full height, taking his sweet time about it, extending the torture of his muscles stretching out with the movement. He’s bare. Beautiful. A piece of art.

  And I own him. He is my most treasured possession. I love him.

  He must see it in me now. It must be written on every inch of my skin. In my eyes every time I look at him.

  His lips slowly curve.

  It’s beautiful.

  It’s rueful.

  It’s my Saint Becker Boy Hunt.

  I smile right back, watching as he flicks his head a little, indicating for me to join him. I shake mine and do something on impulse, opening up my sheet and exposing my naked body to hi
m. His smile stays firmly in place as his eyes journey down and back up, his head bobbing mildly, silently appraising me. Then he points at his chest before flicking a finger up to the glass, asking if he should come to me.

  I nod.

  He moves fast, virtually sprinting to the wooden door, and I race to meet him. My heart sings with frantic beats as I dash for the door, throwing it open and charging down the stone steps. The cool air tickles my skin for a few seconds before pure elation snuffs it. That smile. It said nothing and everything.

  I hear the slaps of his bare feet hitting the steps, his heavy breathing drowning out my own gasps for breath. And then I see him for a split second before he crashes into me, grabbing me and throwing me against the wall. He says nothing, just attacks my mouth with an unfathomable force, swallowing me up in the passion of his kiss. His tongue stabs and laps greedily, and we moan – desperate, impatient, hungry moans.

  He lifts me from my feet and starts to take the stairs, our mouths still sealed, my legs coming up and seizing his waist. My hair is being tugged, his hand is squeezing my bum, and my own hands are going wild, grappling at his naked back. We’re frenzied. Mindless. Clumsy and loud. My back meets something soft, Becker coming down with me, his mouth breaking from my lips and nibbling its way down to my breasts as his hand climbs the inside of my thigh.

  My head starts to shake from side-to-side as I writhe on his bed, my hands coming up to cover my eyes. His fingers push into me. ‘Becker.’

  He hums, nipping a nipple in turn, at the same time dragging his hand slowly from between my legs. I bite back my scream, squirming beneath him. ‘Over you go.’ He takes my hips and flips me onto my front, then starts to pull me to my hands and knees. The gesture snaps me from my euphoria like a bucket of ice water’s just been poured over my head.

  He wants me from behind? Again? Always from behind. It’s never occurred to me before now to wonder why.

  Everything inside of me is screaming for me to stop him – to make this time different. Why? Why does he always want me like this? My hands push into the mattress, holding me up, my knees trembling as he tickles a perfectly straight line with his fingertip down my spine. Cognitive thought is near impossible, the sensations and anticipation building under his touch. ‘Becker,’ I croak, dropping my head, clenching my eyes shut.

  ‘Shhhh,’ he hushes me, then knocks all protest out of me when he replaces his finger with his lips, kissing a path down my back, his hand cupping my boob, moulding it meticulously. He’s bent over me, devoting his attention to any part of me that he can lay his hands or lips on, driving me insane with need. Then he’s gone for a moment. The tear of something tells me why, followed by a sharp inhale of air. ‘Ready for a good-fucking-morning?’ he asks gently, stroking my bottom.

  ‘Becker.’ I’m not sure what I’m begging for. Penetration or an explanation as to why it always needs to be like this. ‘Becker, please.’ I feel the hot head of his erection meet my sodden flesh, rolling around. I smash my fist into the mattress on a broken scream.

  And then he pounds forward on a guttural yell and digs his fingers into my hips. His force nearly has me collapsing to my tummy. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel weak and unsure whether I can sustain his brutal fucking right now. ‘Becker!’

  He crashes into me once more, working his way up to a steady rhythm. ‘Shit, Eleanor, you feel fucking good.’

  Bang!

  ‘No!’ I scream, scrambling to escape his power. I free myself from his brutal clutches and swing around, gasping for air as I find my balance and kneel by the pillows.

  Becker’s arse drops to his heels, panic flooding his features. ‘Shit, Eleanor, did I hurt you?’ He goes to move forward, to comfort me, but I hold up my hand, forbidding him to come close.

  ‘I want to see you,’ I tell him, my voice even and determined.

  His brow wrinkles in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’ He looks away.

  Makes two of us, I think, my body going slack. ‘I want to see you when we’re making love. I want to kiss you.’

  His eyes snap to mine, and I can literally see him trying to wrap his head around my declaration. It’s not hard. Becker above me. Or even me above Becker. I don’t care which. ‘Right.’ He seems to shake some life back into himself, and slowly, tentatively, like he’s scared, he begins to move forward, wrapping a forearm around my waist and pulling my front to his. ‘I can do that,’ he says quietly. I feel a small, amused smile tug at the corner of my mouth, because that statement was telling himself. Not me.

  He slowly lays me down, so gently you’d think I was glass, and I bring my palms up to cup his cheeks. Thoughts run rampant in my mind. Has he never taken a woman like this? Let her see him when he’s making love to her? And it’s in this moment I consider the possibility that he’s never actually made love to a woman at all. He’s fucked. There was no sentiment or feelings for him, just raw hard screwing. It’s all he knows how to do.

  My hands slip from his face when he pulls back. He pushes my legs apart, spreading me wide, then spends a few riveted moments staring down between my thighs. I keep quiet, quite riveted myself by his approach. It’s not like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, more like he’s unsure about doing it.

  Taking deep drags of air, he reaches down and takes hold of his cock, stroking down the shaft with his fist slowly as he kneels between my thighs. Then he’s lowering to me, guiding himself to my entrance, the whole time watching his own actions instead of me. The dash of contact when the tip of his arousal meets my flesh has my hands flying to his shoulders. Becker begins to physically shake. He’s beginning to sweat. His face is cut with concentration, his Adam’s apple pulsing from his constant swallows. He pushes in a little and closes his eyes, letting his head hang limply. I send my hands on a feeling mission, keen to touch every place I can now that I have the opportunity. My palms slip up each side of his neck, onto his jaw and come to rest on his stubbled cheeks. But his eyes remain closed.

  He’s half-submerged, tinkering on the edge of full penetration. He’s steeling himself, working up to that final push. And then it happens, and my back bows violently, my cry welcoming him into me.

  ‘Good God,’ he says quietly, dropping to his forearms, his head remaining low. His face is so close to mine, but I don’t get his eyes. Becker chooses to bury himself in my neck as he starts to pump his hips, gasping each and every time that he enters me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, holding him to me. He’s strong and still so powerful with his drives, albeit more calm and controlled, but I sense he needs the comfort. We moan collectively, slip together perfectly, the feel of him crowding me almost too much. But he still refuses to look at me, so I stroke my way up and take the side of his head, trying to pull him from his hiding place. He won’t budge. I give up for a moment, and he continues to plunge deeply, continues to spike all of the sounds of pleasure from both of us. God, I need to see him. So I try again . . . and fail, except this time he doesn’t just hold firm, not allowing me to pull him back. He actually shakes his head, like he’s shaking me off.

  ‘Becker?’ I question, but he ignores me, working up farther still, increasing his pleasure and mine. ‘Becker, look at me.’

  Nothing. Just more drives and more incredible friction, but the gratification is slipping away with every second he refuses to give me his eyes. Yes, I can feel him, but I want to really feel him, see him, read his thoughts.

  ‘Becker.’ My frustration is growing with his persistent, stubborn refusals. ‘Becker, please,’ I yell.

  He stops thrusting, freezing above me, panting into my neck. He’s still buried balls deep, throbbing within me. But he says nothing.

  ‘Why won’t you look at me?’ I ask, trying to wrestle him from my body. It’s impossible. He’s too heavy. ‘Damn it, Becker.’ My wriggling becomes chaotic and before I know it, I’m jacking my body violently, starting to lose my mind. H
e has me pinned in place. I’m going nowhere unless he lets me. ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Stop.’ His soft order breaks through the bedlam of my thoughts. ‘Please, stop.’

  I do, immediately, his quiet plea assisting in settling my building frustration. My internal walls are hugging his cock, my muscles contracting without instruction, inviting a counter-pulse, but there’s no pleasure now. Just confusion. ‘Why won’t you look at me?’ I repeat, slipping my hands around his back. I can distinguish the tips of ink over his shoulder, outlining the compass of his giant tattoo. I feel compelled to trace the edges softly, ghosting my finger over the ink, still so fascinated by the mammoth piece of art.

  ‘Because.’ He breathes heavily, deeply and uncontrolled. Then he growls and lifts, pulling out of me so fast I wince and pull my legs together. ‘Because . . .’ He gets off the bed and starts pacing, irritable and stressed. I watch with concern.

  ‘What?’ I ask. ‘Am I not easy enough on the eye for you?’

  He scoffs, sounding disgusted by my suggestion. ‘Don’t be stupid, Eleanor. You’re beautiful. Everywhere.’

  ‘Then what?’ I shout, feeling my control slipping again.

  He stops and drags a frustrated hand through his hair, looking up to the heavens for help. ‘Fucking hell.’ He lands big round eyes on me. It makes me recoil, wary. ‘Because,’ he begins again, pointing an accusing finger at me. ‘If I look you in the eye while I’m inside you,’ he heaves, swallowing and sweating. He’s getting more and more agitated by the second. Then he roars and flips right into the realms of madness, his fists clenched and coming up to his head, bashing violently on his temples. My eyes widen as he levels a face full of stress on me. ‘Because if I look you in the eyes when I’m inside you,’ he yells. ‘I’m going to fall in fucking love with you!’

  If I was standing up, I’d fall over.