Chapter Thirty-Seven

Annabel

“Annabel.” Beau’s voice is sharp. I didn’t hear the elevator. It’s a top-of-the-line, well-maintained thing, almost impossible to hear unless you’re standing at the end of the entry hallway in the penthouse.

I suck in a reflexive breath. I’ve been reading—Beau has a library, naturally, and books of every kind on the shelf. I pulled one down after he left. Something about J. M. Barrie. I let myself get pulled in. It wasn’t easy. My entire body hurts to be with Beau. Or else it just hurts. It’s getting hard to tell.

An afternoon away with him should do wonders.

He rushes around to the chair I’m sitting in and kneels in front of it, pulling the book from my hand and tossing it to the floor.

He does not look happy.

“Hi,” I say. “What’s going on?”

Beau’s face softens, his eyes on mine. He breathes in, then out, but there’s still a tension there. It makes my heart beat faster. “I rushed all the way here.” He reaches for my hands, pulls my knuckles to his lips, and kisses each one in turn, a staccato burst. “Where is it you’d like to go?”

“I didn’t—” I shake my head. I let the book carry me away, and it’s hard to resurface. “I hadn’t thought that far.”

He pulls his hands away and stands, then runs one of them through his hair. “All right,” he says, and there’s a sharp edge to his tone again that doesn’t make any sense. “All right. Let’s go.”

This is too strange to not mention. In his eyes is a mix of relief and irritation. At me? My stomach falls. I’ve done it this time. I’ve stayed too long, and the cracks are starting to show.

Fight it.

I stand up from my chair. “Beau, come here.” He’s a couple of steps away. I move closer, reaching for his arm. “Were things busy at the office?” It sounds so pedestrian, so trophy-wife, but if it’s not me, there’s one other explanation.

“Yes,” he bursts out. “They were extremely tense.” His green eyes flash with an emotion I can’t name . . . or don’t want to name. He glances out the window and then back at me. “I should have stayed.”

The accusation hangs in the air between us, and my face goes red. I drop my hand. “Go back.” I swallow my disappointment. It’s sharp in my throat. “Go back, Beau. You can say you were on a lunch break. Don’t let me get in the way.”

“No,” he growls, and then he sweeps me into his arms, his grip tight, his mouth hard on mine. God, he tastes so good. Even in the intensity of his kiss, I can feel myself relaxing. This is where I’m supposed to be. “Don’t ever say that, Annabel. You’re not in the way.” I try to lean forward, try to taste him again, but he puts a hand on my cheek and holds me back. “Do you understand me?” I’m wet at his urgent tone, at the fire in his eyes while he waits for my response. “Do you?”

“Yes,” I say. I sound breathless. I don’t care.

Beau searches my face. He reaches to touch my bottom lip; the pad of his thumb brushes against the skin there. My pussy pulses. He kissed me so hard that my lip is tender, but his touch against it is electric. Possessive. I thought I’d seen Beau stripped of all his manners before. I was wrong. “God, you’ll be my undoing.” He says it almost to himself. Then his lips are on mine, his tongue battling mine for dominance. I let him have it. I want him to have it.

I want more.

I twist in his arms and get enough space to tear my shirt over my head. My bra goes next. “Yes.” Beau’s hands are back on my waist, this time running upward, taking my breasts in his hands, pulling me back against him. He’s so solid and strong—and hard. Every inch of him is hard, but his cock pressed against my ass through our clothes is the hardest of all.

He buries his face into my neck, and I arch back into him, threading my arms around his shoulders as he kisses and licks. If he doesn’t have my pants off soon, they’re going to be ruined, absolutely ruined, and I’ll need another pair from his closet drawer. He is water in the desert. He is rain after a drought. I need him.

There’s no time to go to the bedroom. He strips off my jeans, then my panties. Something cracks inside my chest. “I’m so fucking sad about that job.” I choke out the words. It’s senseless to say them now. It’s not even what I’m broken-hearted about. There’s more. There’s always more, but I need some kind of shorthand.

Beau doesn’t miss a beat.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says. He moves me toward a chair, hands sliding down to my wrists, tugging. I go where he wants me to go, my hands on the smooth leather, knees pressed against the seat, totally exposed to him. He takes his hands away for long enough to take off his own clothes. They fall in a pile next to the chair, and then he runs his hands down my back, stopping to squeeze at my hips, stopping again to kiss the ridges of my spine. “Feel it all you want,” he says. “But feel this, too.”

Then the head of his cock is teasing my opening. My grip goes tight on the leather chair, pleasure rushing over the pain.

“Yes.” I hiss the word and push against him, and he knows it’s an invitation. He knows it’s a plea.

He takes me with one brute thrust, filling me completely, and I feel it all. I let it crash over me.

I tell myself this will fix everything. What could go wrong after this?