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.

Dipping down to take my swollen nipple in his mouth, he swirls the aching bud with his tongue and rises back up, gripping my hips and fucking harder. His jaw tightens, clenches, and his eyes squeeze.

I relax, welcoming the power in his thrusts and riding the waterfall of anticipation building, trusting Beckham to take me where I need to go.

The burn. The pleasure. The intensity.

He explodes inside me, triggering an electric wave that commands my entire body as I come on his writhing cock.

Beckham collapses on top of me, our bodies sticking as we attempt to collect ourselves and catch our breath. The unapologetic scent of shameless arousal lingers in the air.

When he stands a minute later, I steal a glimpse of his half-hardened dick as if it might be the last time. This was sudden and unexpected, and perhaps it shouldn’t have happened, but I’m glad it did.

I needed to get him out of my system one last time.

Glancing around the room, I spot my dress half-hanging over a leather wingback chair by the fireplace. My heels are still covering my feet. My bag is somewhere in the foyer.

Beckham tosses me my dress and wanders into the next room, and I take it as my cue to leave. Tugging it over my head and fixing my hair, I stand and pull it down past my hips and smooth my palm along the wrinkles until it’s straight.

“Want something to drink?” He comes back in a white t-shirt with sweats tied around his waist, and heads to the kitchen to pull out a couple bottles of water.

“I was going to take off…” I point toward the foyer.

“You don’t have to leave yet. If you don’t want.”

He returns to the sofa, handing me a pristine bottle of Fiji water and sinks down next to me. I appreciate not feeling used, though I’m not sure it’d be classified as being used when I wanted it just as much.

My lips part, and for a moment, I consider asking him if he wants help assembling the rest of the baby gear. Opting to keep my comment to myself, I say nothing. Not in a mood to be crucified for kindness again.

We sit in silence, sipping waters, and basking in our respective orgasmic afterglows.

“I should go soon.” For the life of me, I can’t come up with a valid excuse other than the fact that sitting here like this is awkward.

Sadie whimpers from the next room, and I spot a baby monitor on the kitchen island, the one I ordered for him last week. Beckham says nothing. He leaves the room and returns with her a couple minutes later.

“She’s wide awake,” he says. “You mind holding her while I make a bottle?”

He lowers her into my arms. She smells like baby fabric softener and lavender. Her dark eyes are especially bright as she focuses in the dim light. I can’t resist running my fingers through her soft tufts of straight black hair. Her dainty features are ridiculously adorable, and I grin as she wraps her tiny fingers around my thumb.

Beckham returns with a warm bottle and takes her, cradling her in the corner of his arm. He still holds her like he’s terrified he’ll break her.

“She looks so much like you.” I lean in, convinced these two were meant to be in each other’s lives. They were made for each other in the most beautifully divine way.

The corner of his mouth pulls down as his brows lift. “Yeah, well…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and I’m positive the thought of her not being his resides in the forefront of his mind every second of every minute of every day.

“It’s going to be a while before we can get a DNA test,” he says. “Eva’s still at the hospital, and there’s this whole process…”

His voice trails, like he doesn’t want to discuss it.

“Have you considered one of those drugstore DNA tests? I’ve seen them. I mean, I don’t know if the results will hold up in court or anything, but at least it’d give you an answer. Peace of mind. I wouldn’t be able to stand not knowing.”

“I wasn’t aware those existed.” His gaze never leaves her.

“I swear I’ve seen them. I don’t know how long they take, but I’m sure you’ll get an answer before you get your legal stuff sorted out with Eva.” I shrug. “It’s just an option.”

He huffs. “The last thing is to be seen buying a mail order DNA test from a Duane Reade. The tabloids would have a field day with that. Page Six would eat me alive.”

“I’ll do it. I’ll pick one up. Nobody knows me.”

He turns to me, his bottom lip jutting out as he contemplates my offer.

“I’ll grab it on the way home tonight,” I say. “Bring it to you tomorrow at the office.”

He pulls in a deep breath, his chest swelling and falling. “Yeah. Sure. Why the hell not?”

* * *

There it is.

The DNA swab kits sit inconspicuously along a bottom row, two spots down from a row of pregnancy tests.

I swipe the box and flip it over, reading the instructions. There’s a rush option, where results will come in two weeks, otherwise typical handling time is four to eight weeks.

Perfect.

I drop it in my basket and head to the check out lane, stopping dead when I see her.

Annelise.

I refuse to smile, and I make no effort to hide my disappointment in seeing her here. She’s dressed in a cream cashmere twinset and black leather leggings tailored to her perfect physique. Her face is covered in the kind of makeup a woman buys from a counter at Barneys. Annelise doesn’t belong in a Duane Reade.

It’s too much. We’re past happenstance and coincidence.

“Annelise.” I grip the basket handle until my knuckles whiten and the plastic digs into my palm.

“Odessa.” She pulls her shoulders tight, and dons a devilish smirk. She doesn’t fidget or dither and her eyes don’t shift. If someone told me the woman standing before me was Annelise’s evil twin, I wouldn’t argue.

“What are you doing here?”

Her eyes fall to my basket, landing on the DNA test. My stomach twists. I bet she followed me here after seeing me leave Beckham’s place. If that’s the case, my sympathy for this broken-hearted girl is quickly morphing into concern that she might need professional help.

“I knew the baby wasn’t his.” Her arms fold.

“No clue what you’re talking about.”

Her blue eyes roll. “Not falling for that.”

“You need to distance yourself from him,” I say. “It’s not healthy. And please stop following me.”

She smirks, shaking her head. “Don’t act like you know him better than I do.”

The awkward, shy Annelise I met weeks ago is dead and gone. This psychotic woman is officially leading the charge.

“I’m not going to discuss him with you anymore,” I push past her, heading for the cash registers. My gut tells me not to engage with crazy.

The clicking of her heels match my strides as she follows me. A cold sweat trails down the back of my neck. This woman is completely obsessed with Beckham on a much larger scale than I previously assumed.

“He’s a monster,” she calls after me. “I created him, and only I know how to love him.”

My lips tighten and my skin flushes.

I don’t want to respond, but I won’t sit back and let some crazy stalker woman slander a man who doesn’t get enough credit for the good things he does.

But when I turn to silence her, she’s gone.