Page 7 of Her Older Billionaire

“Let’s watch Dirty Dancing,” Allie proposes, oblivious to the tension in the room. “I’m in the mood for an oldie but a goodie. Plus, who doesn’t want some Patrick Swayze at the end of the day?”

The movie starts, but I’m barely focused on it. Not with Beckham sitting beside me looking absolutely lickable. He’s thigh rests against mine, and I can’t help thinking about how he looked today as he carried my stuff into the garage. The fourth garage. Yes, he has at least four garages—that I know of. He was lifting boxes that should have taken two men, but it just made his muscles flex a little more. I didn’t mind it.

He wore a thin gray t-shirt and a pair of jeans that made his ass look especially biteable. But the best part of the whole day was when we took a break to get something to drink. He gave me the same look he’s giving me now. Heated, yes. But also caring and considering.

Beckham is an insanely wealthy man, but he’s somehow also just a regular guy who watches movies and eats pizza with his daughter. He’s a guy who lets his daughter’s best friend crash at his house. And he’s a guy who helps carry my boxes around on his day off. He’s bucking all my expectations, and I like it.

“Are you alright?” he whispers quietly, trying not to disturb Allie where she’s watching the movie.

“Yeah, it’s just been a lot. You know?” I whisper back.

“You’re stronger than you know,” he says, and my heart swells. I know I’m not perfect. I know I don’t always make the best decisions. Take Dennis the dumbass for example. But apparently, that isn’t what Beckham sees when he looks at me.

“How do you know that?” I ask. I need to know what he thinks. I need to know that he’s not just leading me on.

“When I look at you, I see a beautiful woman. But more than that, I see someone who feels strongly. Who lives passionately. And who, even while she’s hurting, keeps putting herself out there.”

Blinking, I look away and stare at the TV screen while I try to keep the tears from running down my face. Happy tears or sad, I’m not sure. But I’m feeling something too big to keep inside.

The lights are dim, so I’m the only one who notices Beckham when he puts his hand on my thigh and pats it gently. I think it’s supposed to be a comfort. And it is.

It’s also a dangerous temptation. Pleasurable tingles spread from my leg to the rest of my body. My heart beats twice as hard when his hand starts inching slowly up my leg. I dart my eyes toward Beckham. He raises his eyebrow at me; the look in his eyes is laughing, but like he’s also daring me.

Should I stop him? Or should I give in to the desire building in my veins and let him keep going?

Before I can decide, Allie reaches over to the coffee table to grab another piece of pizza. Beckham cooly removes his hand from my leg and grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, like that was his intention the whole time.

“Hey, Hannah,” Allie says as she keeps her eyes on the TV. “Did that guy from the club ever call?”

“Um, no?” It comes out like a question, mostly because I’m not even thinking about what's his name from last night. I can’t, because Beckham—Allie’s father!—just covered both of us with the blanket, and his hand now rests significantly higher on my leg under the blanket.

“That’s too bad. Oh well, his loss.” She takes a bite of pizza, chews for a second and continues, “You know what? What every girl needs is a Johnny. Someone who won’t let us be put in the corner. Right, Hannah?”

“Mmhmm,” I distractedly murmur some kind of agreement. That’s all I can do, because Beckham’s fingers are sliding dangerously close to my needy core.

We continue that way for a good portion of the movie. Beckham teases me, moving the tips of his fingers along my inner thighs just inches from where I’m aching. I pretend to watch the movie while forcing myself not to thrust my hips until he finishes what he started. Allie slumps further into the comfy chair, gradually falling asleep.

It’s taboo. It’s dangerous. My heart is still bruised. He’s my best friend’s father.

None of that matters.

When Allie lets out her first, soft snore, Beckham pounces. And I meet him halfway. His hand on my thigh grips tightly, the pressure another kind of pleasure. His other hand grips the back of my neck as he captures my lips with his own.

His kisses aren’t rough. No. There’s no desperation. Instead, they feel like a claiming. Like an ownership. Like he’s marking me with his touch and tongue.

And I’m claiming him back. All the feelings of the past few days—all the heat and temper and frustration—I pour it into that kiss.

And that’s when I really start to fall for him, because Beckham doesn’t run away from the emotions. He takes them, devours them, and demands more.

I stifle a moan as his mouth trails along my jaw and lingers, teasing the delicate skin on my neck. Licking and sucking, creating a line of tension from his tongue straight to my swiftly dampening core. My eyes drift close, limiting my senses so I can focus fully on the bristle of his jaw contrasting with the warm heat of his tongue.

He brings his mouth back to mine. “Do you want this?” he asks quietly, but he doesn’t give me a chance to respond, his mouth and tongue taking mine, thrusting in a familiar, rhythmic pattern. One that has my body clenching, my hips straining to get pressure, friction, anything to relieve the ache.

“Do you want this?” he repeats. The deepness of his voice travels through me, every cell vibrating in one response.

”Yes,” I gasp, surprising myself with my quick surrender. But then, isn’t this what I’ve always wanted? To finally have someone see me with all my imperfections and still want me. It’s intoxicating.

Beckham takes me at my word. He leans back, eyes locked on my face as the hand on my thigh moves.

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