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I’m seized on a soft laugh and hauled back into his chest, being squeezed to a point I think my bones might crumble to dust under the pressure. ‘You think I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself while you’re naked in my bed?’ He chuckles, kissing the back of my head. ‘Think again, princess.’
I have about as much fight in me as Eve did when that serpent offered her the tempting apple. Not a lot at all. If being held in Becker’s arms is a lovely feeling, then being locked in his strong embrace under the sheets is dreamy. Every hard inch of him is pressed into my back, our bodies spooning delightfully. It adds a whole new dimension to gratification.
‘Hmm,’ he says, squeezing me to him. ‘Naked cuddles.’
I smile, closing my eyes and savouring the feel of him. ‘You should make up with your grandad,’ I say quietly into my darkness. He was so upset, and time shouldn’t be wasted on bad feelings when life is so precious. Becker should know that.
He’s silent for a few moments, breathing low into my hair. ‘Turn over,’ he whispers, releasing me and pulling at my shoulder impatiently. I shuffle over until I’m facing him. His head is resting on the pillow, a palm under his cheek, and his hazel eyes are glimmering in the soft light. The sheets are pulled down my body a little until my breasts are exposed. He studies my nipples as his finger lightly swirls around the dark circle of one. They harden to bullets and he flicks me a cheeky grin. ‘I told you, he’ll get over it.’
I try to hide my doubt. He looked positively furious. ‘And will Mrs Potts get over this?’ I sway my finger between us casually. Suspicion made her twitch a little. Confirmation might see me faced with the Incredible Hulk.
He stops with his toying of my nipple and sighs, rolling on to his back. ‘Probably not. I’m not a commitment person. I break hearts, Eleanor. Besides my job, it’s what I’m best at.’
His admission stings like a bitch, making my brain swell with a barrage of doubt, the most worrying fighting its way to the front, refusing to be ignored. ‘Will you break my heart?’ I can’t forget what his grandad bellowed at him. Stop using women as therapy. Does he see me as therapy?
His head drops to the side and he gazes at me. ‘That depends if you’re stupid enough to fall in love with me.’ He almost winces at his brutal answer, shaking his head a touch and returning his attention to the dark ceiling. I’m eternally grateful, because now he can’t see the hurt that’s twisting my features. I roll on to my back and look up, considering the benefits of leaving before I let him worm his way into my heart any more. Tears pinch at the back of my eyes when I reluctantly accept that it’s already too late.
‘Don’t fall in love with me, princess,’ he whispers. ‘Because I’d hate myself for ever if I hurt you.’
I clench my eyes shut to hold the tears that threaten to break free. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about,’ I assure him with feigned grit. His request is cowardly – like he’s limiting damage control, assuring blame can’t be placed at his door. He told me not to fall in love with him, so if I do, it’s entirely my fault if he breaks my heart. The fact that his tender gestures and lovely words are helping me along the way to falling will not feature in Becker’s mind, which begs the question why he’s being so lovely. He told me not to dwell on the past and not to fear the future. He’s a hypocrite. But I’m slowly figuring him out. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing, but he can’t help doing it. Is his easy affection towards me coming naturally? Can’t he stop it? Because if so, this could be ground-breaking for Becker. Would it be stupid of me to think I could be the one to change everything? He said it himself. This could be something fucking incredible.
‘Have you ever loved a woman?’ I ask outright.
‘I loved my mother and my grandmother.’
‘And no one else?’
‘Nope,’ he answers decisively. I believe him. ‘Love is a waste of time.’
‘You won’t let anyone in,’ I breathe on impulse, perplexed by my own automatic reply. He’s scared to love – or to love again, even if it’s a different kind of love. It’s still attachment.
‘Why would I?’ he asks, an irritated edge to his words. It doesn’t bode well, but then again, he’s already let me in. He knows that. I don’t have a chance to remind him, because he goes on, his irritation flaming by the second. ‘I need no one. They only die on you when you become attached. Gramps had Nana, and she died. He was crushed. Hasn’t been the same since. My dad had my mum, who died. Another man crushed. Then Dad died and practically finished Gramps off.’ There’s venom in his voice. Pure hatred.
