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‘Precisely.’ He grabs me with conviction, sinking his fingers into my hair and gripping hard. ‘Any final words, Miss Cole?’
‘Yes.’ I link my hands around his shoulders and push my forehead to his. ‘This doesn’t count as my bonus.’
His eyes gleam in wonder. ‘And what I’m about to do doesn’t count as sexual harassment.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
Our mouths smash together violently, Becker pushing me into the door roughly. My mind is bombarded with a million memories from last night. Amazing memories. Memories I want to keep for ever. And memories I’m about to build on.
My hands take on a mind of their own, pulling at his shirt, wrenching it from his trousers so I can slide my hands over his chest. I moan my happiness when my palms find his stomach, my fingers tracing and discovering the perfect ripples all over again. He rolls us suddenly and his back slams against the door harshly, creating a deafening thud.
‘Fucking hell.’ He grabs my spare hand and directs it to the bulge beneath his trousers. I squeeze as I pant, and he clenches his eyes shut, sliding his hands on to my bum and massaging gently. The light pressure on my tender cheeks reminds me of the last time he was there. ‘Me and your arse are going to become very friendly, Eleanor.’
I moan and shamelessly push into his hands, nibbling on his chin, then I’m rolling, my back against the door again. His hands move to the waist of my jeans and slowly drift to the front, skimming my skin lightly on their way. Every inch of me is tingling, my mind spacing out as he tackles my mouth again.
Bang.
My body jolts forward, pushing into Becker’s, but I don’t give up his mouth.
Bang.
I fly forward again, this time with more force, and Becker abruptly drops my lips and me.
He looks past me to the closed door that I’m currently propped against, then to me with worried eyes.
‘Damn door.’ Mrs Potts’s irate tone drifts into the room, blanketing the heavy breathing that was saturating the erotic space a moment ago.
My eyes bulge with panic and my hand slaps over my mouth.
‘Shit,’ Becker says, backing away, his hands urgently tucking in his shirt. I fly forwards once again, except this time I don’t have Becker to bounce off, but he reaches for me, just catching me before I stumble to my knees. ‘She’s a burly old bird,’ he grumbles, steadying me quickly before moving away and leaving me to fend for myself.
I spin around, not knowing what to do, certain my face is red and my clothes all out of place. It’s a dead giveaway, but before I have time to contemplate my best move, the door swings open with brute force, revealing a rankled Mrs Potts. ‘The door’s sticking again,’ she barks, grabbing it and swinging it back and forth a few times.
I take her momentary focus on the door as an opportunity to dash to the nearest bookshelf, grabbing the first book I can lay my hands on.
‘I’ll have someone look at it,’ Becker says, and I look up to see him fighting a smile as he watches me flick through the pages aimlessly.
I give him a pained look and a roll of my eyes. He looks perfectly composed, while I’m battling to rein in my overwhelming panic. I’m fidgeting, and that only becomes worse when I feel Mrs Potts looking at me. ‘What happened to you?’ she asks.
I want to die on the spot. Immune? ‘Nothing,’ I squeak, placing the book back and taking hold of the shelf, leaning against it casually. It’s not casual at all. I must look as guilty as I feel. I let go and ruffle my hair. Becker looks like he could fall about laughing at any moment, but he soon puts a lid on it when Mrs Potts flicks her suspicious eyes his way.
‘What?’ he asks, cocky as ever. He’s loving this. The daring maverick.
‘You tell me.’
‘What would you like me to tell you?’
‘Don’t give me your lip, Becker boy.’ She waves a threatening finger in his face, taking a peek at me again, no doubt seeking further evidence. I shy away, unwittingly giving her that evidence.
‘Nothing to tell,’ Becker says, unconvincingly.
She scoffs and wanders over to him, all casual, looking him up and down. Under any other circumstances, Becker cautiously backing away from the little old lady would be comical. I’m too worried to laugh, though. Mrs Potts has warned me, and I know she’s warned Becker, too. She doesn’t approve. She knows the consequences, as do I.
Becker only stops when the backs of his legs meet a couch, and Mrs Potts eyes come to rest on the collar of his shirt. She slowly reaches up and takes the corner lightly between her fingers, musing thoughtfully. I frown, but then get all kinds of worried when she turns and slowly makes her way to me. Like Becker, I back up until I’m cornered against the bookcase. She purses her lips and narrows her eyes. ‘Nice shade of lipstick you have on today, dear.’
