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“Gladly. When you give me the fucking keys to my La Ferrari!” he snarled. He pushed the door open and scanned the dingy place, kicking it shut behind him.
“If you’re looking for Glenn, he’s gone,” she said.
He stopped searching, and exhaled, his body relaxing. How the fuck did she know he was scanning the room for Glenn? Appeased, he turned to her. “You all right? Will he be coming back for his fucking keys, too?” He smiled at her, but she didn’t return the smile.
He shoved his hands into his pocket to keep from reaching out and hauling her to him and kissing the air out of her. The truth was, the relief he felt knowing Glenn was gone was indescribable. He’d only seen her less than twenty-four hours ago, and he couldn’t get her
off his mind not even for a second.
“No to both,” she said.
He sat down on the small bed and pulled her to his lap. “Then what’s going on? Talk to me.” He softened his tone, concerned over the sadness in her eyes.
“You’re the last person I want to discuss this with.” She squirmed to try to get off him, but he stilled her hips.
“Why?”
She made a pained sound and turned her head away.
He seized her chin and turned her to face him, her eyes misty and dark and lonely, and he dropped and gentled his voice even more. “Because it’s me you want?” he asked.
She closed her eyes to avoid his gaze.
“Is it?” he insisted.
“Yes! What? You want to gloat? Go right ahead and gloat.”
She tried to get away but he secured her with one arm curled around her waist, forcing her to stay on his lap.
“I think I will gloat,” he teased her. “It’s been ten years. You mean to tell me you’ve been carrying a torch for me all this time?”
She stiffened, and he’d been holding her for the past minute, trying to talk to her, ignoring the fact that she was wearing his sweatshirt, and it had ridden high up her thigh, and he was as hard as iron. He slipped one hand underneath and stroked her skin along the inside of her thigh. “Talk to me, Sandy.”
“I hate you,” she mumbled. “I don’t see why my body doesn’t get the memo.”
Slipping his hand higher, up her abdomen, he realized her nipples were up at attention, and he flicked one with tender care, feeling it spring back up after he pressed it with his thumb. He was buzzing with desire again, surprised he was wanting her this much, this loud, boisterous little thief he’d grown up to love/hate and have fantasies about. “Maybe we just need to give it what it wants. What it needs. This sweet little body of yours.”
“It needs me to kick its ass,” she grumbled.
He could’ve laughed, but instead the thought of her ass aroused him beyond measure. He shifted her so that she straddled him with one easy move. Sandy stiffened, and her reaction aroused him even more.
“This ass needs tender loving care, not to be kicked,” he murmured as he slipped both hands around her back, to cup the generous flesh and knead it in his palms. He eased his hands into her panties from behind and caressed for a minute, then allowed his middle finger to dip between the crevice of her buttocks and tease and taunt her there too.
He pushed a fingertip into her backside and when she gasped, he took her mouth in a rapacious kiss. “How many things of mine have you taken?” he asked in a thick, guttural voice.
“I…don’t know.” Her voice thickened with desire, and her eyes were barely open, she was this aroused by him.
As aroused as he was.
He inserted his finger deeper, feeling her pussy go wet against his cock—separated only by the flimsy fabric of her panties and his pants. “Yes you do, you do know how many things of mine you have taken,” he crooned.
“Twenty-three,” she admitted.
“What have you taken?” he asked, nuzzling her neck, rocking his hips upward so that she could feel his hardness against her wet spot.
“I have socks and underwear and sweatshirts, a T shirt, and a few belts and ties.”
“Reach between our bodies, grab a condom from my pocket, put it on my dick and put me inside you, Sandy,” Beckham said as he lifted her gently by the hips.
