Not that I don’t want to kiss every inch of her. Even knowing the wrath my father would have unleashed if I had missed his call yesterday was barely enough to pry me away. Make no mistake either, the consequences would have been severe because the weekly sessions with the old man aren’t just normal how-you-holding-up chats.
My father does weekly video conferences because telephone calls alone can’t make sure I’m living up to the Beckett name. And living up to the Beckett name means I must look and play the part, even if it’s 90% bull shit and bravado. So I make sure no douchebags manage a punch to the visible goods. I dress like I am going to church—though the last time the Beckett family set foot in a place of worship was before I was born—and I make sure I have all the stats available. Grades, Coach’s weekly weigh-in, passing yards, fumbles, we cover it all.
Ladies and gents, please raise a glass for Ian Aldrich Beckett, heir to Beckett Enterprises, which has its poisonous talons in everything from fiber optic internet to commercial real estate. Wealth, beauty, power, anything you could ever want was his from birth. Sounds good, right?
Don’t be fooled. Allegiances and loyalties run thick as oil in the Beckett bloodline, and the pedigree is above everything else.
I live a life of my father’s creation. My destiny was set in stone before I was born. Speaking of my birth, I’m pretty sure my entry into the cosmos was just another step in my father’s business plan.
I am puppet, mastered by men who died decades before I was born. I have no choices, no decisions, no options—not ones that matter anyway—only inevitabilities. But I’m not a puppet when I’m with her. Harlow is real. She is the only goddamn thing that’s real.
I groan as the memory of yesterday hits me like a lightning bolt straight to the dick. Her face as she came all over my fingers is forged into my brain with steel and the smell of sex. Her blue-eyed stare a thousand galaxies away, the beautiful bow of her parted lips, her nipples, rigid peaks barely sheathed by the thin satin of her shirt, her back arching off the bed as she fisted my fingers, all of it stays there, ingrained. My brain knows it and by the tent pitched between my legs, my cock does too.
A hiss escapes my clenched teeth. My dick feels like it could hammer through a wall at the moment. God, I could probably come buckets if I would just give in, but I’m not in the mood for self-indulgence.
Not that I have never indulged. I am a hot-blooded, all-American male after all. But now I’ve tasted her skin, felt her wetness slick on my fingertips, heard her mewl my name, and nothing—not one damn thing—could ever compare to the real thing. I am an addict, and she is the fix I crave.
Early morning sunlight streams in from the window on the opposite side of my bedroom, spilling rays of gold across the hardwood floor. I snatch my phone from the nightstand at my side. It lights up to a photograph of the Academy’s stadium, taken by Raven and spread around like herpes by our proud parents. It’s the gridiron, blazing green and white under the lights of the field. I am front and center with my brothers at my side, seconds before the final play of last week’s game, but we aren’t the main attraction.
No, we are blurry, the lens focused on the crowd standing and cheering behind us. Center row of the bleachers is the siren that hijacks my dreams and steals my every waking thought. Stormy’s attention is on her neighbor, her mouth open as she laughs at something Mr. Balding-Sweater-Vest said, her hands raised as though she’s been clapping.
When she thinks no one is looking, she lets her guard down—that two-inch thick armor of cocksure comebacks and smart-ass retorts—and it is beautiful to behold. She is a white-haired angel among men, and none of us—me included—deserve to even look at her shadow.
Not that I won’t stop trying…I am a selfish bastard after all. Even thinking of her with someone else, makes the beast that hides beneath this pretty face roar and snap its chains tight. I knew it the moment I first saw her—and I’m sure as fuck certain of it now—I have to have her. Without her, I am nothing. She is an unwavering light I stumble toward in the darkness.
Still in bed, I take a moment and enjoy the photograph before I unlock my phone. Aurora sent me something in the middle of the night. I’m pretty sure it’s a nude, and I swipe it away like it is a spider. I don’t check the time. I’m going to split wide open if I don’t speak with her. My thumbs fly across the screen.
Me: good morning, beautiful.
Her response is instantaneous, and the ugly thing inside my chest purrs in satisfaction.
Stormy: What are you planning for me today, Beckett?
I smile. As I type the words, I know they are true.
Me: nothing u can’t handle.
Then I add,
Me: Actually, I was thinking about giving u the day off.
Those three little dots—those infuriating little dots—appear on my screen, and I sit in agony as she types and erases for over a full minute.
Stormy: You sure Aurora will be okay with that?
Smart girl.
Me: The 5 horse(wo?)men r off campus for the long holiday weekend.
Thank you, E.G. Voclain, founding father of the Academy, for your 179th birthday.
It takes her less than three seconds to respond.
Stormy: There are only 4 horsemen.
I snort. Most girls would have ignored the error, if they even knew enough to call me out on it. Harlow is the exception. She always calls me out on my shit.
Me: Aurora isn’t my keeper or my gf or my whatever u r thinking.
Plus the Rules don’t say shit about weekends. Of
