‘Good fucking morning,’ I sigh, feeling the weight of the world lift from my shoulders.
Understanding.
We lay there for an age, silent, until I can’t take his heaviness any longer.
I wriggle until he lifts from me, looking at me in question. I answer by forcing him to his front. He goes willingly, easily, and I straddle his thighs so I get the whole of his back in view, including his arse. For the first time ever, I’m not drawn to his delectable derrière. My eyes are on his glorious tattoo. I ignore the scratches that I put there.
The elaborate art brings a smile of wonder to my face. I see everything I saw before, all of the intricate detail, it all swelling before my eyes. Tilting my head, I ghost my finger through the UK, letting it drag south until it’s drifting through the Mediterranean. There are even dashes of ink that represent the waves of the sea, the names of countries blended into the shaded areas here and there, making you need to cross your eyes in order to see the words more clearly. It’s truly incredible.
‘Eleanor, I . . .’ Becker’s words fade to nothing, and my eyes climb the artwork until I have his perfect profile in view, waiting for whatever he’s trying to get straight in his head. He sighs. It’s a frustrated sigh. ‘You irritate the shit out of me.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I know.’
‘I love it.’
I smile and continue with my studying of the elegant tattoo blanketing his broad back, moving my eyes across the disguised numbers buried in the waves. My lack of response must make him curious, because after only a few seconds, he turns over beneath me and pulls me down by my upper arms until we’re nose-to-nose. He narrows his eyes on me, his mind clearly racing. But I remain silent, just staring at him. His lips press together, then he bites on his bottom one, then he flips his eyes up to my red hair, then down to my flushed cheeks, and then, finally, back to my waiting eyes. He practically scowls at me, turning my fixed frown into a hesitant smile. ‘How did this happen?’ he asks, showing genuine wonder.
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. I did everything to stop it, but it proved unstoppable. I’m just so happy that it’s something Becker is equally perplexed by.
‘I told you not to fall in love with me.’
‘Did you tell yourself not to fall in love with me?’
‘Every fucking second of every fucking minute of every motherfucking day.’ He’s truly exhausted by it.
I grin. ‘And how did that work out for you?’
He laughs under his breath and bites the end of my nose softly. ‘Work it out for yourself, princess.’ He sighs on a shake of his gorgeous head, as he pushes me up so I’m sitting, straddled on his lap. Then he takes my hands and starts to play with my fingers, weaving and fiddling while he watches. ‘This is huge, Eleanor,’ he says quietly. I could laugh, but I don’t because he’s so right. For Becker, the man who’ll never allow anyone in, this is fucking colossal. Like ground-breaking huge.
‘I know that.’ I try to pacify him, like I’m holding his hand so he can get through this revelation. I can only hope he holds my hand, too.
‘But if you feel like I do,’ he goes on, keeping his eyes on our hands. ‘Then that’s good, right?’ Looking up at me, he gives me a tiny smile. An unsure smile.
‘Right,’ I exhale, and his twiddling fingers stop with their playing.
‘How do you feel?’ he asks. This is so strange. He’s like a child who has found they’re in an unfamiliar situation and is seeking reassurance – any comfort to put them at ease. And I realise, that’s exactly what this is. He’s frightened, and it’s understandable after all of the losses he’s suffered. His mum, his dad, his nana.
The anger.
The deep-seated fury that’s eating him alive from the inside out. Mr H’s blind fury, the words he yelled at Becker when he found out he’d ripped off Brent Wilson. Revenge. I want to know about his father, ask why he holds the Wilsons responsible, but I’m also very wary of the nerves I might hit. The pain I will spike.
You’ve taken enough from me already. You’re not taking Eleanor.
The revelation I’m faced with right now, the fact that Becker’s in love with me, is causing him enough stress. I need to let him get used to it, get used to me, before I ask any more about the Hunt family legacy. Shit, I need to wrap my own head around this, too.
A sharp flick of Becker’s hips upward knocks me from my daydream, and I blink my eyes, finding him regarding me closely. ‘How do you feel?’ he asks again.