Wicked Truths (Hunt Legacy Duology 2)

‘Hardly ever.’ I will never admit my mind catches me off guard too often with wondering. But I think he knows.

He smiles. He definitely knows. ‘Take your clothes off. You can leave your knickers. For now.’

The tremors of need in me are instant, savaging my body. I’m wide awake now.

I start to strip down, my line of sight never straying from his. I unzip my dress slowly and pull the material away from my body, letting it tumble to the floor at my feet, but when I think his gaze might follow its path down, he chooses to keep my eyes. My hands go to my back and unclasp my bra and my already hard nipples turn to bullets once I’m free from the pink satin. But his sparkling eyes still don’t stray from mine.

I wait for instructions, but none come.

Then his hands move towards the waist of his jeans. Slowly. Torturously. I want to scream. On the inside, I am. ‘Becker, please don’t—’

‘Shhhh.’ He unleashes his sexy shush, silencing me abruptly, and I start to fidget, impatient. He smiles victoriously, cranking up the heat in the room to unbearable levels. Nimble hands work his belt leisurely, each motion – the pull of the buckle, the feed of the leather through his belt loops – undertaken to have maximum impact on my patience levels.

‘Struggling?’ he asks, dropping the belt to the floor. It lands with a thud as if to tease me, to emphasise the fact that I’m one step closer to naked Becker. I mildly nod and fix my eyes on the fly of his jeans. ‘Me too.’ He lazily unfastens the button, followed by the zip, and the red waistband of his boxers appears. Power red. It’s appropriate for the moment, because he is certifiably king of my world.

His jeans are pushed down his thighs, and I blink, moistening my eyeballs before I focus on the vision of his white boxers wrapped around thick thighs that could crush me. I concentrate, like if I stare long enough and hard enough, I might be able to burn the material away. Becker ups the ante when he cups himself over his boxers, his jeans halfway down his legs.

That’s it. He’s provoking me, pushing me. He’s gone too far. I move forward.

‘Hey,’ he barks, and like a robot programmed to obey his command, I stop. ‘You. Will. Wait.’

‘How long?’ I push the question through a tight jaw.

‘How long would you wait for me?’ he counters calmly, dropping his hold of his arousal and bending slightly to push his jeans to his ankles. He kicks them off and takes his hands to the red waistband of his boxers. ‘How long, Eleanor?’ He slowly drags them down his thighs, and his impressive cock springs free proudly. ‘How long would you wait for this?’ His palm wraps around it possessively.

I rip my enthralled eyes away from his groin and reveal the desperation flooding them.

He sees it, even from all the way over there. How long would I wait? My mind’s not my own right now, not functioning to its full ability, yet I sense there is more to his question than meets the eye. How long did his grandmother wait for Gramps? How long did his mother wait for his dad? While they were searching the world for that sculpture?

The truth is, I would wait, for however long it takes him to find what he’s looking for. But I won’t confirm that. I mustn’t confirm that.

He widens his stance and relinquishes his hold of his erection. He looks so magnificent. Tall, powerful, defined. He’s art personified. ‘How quickly do you think you can make it to me?’ His lips pucker, making them look even more plump and lush than usual. It distracts me for a moment.

I gauge the distance between us, seriously considering my answer and being quick about it. If I run, and I’m willing to, not long at all. ‘Five seconds.’

His head nods agreeably. ‘That quick?’

Is he testing me? Challenging me? ‘Yes.’ I’ll sprint if I have to. I watch him crouch and go to the pocket of his discarded jeans, all the while looking at me. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

He finds what he’s looking for and rises slowly, looking pleased with himself. He has something small in his hand, but I can’t see what. He holds it up, and my curiosity gets the better of me. ‘What’s that?’

‘Five seconds?’

‘Yes.’

I catch the most roguish, boyish grin forming, just as the room falls into darkness. ‘And now?’ I hear him ask in the blackness. Oh, he’s playing all right.

‘Ten seconds,’ I answer cockily, visualising the Grand Hall in my mind. I’ve been here long enough to know my path through the art and antiques.

I start to move forward, remembering the large Victorian table to my left, the Rembrandt to my right, and the Louis XIV chair up ahead, but the odd sound of a surge of energy halts my progression. ‘What’s that?’ I ask, starting a futile spin on the spot, searching for the source of the noise. It’s a constant whirring sound, like something is charging up. ‘Becker?’ My hands come up in front of me, feeling at thin air. I don’t like this. The blindness, the exposure, the vulnerability. ‘Becker?’