My Cruel Lover (Wicked Poison 3)

Chapter 23

Jacinta

The relief to have him in my arms, holding me with his little hands wrapped around my waist, is indescribable.

He is my life.

I love him more than life itself.

Everything I do, I do for Oliver.

We stay like that, him cuddling me, until Oliver pulls away, smiling.

“Can I play with Winter now, Mom?”

I nod, wiping my tears away as Shandy comes and sits next to me on the porch. She pulls me in with a one-arm hug and squeezes. “You’ll be all right. You got this.”

And I believe her.

I do.

“What do you plan to do about the Beckham situation?” she asks.

August came back with Oliver in Beckham’s car but without Beckham. I didn’t ask questions because I was so happy to see Oliver home safely.

Fine with not a scratch.

Healthy.

Happy.

I simply wanted to love on him.

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused.

“Well, you two have had something going on for a while now. Do you plan to continue that? Will you be happy being an every-now-and-then lover?”

“No,” I say truthfully.

“I didn’t think so, and I’m afraid that’s all you may ever be to that man. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s different with you than any of the others he’s fucked. But Beckham is almost incapable of affection or love.” She pauses then takes a deep breath. “Unless you are his family or a friend. Are you friends?”

“I don’t even know the answer to that question.”

It’s true. I’m not sure what we are. And I stopped assuming in relationships after Anderson. You know, considering he was already in one and got me knocked up.

“Well, it seems our boy has arrived.” Shandy stands and heads inside.

Beckham gets out of the car, and Archie nods to me before he drives away. It’s dark, and the street light shines on him as he strides up the driveway toward me. Even though his eyes are as dark as a stormy night, I can feel his gaze penetrate me. Soaking into my bones.

“He’s home,” is the first thing Beckham says.

“Thank you,” I say in reply. Standing, I reach out and wrap my arms around his neck. He doesn’t hold me back at first, simply lets me hold onto him, and I’m thankful that he does.

A few seconds in, his hands come around my waist and he clutches me to him, so close I feel all of him.

I pull back, knowing what I need to do. Closing my eyes, taking a deep breath, and then opening them again, I say breathlessly, “I think we should stop seeing each other.” He would have heard the words croak as they left my mouth.

The doubt as I said them.

The undeniable uncertainty they scream.

But I mean each and every word.

I need to focus on Oliver and me.

Just the two of us for now.

“Your focus is on you and your work. And as you said before, I’m just a fuck. I need to focus on Oliver, so something like this can never happen again,” I tell him.

He still hasn’t spoken.

Not one single word.

“Beckham.”

We turn to Oliver, who’s at the door. He runs down the steps and into Beckham’s arms. Beckham’s eyes find mine, his mouth in a thin line, he’s breathing deeply.

“Winter said I wasn’t allowed to play on her Xbox again,” Oliver says, pulling back.

“Of course you are,” he replies.

“Okay, I have to tell her that.” Oliver runs off back inside with a smile on his face.

“I …”

Do I take my words back?

I know he sees the hesitation in my eyes.

When I turn back to him, the look in those dark eyes is going to haunt me, of that I am sure. They will give me nightmares for years to come—dreams that will be impossible to stay away from.

He bites his lip, his two top teeth pulling as he studies me.

Why is he such an asshole?

My eyebrows pull together.

Why do I want him so much?

My jaw clenches.

Even when I know I shouldn’t, I still need and want him.

“You made your bed. Now you have to lie in it,” he replies, and the smirk that follows is cruel. Oh, so cruel.

Why does he have to be my cruel lover?

My head hangs, while a pained expression shows on my face. I simply can’t help it. So I take a step toward him, but he shakes his head and steps back, not wanting me anywhere near him.

Well, that hurts more than I care to admit.

But I’m someone who’s familiar with hurt. It’s basically my middle name. A stray tear leaves my eye and runs down my cheek.

Beckham’s watching me with those dark storm-ridden eyes, but he hasn’t walked away yet. Yet, being the operative word.

“I …” I’m at a loss for any words to give him. How can you tell someone you think you love that it’s simply not going to work? Especially after you told them you no longer want them and that it will never work.