Sugar Free (7 page)

Then Beck is back in complete control and he starts to really pound me hard. He thrusts into me with carnal grunts and animalistic growls. He hits my G-spot over and over again, and all I can do is hang on for the ride, my legs trying to lock around him but flopping uselessly while he holds me up under the backs of my thighs.

“Fuck that feels good,” Beck groans on a deeper-than-deep thrust, and that's all she wrote for me.

My orgasm tears free, and in that moment of superior bliss, I can't care that I left Beck behind because it's the most intense, wonderful feeling in the world.

So intense that I barely notice that Beck goes still within me and then grinds his pelvis hard against mine as he mutters, “I'm coming, baby. Deep in that pussy of mine. Coming so hard.”

Those words…the fact I can feel him jerking inside of me…knocks a mini orgasm loose and I cry out with a relief I didn't know I needed following that super orgasm he just handed to me.

My head falls forward until it's resting on Beck's shoulder and he nuzzles the side of his face against my wet hair.

“Good, Sela?” he asks me, and I can hear the smug confidence in his voice.

We haven't had much to smile about lately, but that causes one to break free. “So good, Beck. So very good.”

“And that's the way it's always going to be,” he says softly, and all I can do is hope and pray that he's right and that our days together aren't numbered.

I wanted to do something normal after having the most bizarre and nerve-racking morning of my life. It's not every day a man hides evidence of a crime to protect his woman.

Feeling mellow after that amazing shower sex, and a bit calmer than I was this morning after discovering the truth about Caroline and JT, I suggested we walk down to the market and pick up something to cook for dinner. It's not something Sela and I do often, preferring to dine out because we're both so busy, and neither one of us is that great in the kitchen on a regular basis. She agreed and we returned with some chicken breasts marinated in pesto sauce, along with some tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil for a simple salad. On impulse, I bought a can of whipped cream and figured we could have dessert in bed later that night.

Working companionably side by side, I prepared the salad while she got the chicken ready to bake. We both sipped on a nondescript Cab we also picked up, both of us okay with the silence. We'd been talking about so much heavy stuff lately that the quiet was actually a bit soothing.

But she broke it all too soon.

“So…where did you—”

“Don't ask, Sela,” I warn her, and then lean over and swat her on the ass. “You don't ever need to know.”

Because no way in hell she needs to know about my trek into the deep forest to conceal what she did. I don't want her ever being put in a position of having to make a choice to reveal that information or not in the future if she was pressed to give it.

I expect her to push at me, but she merely gives an acquiescing sigh and says, “Fine.”

“But I am going to be all nosy and ask about what you and Caroline talked about at lunch today,” I tell her without an ounce of shame.

She turns that lovely face to me, her lips quirking in amusement. “Don't ask.”

“Tell me,” I demand. “Or I shall be forced to put you over my knee.”

She snorts, picks up the pan of chicken, and places it on the top rack of the oven. After closing the door, she turns to me and says, “If that's the consequences for holding my tongue, I'm not telling you a damn thing.”

I jerk my chin upward in acknowledgment of her right to stay silent before placing the knife on the counter. I pick up a dish towel, casually wipe my hands, and then lay it back down. I do this all while Sela watches me with anticipation of my next move.

Which comes lightning fast.

I lunge at her and she squeals, so shocked at my move that she practically runs in place. I bend down, put my shoulder to her stomach, and lift her up over my shoulder. She squirms and I slap her lightly on the ass. “That's just a taste of what you'll get.”

I'm not sure, but I think I hear her sigh an, “Oh yes” as I carry her into the living room.

Falling onto the couch, I manage to twist her on the descent so she comes to rest lying across my lap, and before she can even think to struggle, I bring my hand down hard on her ass. She yelps from the sting and then says in the sexiest voice ever, “God…you better do that to me tonight in bed. And repetitively.”

I laugh and pull her up into a sitting position, turn her so she straddles me, then hold her by the hips. “Tell me what you two talked about.”

Sela gets a redolent smile on her face, which is indicative of the fondness she holds in her heart for Caroline. I'm not sure if it's solely because they share in a horrific experience or because they both love me, but I know without a doubt that these two will become extremely close one day.

If we can get past all this shit.

Bringing her hands to my shoulders, Sela leans in and kisses me quickly on my lips. When she pulls back she says, “I tried to get Caroline on my side to gang up on you so you'd agree to let me go to the police and tell them what happened.”

I stiffen and my amused smile turns into a glare.

Before I can chastise her though, she says, “Relax, stud. She talked me off the ledge.”

My body instantly deflates, and while I've been in protective mode of Sela since she showed up bloody in my office yesterday, I don't think I realized how strong she still felt about this issue. I thought it was a dead horse, but apparently it needs more beating.

“There's no reason to go to them,” I tell her with what I hope is my most reasonable voice. “Do I need to go over how I came to this conclusion again?”

“One more time,” she says, her eyes somber and searching for me to say something that will make it okay in her heart to not step up to the plate and take responsibility.

I sigh with slight agitation but I give it to her one more time again. “Sela…you and I both know that you had no choice. It was clearly self-defense. But there are no unbiased witnesses to the event, and the police are going to focus on your motive. You have a good one and you know it since you were in fact planning on killing him at some point. And let's not forget that you went into his home with a gun.”

“When you say it like that,” she says softly, eyes lowering, “you make it sound like I'm totally guilty.”

“No,” I say urgently, bending my head and getting into her space so she'll look at me. “I make it sound like we have a fucked-up legal system and you got caught in a really shitty situation that doesn't have a good resolution. So we're making the best of it, and right now, if we're lucky, there's going to be nothing that ties you to JT's death.”

“But they could come after you—”

“There's nothing that ties me either,” I remind her, although I'm painfully aware that I have just as much motive as she does. If the police ever get wind of that, they are going to sniff very hard at me.

A knocking on my door jolts my senses and Sela and I both go utterly still, our eyes locked on each other. Twenty-four hours ago, the police were knocking on that same door to tell us about JT.

Sela slowly climbs off my lap, smoothing down nonexistent wrinkles in her jeans. I push up off the couch and touch my knuckles under her chin. I smile at her encouragingly and whisper, “It's all going to be fine. I promise.”

She nods at me uncertainly but puts on a brave face. I walk to the door and hesitantly look through the peephole, expecting beyond doubt to see Detectives DeLatemer and Denning standing there.

Instead I see the pinched face of my mother, and for a brief moment, I almost wish it was the police coming to question me further.

I open the door, swing it wide because it would be rude not to invite her in, and say, “Mother…this is a surprise.”

Helen North is unequivocally a stunning woman, and she's dressed impeccably in something that's probably labeled Chanel or Halston. She cuts me a sharp look and walks in amid a swirl of designer perfume before whirling on me as I shut the door.

“I'm very worried about your father, Beck,” she says without any preamble. “I think you need to talk to him.”

With a sigh, I pinch the bridge of my nose while briefly squeezing my eyes shut. “What's wrong?”

“I don't know,” she says in a clipped formal tone. No warmth in her concern. “He's been holed up in his office since we got the news about JT and won't come out. He won't talk to me. I'm extremely worried.”

She says all of this in a rush, and as she does so, I notice her leaning in toward me imperceptibly, her eyes flicking back and forth between my own.

As if she's trying to gauge my reaction to her words?

And then it hits me…she knows about JT being my father's son. I'm not sure how she knows, because fuck, I thought only my dad, JT's mom, and I were in on the dirty secret. But seems like everyone knows, and I have to wonder if Colin Townsend does too.

It's what I hate most about my family. The deceit and the lies and the cover-ups. Ironic that I'm perpetrating a cover-up myself, but that's different.

Then again, it's always different when it involves the one you love, right?

Because I don't have the time, inclination or mental fortitude to even begin to get into this with my mother, I play dumb. “I'm sure he's just upset over the shock of this. It's been hard on all of us.”

She shakes her head almost violently to deny my denial of the truth she wants, and that's when her attention is caught by Sela standing in the living room. My mother goes stock-still and I turn to see Sela looking back at her like a deer caught in the headlights. She swallows hard and says, “Hello, Mrs. North. It's good to see you again, although I'm sorry it's under these circumstances.”

My mother definitely has rude down to a science, particularly when she believes someone is beneath her. I tense up knowing she's not going to be nice to Sela.

And she's not, leveling her venom in a masterful way. She turns her back on Sela without even acknowledging her greeting. It speaks volumes that Sela's wearing a V-neck T-shirt that doesn't cover the vivid bruises at the bottom of her neck and my mother didn't even notice. Piercing me with a commanding look, my mother says to me with a shooing motion with her hand, “You need to have her leave, Beck, so we can talk privately.”

I can't help it. It's inappropriate as hell, but I let out a bark of a laugh at the ludicrousness of this woman who birthed me. And then I can't stop laughing.

I laugh so hard tears form in my eyes and I almost double over, my stomach hurts so much from the hilarity.

My mother doesn't find it so funny and hisses at me, “Honestly, Beckett. You are being disrespectful.”

Straightening up, I swipe at the wetness from my eyes, wind down the full-belly laughs to a chuckle before turning it into a smirk. “Disrespectful, Mother? You're seriously saying that when you just disrespected Sela in her own home?”

“We need to talk privately—”

“Or how about when you disrespected your own daughter by trying to keep her rape silent?” I growl at my mom, all humor over the situation having fled and replaced with scorching anger. Years of anger I'd let simmer.

My mother blinks in surprise, as I've never gone head-to-head with her before, not because I didn't want to, but because I was being respectful of her role as my mother. It appears my own respect has seemed to have flown away as well.

“Beck,” Sela says quietly from the living room, but I hold a hand out, indicating for her to stay out of it. She closes her mouth, but out of my peripheral vision, I see her turn and walk down the hallway to our bedroom, giving my mother the privacy she requested.

But I don't take my eyes off Mother. They are locked and I'm loaded, the past twenty-four hours having created such a stressful burden on my shoulders it didn't take much for me to snap.

Just a quick little visit from Mommy Dearest.

“Or how about the disrespect you've shown to your granddaughter…your own flesh and blood?” I ask my mom quietly but with no less menace in my attitude. “Wanting her to be aborted.”

My mother pales slightly but sticks her chin out aggressively. “I stand by that advice; Caroline didn't need—”

“You don't get to talk about Caroline to me,” I say, cutting her off, and walk into her space. Leaning my head down, I come almost nose to nose with my mother, anger vibrating within me for all of the terrible ways my mother failed as a mother. “You don't get to talk about Ally. You don't get to talk about your worries about Dad, or the fact your house was once featured in
Architectural Digest
. You don't get to talk about anything with me, Mother. I'm done with you.”

She gasps, bringing her hand to flutter at the gold necklace that sits at the base of her throat. “Beck…you don't say things like that to your mother.”

I know I shouldn't say it, but she opened the door too wide for me not to. Besides, she clearly doesn't get what I'm saying or that she's been a miserable failure.

So I say it. “You're not my mother. Now, if you'll please leave.”

She stares at me a moment, and I might have considered her potentially part human if she'd have at least the moral grace to look as if I hurt her feelings. Instead, her eyes go cold and she squares her shoulders. “I'll have a talk with your father about this.”