Pretty Little Mistake

I’m exhausted by the time we return to Beckham’s room after our early Thanksgiving dinner with his parents. I’ve always loved the Sullivans. They’re both kind people, warm, unlike my parents. Beckham’s mom hugged me so many times tonight that I lost count. His father was thrilled about us being together, and about the baby.

I can’t help but think about how they’re going to feel when they find out we’re lying about being a couple. I’m not like Beckham: I don’t like lying to people I care about.

Stifling a yawn, I riffle through my bag for pajamas.

Beckham stretches his arms above his head, his belt already undone. My mouth waters at the slip of stomach revealed above his pants. I swear pregnancy has turned me into some sort of sex-crazed demon.

Before he can notice me practically drooling after him, I sprint to the attached bathroom to shower. I set my change of clothes on the counter, then reach over to turn the shower on.

I tear my sweater over my head and let it drop to the floor. The door opens behind me, outlining Beckham. He stares at me in the mirror, hunger in his eyes.

“You ran away awfully quickly, honeybee.”

“I want to shower.” I sound stronger than I feel.

“I don’t think that’s what you want.” He steps fully into the bathroom before shutting the door behind him. Steam begins to fill the room almost immediately.

I flip around to face him. “How do you know what I want?”

In a blink he’s in front of me, my face gripped in one of his hands. The pressure is almost painful—almost. “Because I know you better than anyone else.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to argue that fact before he kisses me. Rough and deep, his tongue plunges into my mouth, claiming ownership. My butt hits the back of the marble counter. Grabbing me beneath the ass, he positions me on top of it. He pulls away slightly, his eyes hooded and lips puffy. His fingers dig into my skin, tugging at my leggings to yank them down. They keep getting stuck, and he curses when they wrap around my feet. When they’re finally off, he sinks to his knees on the tile floor, looking up at me like some sort of knight kneeling at his queen’s feet.

“You want me to lick this pussy?” I nod, practically whimpering. “What about your clit?” His thumb hovers over the sensitive nub, not touching but so close that it’s impossible not to imagine how it would feel to have him touch me there. “Want me to suck it, baby? I can make you feel so good. I know you want me. I know you need me.”

Something vulnerable fills his eyes at that last comment, like maybe he’s worried I don’t need him. I’m too turned on to dwell on it. He followed me in here, after all, and he’s the one on his knees. How can anyone expect me to have a rational thought in a moment like this?

He turns his head, kissing the inside of my right knee. Then the left.

“Please,” I beg, my back arching. My breasts heave with every breath I take. I swear I can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs.

He looks up at me, blue eyes surrounded by an enviable fan of black lashes. “I love it when you beg.”

He buries his head between my legs, a cry flying out of me. I slap a hand over my mouth, thinking of his parents, which is downright silly, since this house is so massive and their room is nowhere near this one. I can scream as loud as I want. There’s no one to hear me.

He licks and sucks, bringing me to the brink and backing away, then doing it all over again.

My fingers delve into his hair, holding him there so I can ride his face. From the way he moans, I can tell he doesn’t mind it one bit.

Finally, he lets me come. I’m still shaking from the power of the orgasm when he stands up and gets rid of his pants. There’s nothing graceful in his movements. He’s just as desperate as I am, and the faster he gets his pants off, the sooner he’s inside me.

Gripping his cock, he lines it up with my entrance and slams inside without preamble, his arms wrapping around me to hold me steady when my body rocks back.

His breath fans against my ear, and I love when he goes deeper and moans. It lets me know that I’m not the only one lost in us.

“You’re so fucking good.” His fingers dig into my hips, forcing me to meet his thrusts. “I love fucking you.” He kisses my neck. “You’re so hot.” Each word is practically panted in my ear with every thrust.

Then he’s pulling out, my mewl of protest echoing in the bathroom. He strokes himself, up and down in rough, hard pulls, his dark brows drawn.

“Get off the counter and turn around.”

My legs are shaking, but I do as he says. With a hand on my back, he pushes me down against the counter so my ass is in the air. The marble is ice cold against my chest. My nipples pebble against my lace bra, my eyes meeting his in the mirror a second before he slaps my ass, slamming back into me.

“Oh my God!” I cry out, hands sliding against the stone counter in a desperate search for something to hold on to. “Beckham. Yes. Please. Oh. God. Yes.”

He fucks me, holding nothing back, just the way I want and need. My pussy is aching, pulsing, another orgasm building.

My eyes squeeze shut, stars dancing behind my closed lids, when I come.

Beckham’s moans grow louder, his fingers digging into my hips. I won’t be surprised if I’m bruised tomorrow, but I can’t bring myself to care. His body collapses over my back, his hands braced on the counter by my hips, so I don’t feel the entirety of his weight pressing into me.

He pulls out, his semen sticking somewhat to the inside of my thighs.

“Fuck.” His voice is low, gravelly. I watch his reflection in the mirror. A shiver runs down my spine when he gathers the liquid slowly leaking out of me and pushes it back into my aching pussy. A growl rumbles in his chest. “I’ve made a mess of you.” His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Time to clean you up.”

A surprised laugh tears out of my throat when he grabs me around the waist, dragging me into the shower.

He makes good on his promise of cleaning me—after he dirties me up again.

We’re forced to share a bed, since it would seem odd if we didn’t. I wake sometime in the night, my body stiff and hot thanks to the fact that he has me spooned against him, his arm tight around my middle.

I don’t pull away, not at first.

Instead, I give myself a moment to think about what it would be like if this were my reality. If we were a real couple expecting a baby. It’s not as terrifying as I thought it might be. It’s sort of nice.

But that’s not our reality, and I have to accept that it never will be.

Beckham is going to help me raise this baby and be an amazing dad, but that’s it.

The two of us will never be, and I need to dash that foolish hope before it gets out of hand.

The problem?

I think my feelings for him have already grown and I was oblivious to them, and now it’s too late to do anything about it.

Except get my heart broken.

“You know,” Beckham’s dad begins over breakfast the next morning, “I always knew you two would end up together.” He peers at us over the top of his newspaper, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his sharp nose. “Gut instinct, you might say.”

Richard Sullivan smiles at us, smile lines crinkling around his eyes. He looks so happy seeing us together, just like his wife, that I can’t help feeling like the worst person on the planet for going along with this lie.

Beckham rubs his jaw, looking a tad uncomfortable. Maybe lying to them isn’t as easy for him as I thought.

“Do you have any names picked out for the baby?” his mom asks, setting down her cup of tea.

I sip at my glass of water, stalling. “No, not yet. Since we didn’t want to find out the gender, it hasn’t been something we’ve really discussed.”

“What about moving out of the city? With a baby, you should really consider a house. I can get my real estate agent to look into it. I’ll put in a call to her.”

“Mom,” Beckham interjects, “that’s really okay. We’re still figuring things out. On our own.” He tacks the last part on in a soft tone. I’ll give him credit for being firm but not wanting to hurt her feelings.

She frowns anyway. “Oh, of course. That makes sense. But if you two decide to move, please let me know. I have connections.”

“Thanks, Mom. We appreciate it.”

That seems to appease her. My parents wouldn’t be so easily deterred.

“Breakfast is lovely,” I say, changing the subject to the fluffy omelets and fresh-baked scones.

“I’ll tell Martha you loved it.”

Beckham clears his throat. “Yeah, Mom. This is delicious.”

She laughs lightly, her eyes sparkling at her son. “I’m sure it’s definitely better than whatever you feed yourself for breakfast.”

“Mostly protein shakes.”

“See? This is much better. Back to the baby for a moment: Lennon, do you plan to quit your job? Will you need a nanny? I can start interviewing some candidates to narrow it down for you.”

I shoot a panicked look at Beckham. I love his mom, but a nanny? Really? I know it’s normal—my brother and I had a nanny—but I’m not my parents. I don’t want to shuck my child off on someone else full time. When I’m at work, I know I’ll need help, but that’s the most I want to accept.

“We don’t need a nanny.” Beckham’s almost scarily firm. “If we need your help with anything, we’ll ask.” Hurt flashes across her face this time, and I can tell that he feels marginally bad. “I appreciate it, Mom, I do. But we want to do things our way.”

She gives a tiny smile and nods. “I can respect that, but please know you both can come to me with anything. I’m more than happy to help.”

“They get it,” his dad interjects, setting his newspaper down with a smile. “You’re stressing them out more than necessary. Can’t you just be excited to be a grandma?”

She dots her lips with a napkin. “I’m thrilled. Truly. I hope you’re both ready for me to spoil this baby silly. It’s a blessing.”

I wonder if she’s thinking at all about her struggles with infertility. My heart aches for her. I can’t begin to imagine what that was like. I overheard enough as a girl growing up about their trials and failures to get pregnant. They had the money to afford any and all methods to conceive, but it just wasn’t possible for them. I remember them talking about adoption for years, how hard and long the process was, and then they got Beckham. He was older, obviously, barely a teen, but even from that first time I saw them with him, how they beamed with pride, I knew they thought of him as their son in every way.

Beneath the table, Beckham squeezes my knee. His silent way of checking in. I give him a small, closed-lipped smile to let him know I’m fine.

His parents’ questioning (well, mostly his mom’s) doesn’t bother me because I know it comes from a good place.

But it’s also a reminder that tonight, when we have dinner with my parents, it’ll be a whole different ball game, and not nearly so supportive.