Victim of Love (25 page)

“How was your date Saturday night?”

I looked up and saw Kamal standing in the doorway.

“Oh. Hey.” I glanced around, then looked back at him. “I don’t think I’ll be seeing Evan again. He was a little more enthusiastic than I at the end of the night, and I guess my reluctance didn’t sit well with him.”

“That’s too bad,” Kamal said. “You don’t look too broken up about it.”

I shrugged. “What are you gonna do, right?”

He cocked a brow and eyed me skeptically. Stepping into my work area, he glanced around, then lowered his voice. “You haven’t talked to the other one, have you?”

I looked him in the eye. “Nope.”

“I think that’s a good thing. You all right?”

I repeated myself, saying, “What are you gonna do, right?”

Kamal’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Guess so. I’ll see you later.”

“Bye.”

So this was my life for the time being. I was a liar. Back in that damn closet with Beck. It should have bothered me more than it did. But damn, it was a
really
nice closet.

When I got home, I surprised myself by only haphazardly picking up my house. I did the dishes and replaced the fallen cushions, but refrained from vacuuming or washing the floors as I usually did on Monday nights. I wanted to get over to Beck’s. And I was starting not to mind messy things as much as I used to.

When I got to Beck’s house the garage was closed this time. I knocked on the front door, and Beck opened it wearing a Valkyrie helmet, smiling.

I laughed hard. “Is that real? Did you find it with a skull in it or something?”

“Nope.” He took it off and waved me in. “If it were real I wouldn’t be playing with it. Here.” He placed the helmet on my head and stepped back. “Suits you better.”

“You’re not going to ask me to wear this in bed or something, are you?”

“Don’t give me any ideas. Come on in.”

I removed the helmet as I followed Beck into his home. Despite his ribbing me about my cleanliness, Beck’s house was tidy: gleaming wood floors, nice furniture, a lot of shelving with books and various statues. Paintings hung on the walls, and despite my limited knowledge of art, I found them pleasing to look at. There was nothing too contemporary, an understated still-life and portraits, a couple of watercolor landscapes.

“I got pizza,” he said as we passed through a neat kitchen, a pizza box on a dark wood table that looked very antique. “You hungry?”

“Not yet,” I said.

There was no way I could eat right now, as my heartrate had already escalated from being in Beck’s presence. He must have had a meeting earlier or something because he was dressed in suit pants, an untucked button-down shirt with no tie, open at the collar, black socks with no shoes. Beck was adorable and sexy in jeans and a tee shirt, but when he wore a suit he looked more sleek and masculine, even if it was a little disheveled. I briefly considered what a thrill it would be to take him out and show him off, to let others know that this magnetic, handsome man had chosen
me
to spend time with.

“Come on in here then,” Beck said, passing through an archway. “I’ll show you some of my junk.”

I followed him into a large den with a fireplace and leather furniture. “Oh, wow,” I said. Long, dark wood tables edged the back of the room, covered with various items. “What is all this?”

“Beck’s private collection,” he said, approaching one of the tables. “Things I was either unable to sell or that I thought were too cool to give up. Come on over here.”

I joined Beck and he introduced me to various items in his collection. There were polished clay and wooden carvings of ancient deities. A scarred, battle-weary Seax—an original Viking short sword excavated from an archaeological dig in northern England. Vintage coins. Elaborately painted wine jars from ancient Egypt. A strange, worn-looking wooden box featuring a painting of two monks fornicating. Old maps from various territories in Europe before the borders changed, then changed again, and again until they became what they are today.

And of course, some of Beck’s collection edged toward the bizarre. A sealed lock of hair from a wooly mammoth. A jawbone from a Neanderthal. An old book bound in human skin.

I smiled as I watched Beck speak, his eyes lit with enthusiasm while he relayed stories of each item’s retrieval and shared interesting historical tidbits. He seemed completely consumed as he spoke, eloquent and patient as he explained the finer details to me, more like a dashing professor than the wild and crazy Beck I knew. I felt I was getting a glimpse of the old Beck, the museum curator with a degree in fine arts, before whatever gave him nightmares had occurred.

The old Beck—I considered this as I had the thought. Was that the
real
Beck? I supposed it couldn’t be, as we couldn’t erase our experiences or how they’d changed us. Beck was a sum of his parts like everyone else, but I enjoyed seeing this slice of the pie.

I loved all of the strange and fascinating items because I loved the strange and fascinating man showing them to me. I was growing more enamored with Beck by the minute, and relished getting to know this side of him as much as I’d relished getting to know each curve of his body and deciphering his sexual turn-ons.

“Oh hey, I want to show you my gym!” he said suddenly, and darted out of the room. I had to scurry after him to keep up. I grinned as I followed him down a hallway. Beck was like an excited child tonight, perhaps one that had consumed too much sugar and wanted to show his new visitor all his toys.

I followed him to a basement door and down a set of wooden stairs. When we reached the bottom I looked around at the wide space. It was a finished basement, and Beck had turned it into a rather extensive workout room. There were free weights and machines on one side, a punching bag, a treadmill, a pull-up bar, and various mats strewn along the industrial carpet.

The other end of the basement looked like a playroom. A small basketball net, an indoor putting green, a jump-rope, vintage pinball machine, a mini-fridge, and an old stereo against the wall next to crates of vinyl records.

“This is so cool,” I said, flipping through the records, a bizarrely eclectic mix. Adam Ant, The Doors, Beethoven, The Clash, Charlie Parker, Jefferson Airplane, Mozart, The Sex Pistols... I spotted a CD case wedged down the side of the crate and pulled it out.
Britney Spears?

The many faces of Beck Turner.

“Here, Olsen, hold this, I want to show you something.”

I turned around and Beck handed me a Nerf ball. I gave it a squeeze, then watched Beck unbuttoning his shirt. “Okay,” I said. “I have no idea where
this
is going.”

Beck grinned at me as he pulled off his shirt, leaving him in his suit pants and a white tee shirt. “Okay,” he said. “When I tell you to, put the ball on my feet.”

“On your
feet?
”

Beck went into a hand stand. I frowned, then laughed as he walked on his hands toward the basketball net, biceps bulging under the sleeves of his tee shirt. He lined himself up in front of the net, then gingerly turned himself around, his back slightly arched, but he stayed upright. “Okay,” he said. “Put the ball on my feet.”

I walked over and did what he asked. He grasped the ball between his feet, then walked on his hands, lining himself up before the basket. Lowering himself down into a half pushup, he bent his legs, then flung the ball up. It arced through the air and swished through the hoop.

Beck dropped to his feet again and raised his arms over his head. “Ta da!”

I laughed so hard I had to wipe tears from my eyes. Pointing at him, I said, “You...you must have been
really
fucking bored one night.”

“Several nights, actually. Took me a while to get it right. You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

Beck got us both beers out of the mini-fridge. He smiled when he saw me checking out the pinball machine. “You want to play?”

I grinned, flicking one of the paddles, that old familiar sound, the ghost of arcades past. How long had it been? Not only since I’d played pinball, but since I’d simply
played?
Played like a child, with no thought of work or bills or responsibilities of the daily grind. I suddenly found this all very appealing. “Yeah,” I said. “I want to play.”

We stayed in the basement for an hour, listening to Beck’s old records while we battled each other at the pinball machine, the colored lights and jangling bell sounds bringing me back in time. I was more adept at the game than I expected to be, and our scores were neck and neck throughout. But Beck didn’t like to lose, and took to standing behind me and running his hands over my ass while I tried to keep the ball active.

“You’re a cheater!” I said when the ball dropped out the bottom and I lost.

Beck wrapped his arms around me from behind, squeezing. “I’m hungry anyway,” he said, nuzzling the side of my neck. “Ready for pizza?”

I leaned back into him, closing my eyes. “Yeah.”

He released me and headed for the stairs. I followed him, trying to adjust my erection in my pants as I walked. We hadn’t kissed yet tonight, and the longer I went without his mouth on mine, the more I wanted it. Yet at the same time, the anticipation was kind of delicious. Despite the week-long Cape Cod affair and our more recent weekend fuck-fest, this felt like a first date, and my gut fluttered with butterflies, anticipation of what I hoped would come at the end of the night.

The moment came after we’d finished our pizza, sitting on either end of Beck’s long living room couch, legs stretched out, Beck playing footsie with me while we ate and talked about nothing of particular importance. The lighting in the room was dim, romantic, and staring at Beck in his white tee shirt, his toes rubbing the ball of my foot, had me in an arousal holding pattern. I wanted to dive on him, but at the same time didn’t want to break the spell.

A lull came in the conversation, and Beck started giving me that look, that serious, come-hither stare, eyes narrowed, daring me to look away. He held my gaze, the corner of his mouth crooking up in a half grin. The mere promise of that look had me swelling down below, and I had no doubt Beck knew it—knew he owned me. But I didn’t move. Didn’t try to go to him or kiss him. Somehow, it felt right that I should let him set the pace in his own home.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” I said.

He smiled. “Doing what?”

“Giving me that look. It’s killing me.”

“What look?” he said innocently, and peeled off his tee shirt, stretching back and stroking a hand over his belly.

I let out a breath, chuckling softly.

“Am I making you nervous, Olsen?” He grinned, letting his hand glide lower, rubbing himself slowly over his pants.

“You’re making me something,” I said. “You realize you haven’t shown me your bedroom yet. I’m sure it was just an oversight.”

Beck undid his belt, then his zipper. “I like it here,” he said, hooking his thumbs under the band of his underpants. “Stand up and take your clothes off.”

I paused a moment, drinking in the sight of him, relishing that look in his eyes. Then I stood alongside the couch, and began to undress.

Beck watched me intently as I peeled off my shirt, then undid my pants. As I slid them down, he did the same, his cock springing free as he wriggled out of his suit pants, taking his underwear down with them.

I stood in my briefs, looking down at Beck, stretched back against the arm of the couch, completely nude, and completely erect. “I want you to come over here and straddle me,” he said.

I throbbed. I took a step toward him, then stopped, remembering protection, slightly annoyed at the potential interruption. I wanted his cock inside me, his tongue in my mouth, and I wanted it now. “We need—”

“I’ve got it covered,” he said, reaching for his pants on the floor, digging a condom and lube out of the pocket. “And if you ever take your briefs off...”

I smiled as I slid my underpants down and kicked them off. “I’m surprised that stuff didn’t fall out of your pants during your hand walking performance.”

“I ran in and snatched them while you were taking a piss,” he said. “I was
trying
to appear spontaneous.”

Lowering myself down, I knelt beside the couch, not touching, just watching, drinking in the sight as Beck rolled a condom onto his thick, gorgeous cock, eyeing me hard while he lubed himself up. “You look like you want something,” he whispered, stroking himself, squeezing.

My resolve shattered, and I climbed onto the couch, straddling him, gently resting my weight on his thighs, my cock settling next to his, balls pressing together. Beck slid his hands around my back and tugged me against him, and finally I got his mouth.

As soon as our tongues met, Beck’s cool, casual seduction went out the window, and he tangled fingers in my hair, gripping handfuls as we kissed, pulling my mouth hard against his. He groaned into my mouth and his hands slid down my back, tightening around me, gnawing at my lips like he’d eat me alive.

My mind whispered the words I couldn’t speak aloud.
I love you. I love you, you crazy son of a bitch.

We kissed like that for a long time, mad with need, gripping at each other, trying to get closer until close wasn’t good enough. “Are you ready?” Beck asked with a gasp as he tore his lips from mine.

I didn’t bother to answer his question, just lifted up and reached for him, lining him up against my hole. Beck looked up at me, neck muscles tight. When I slid down onto his cock, his eyes closed, brows pinching as he let out a hard breath. “Oh fuck,” he said, squeezing my ass with both hands. “
There
you are.”

Bracing myself with one arm on the back of the couch, I lifted up and slid back down. “Here I am,” I whispered. “All yours.”

Beck’s eyes sprang open, lips parting. “All mine?”

I nodded, clenching around him, making him hiss. “All. Fucking. Yours.”

His hands caressed my ass then slid to my hips, fingers digging in. “Show me,” he said, lifting his hips so his cock slid deeper up inside me. “Show me. Ride me. Take me, Olsen. Do what you want with me.”

My lower belly quivered as my arousal kicked up several thousand notches, and I did what Beck asked. Leaning forward, I rested my palms on his chest, and rode him, shifting my hips with each undulation, using his cock and rubbing it against the magic spot inside, roughly slamming down on him, yet holding his heated gaze, trying to show him with my eyes that this was so much more than a great fuck for me.