He gave her a kiss on the forehead before he examined the other Christmas tree.
“That one’s for you.”
He took his time looking at it, admiring her craftsmanship as if it was a real piece of art. He was indifferent to the world around him, but whenever it came to Claire, he was completely smitten. A smile moved on to his face. “I love it.” He did the same as I did and placed it on the fridge. “How about an after-school snack—”
“Mac and cheese!” She threw up her arms and followed him into the kitchen.
With affectionate eyes, he chuckled. “Alright.”
I backed away from the room and entered the hallway because this was their time alone together. There were times when I belonged and times when I didn’t, and I knew my place. I was supposed to take care of Claire when he was unable to, but if that was fulfilled, then I had no purpose.
“Constance?” Claire’s sweet little voice came from behind me.
I turned back around.
“You want to help us make mac and cheese?”
“It’s okay—”
Benton emerged behind her, a skyscraper that towered over her, and his blue eyes locked on to my face. He gave a subtle nod toward the kitchen then disappeared from view.
The smile that took up my face infected my heart at the same time. “Sure, I’d love to.”
After I put Claire to bed, Benton walked down the hallway in his jeans and a long-sleeved shirt.
I knew that meant he would be out of the house until morning—and it was always a disappointment. A jolt of anxiety hit me, along with a lot of other emotions too.
I walked him to the door. “Be careful.”
His eyes regarded mine, shifting back and forth as he took me in. “Always.”
My arms crossed over my chest. “I wanted to say…I know it’s kind of awkward, but…when you’re with other women—”
His eyes grew angry, really angry. Just the look was enough to make my words die right in my throat. The look was livid, violent, full of rage. “I don’t leave my daughter every night to fuck a whore.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Then say what you mean—and do a better job of it.”
My arms crossed over my chest, and I felt myself cower because this was a version of him I hadn’t encountered in a while. I’d gotten used to the version that I loved, the calm and open man who let me in…just a little bit.
“I know we aren’t exclusive or anything—”
“I’m not sleeping around—if that’s what you’re asking.”
My hands tightened on my arms, and I felt the relief fill my lungs when it shouldn’t. “I wasn’t asking, because it’s none of my business—”
“I don’t want to sleep with anyone else—so yes, it is your business.”
My eyes locked on to his, the surprise making me go immediately still. There wasn’t even a breath in my lungs. There wasn’t a beat to my heart. I’d turned to stone.
After a long stare, he moved for the door.
My hand acted of its own accord—and reached for his arm. My brain didn’t even have time to process what I was doing before it was already done. I pulled him toward me, pulled myself into him at the same time, and I found myself against his chest.
Instead of letting his arms hang by his sides as he rejected me, he encircled the small of my back and hugged me flush to his body, his chin resting on my head. He enveloped me with warmth, like his skin was my favorite blanket on the couch.
I rose on my tiptoes and planted a kiss to his lips, feeling that shock move all the way down my spine to every other inch of my body. My fingers dug into his arms, and I’d do anything to keep him there with me.
His hand cupped my cheek and brushed the hair from my face as he kissed me, taking the lead with his mouth, every kiss deep and purposeful.
My fingers tugged at his shirt, wanting it off his body and somewhere on the floor. I wanted that naked chest against mine, smothering me into the mattress while he moved deep inside me over and over. That high…there was nothing like it. “Do you have a couple minutes…?” I spoke against his lips, not wanting to break the trance that bound us together.
As if I was a box of feathers, he picked me up and carried me to his bedroom, kissing me the entire way. He laid me at the edge of his bed and pushed his jeans down so he could shove himself inside me.
Both of our shirts were on, and we clung to each other as he moved hard and fast, careful not to rock the headboard against the wall to wake up his daughter down the hallway. Our moans were suppressed to stay quiet, and our bodies became wet with sweat instantly. It was quick, desperate, animalistic.
It felt so good.
I said his name as I came, and the second he heard that word on my tongue, he released too, filling me as I climaxed. My hand tugged on his ass as I kept him inside me, feeling both his size and his load at the same time. “Benton…”
Six
Benton
The silent auction was held at the museum, where priceless pieces of artwork earned bids worth millions of euros. Artwork was a currency for the rich, another way to display their wealth when the mansions and cars weren’t enough. A piece was sold back to the community, and then another was purchased in its place. But it wasn’t real estate, so it was worthless.
In my opinion.
Everyone was in gowns and tuxedos except the two of us. We were in our street clothes, but no one said a word to us.
Bartholomew and I stood in the corner together, and when a waiter walked up, he offered us each a glass of champagne.
I declined—because I didn’t like that bubbly shit.
Bartholomew took a glass and a sip.
I watched him, already knowing how this was going to end.
He savored it in his mouth like it was a wine tasting—and then spat it back into the glass. He tossed it onto a nearby flower arrangement. “Yep. Piss.”
“Then why did you take it?”
He shrugged. “Thirsty.” He surveyed the room and gave a nod to one of the gentlemen. “Kline Weatherton. I’ll be the good cop. You be the bad cop.”
“You want me to shoot him?”
“Okay, not that bad.”
“And our objective?”
Bartholomew ignored the question and crossed the room.
I tagged along, unsure if this would end in a civil conversation or gunfire. Either one was just as likely.
With a woman on his arm, Kline spoke to another pretentious man in a tuxedo.
Bartholomew made himself right at home and walked straight up to them both.
The conversation died instantly. Both men stared.
Bartholomew stared down the man on the right, the tension heavy for several feet in every direction.
Without saying a word, the man walked off, getting the message.
Kline released a sigh as he turned to the woman on his arm. “Why don’t you make a bid on the paintings you like? I’ll join you in a moment.”
She was used to being told what to do—because she skirted off without question.
Kline took a drink of his champagne, probably just to wet his throat. “How can I help you?”
There had been several nights when my presence felt unnecessary. I could be home with my daughter, but Bartholomew liked having me around. I’d been out of the game a long time, but the people who remembered me from the good ol’ days respected me, so it probably gave him an edge he didn’t have when I was gone. “You remember Benton?”