One of Arthur’s hands drifted down my back and over my arse. It dipped lower, following the curves of my behind to my pussy, where he sank a finger inside me, and my forehead dropped to his chest. A moan tore from my throat, and I widened my legs as he added more fingers and pushed them in and out of me at a maddening pace.
“Dark queen,” he hissed, and I felt him harden against my stomach. I crawled to all fours, his hand slipping out of me as I straddled his legs and sank down on his cock. My head fell back as he filled me to the hilt.
Arthur’s hands landed on my breasts. I rode him, rocking back and forth as ash from the cigarette still between his teeth dropped onto his skin. I didn’t think he even noticed it as he fucked me, as I rode him, hips jerking faster and faster, and he dropped one of his hands and rubbed his fingers over my clit.
“Arthur,” I whispered, my movements becoming stuttered as I felt the telltale tightening of my thighs and the ache in my lower back. Before I could even utter his name again, I shattered, coming hard and fast. My nails sank into his chest, and he stilled, groaning around his cigarette as he came inside me.
I fell against his chest, my ear pressed over his heart—it was racing. Arthur stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table and wrapped his arms around me. I could hear the faint sounds of his family in the living room. Of Eric leaving, and the quiet murmurs of Ronnie and Vera as they passed by the bedroom door.
I wanted this. Not my old life. I wanted this family, not the stifling Chelsea social scene. The materialism, the focus on money and how much power you could gain amongst the rich.
“I don’t want it,” I said once I’d caught my breath. Arthur was quiet, listening. “My old life.” I lifted up and braced my arms on his hard torso. “I want to be with you. Not in secret. But proudly by your side.”
A smile tugged on Arthur’s lips and melted my heart. “That’ll cause a motherfucking commotion.”
“I don’t care,” I said vehemently. “Let them think what they want. I’m done with caring what anyone but you and this family thinks of me.”
“And your family’s business?” he said. “Some of the shares will fall to you. Some of the responsibility if you want it.” I’d studied business for years at Oxford. And I was good at it. But …
“I can keep the shares.” I didn’t want to completely sever the ties to my mum’s legacy. “But maybe it’s time for the business to be handed over to someone not so invested.” I thought of my father and how much the business took up his life. Possessed him, until that was all he cared about—not his family or child. I thought of Hugo, and how I now looked back on our relationship and knew, with absolute certainty, that there had never been any romantic love between us; rather, it had been familial. And he had wanted my hand in marriage to secure his place at Harlow Biscuits. My father would never have let me close to running the show. He had been a good man in some ways but thought very little of women in general, and especially in a place of work. He viewed them as disposable. A means to an end. Looking back, I wasn’t even sure he loved my mum at all. I was starting to believe that he loved the business and power her name had brought to him.
It was business that consumed Hugo and Dad—they were cut from the same cloth. And although we knew little about who killed them, we knew why—because they messed up the business somehow and owed a crime syndicate money. They had borrowed money from ruthless men again, and my best friends paid the price for their default.
“The company’s sullied to me now,” I said. “It’s steeped in blood and lies.” Arthur pushed back my wet hair from my face. He understood. I could see that written on his face. I traced over Westminster Bridge on his stomach. “But I’m good with stepping away.” I caught his eye. “I’m smart, Arthur. I’m good with business. I don’t want to live life on the sidelines. I’m not some little woman for you to come home to, barefoot and pregnant. If I’m with you, in this family, I want to help. I want to be a part of what we all do.”
“I have businesses,” he said, and my pulse beat faster at the playful twitch on his lips. “Many of them.” He shrugged. “Most of them are fronts. But I have a few legitimate ones that turn over an okay profit. Enough to keep Scotland Yard off my back and away from my real work.”