Shagging the best man is practically a rite of passage, for a bridesmaid, right? Especially when said best man is tall, dark, and painfully handsome. Raw masculinity radiates from every square inch of Killian Beckett’s suited, sculpted, six-foot-four frame. The broody bastard is blessed with a jaw sharp enough to cut steel, lips that I can’t help wondering what would feel like all over my body, and huge onyx-like eyes that could melt the pants off every woman within a ten-mile radius.
Oh, who am I kidding?
A million-mile radius.
The man is a fucking ride.
Unfortunately, said best man may look hotter than a beach bonfire in Barbados, but he has the personality of a polar ice cap, and just so happens to be the most detached and emotionless creature to grace—and I use that word reluctantly—this earth.
Killian stands stoically beneath the lavish floral arch overlooking St. Flamand’s Beach, the turquoise water twinkling in the distance. He watches as his brother, James, exchanges moving, poignant vows with my best friend, Scarlett, without so much as a single flicker of emotion.
What is wrong with him?
I’m not even sure I believe in the concept of marriage, but I can barely see through the tears I’m blinking back. These two gorgeous, love-struck creatures, gazing into each other’s starry eyes before us, would make anyone think twice.
‘You may kiss the bride,’ the registrar says in a thick French accent.
James wastes no time claiming his wife’s lips in a way that has every single woman in the vicinity swooning—including me.
It’s official—I need to get laid.
A hundred and fifty guests burst into a raucous round of applause. Whistles, cheers and wails pierce the air a split second before the super-hot rock band, Driftwood & Dawn, break into their own acoustic version of ‘Ho Hey’ by The Lumineers.
James’s lips are still firmly locked on his bride’s. His large, tanned hands drift over her waist. Three years, and two baby girls later, and they’re still kissing like they’re horny love-struck teenagers. A pang of longing shoots through my soul.
‘Easy,’ Killian drawls in a deep, velvety baritone that slides over my spine and seeps into my skin. ‘There are kids present.’ He nods towards his two nieces, Harper and Halle, in the front row. In matching ivory silk flower girl dresses, they’re equally as stunning as their parents as they struggle to break free from the strong grip of their grandparents, Vivienne and Alexander Beckett.
The crowd laughs and James drags himself away from Scarlett with a wolfish grin. He takes her hand in his and raises it into the air, brandishing it triumphantly, blowing their daughters several kisses before guiding Scarlett back down the plush ivory carpet the hotel laid out for them.
No expense has been spared for the wedding of the year. Thousands of white orchids cascade over the custom-built marble pergola, their petals dancing in the warm Caribbean breeze. Chairs draped in baby pink silk ribbons line either side of the aisle, creating an ethereal effect against an opulent white wooden deck. Rose gold lanterns hang from shepherd’s hooks, their crystals catching the late afternoon sun. Security personnel in perfectly tailored suits dot the perimeter, earpieces glinting in the sun. Killian’s men, no doubt. Killian owns Beckett Security—the most successful security company in Europe. Suited men scrutinise everything and everyone with that same intense focus their boss is famous for. Though with the combined net worth of the Beckett brothers in attendance, I suppose one can’t be too careful. Each brother has carved out their own billion-dollar empire under the family umbrella—hotels, security, property, nightclubs.
Killian steps forward and stares at me, his deep dark orbs penetrate mine and it’s like he can see all the way down to my soul—and he finds it utterly infuriating. His tailored tuxedo bunches over his huge bicep as he thrusts out a muscular arm. I stare at it for a long beat before realising I’m supposed to take it. As I slip my arm through his, he flinches. I take a deep breath and the scent of his rich, woody cologne swirls between us. A thick current of electricity pulses in my panties.
Yep—I definitely need to get laid if I’m swooning over this emotionless Neanderthalic baboon.
I’m a glamour model—a profession significantly less glamorous than the glossy images suggest. My life mainly consists of early call times, uncomfortable poses, and endless hours under scrutiny. My relentless schedule leaves precious little time for dating, much to my chagrin. However, next month I have a potentially life-altering meeting with ELEGANCE, America’s premier women’s magazine, known for featuring women of substance alongside style. The opportunity represents more than just another photoshoot—it’s a potential bridge between my psychology doctorate and public platform, ideally opening doors to ventures that engage both my intellect and my admittedly photogenic attributes. Landing this contract would transform my chaotic schedule of scattered shoots across Europe into a focused, lucrative partnership offering ten times the exposure with a fraction of the travel—finally giving me breathing room for something resembling a personal life. And maybe, just maybe, some time to date.
We fall into a slow step side by side, following the bride and groom down the aisle. I plaster a giant smile on my face as we wave at the guests. Killian grimaces, offering the odd grunt or nod of acknowledgement.
‘Have you prepared your speech?’ I whisper from the side of my lips, waving at Ivy, our new friend, and future wife of Caelon Beckett, Killian’s other older brother. Ivy looks stunning in an off the shoulder apricot silk gown that cascades to the ground like a waterfall. For a while there, Caelon could give Killian a run for his money in the cold stakes, but since Ivy stormed into his life and into his heart, he’s back to his usual charming self.
A brief flicker of a frown furrows Killian’s brows before he composes himself. ‘Do I look like a man who would come unprepared?’
‘I don’t want to think about what you look like when you come anywhere.’ I arch a single eyebrow.
Liar.
What I wouldn’t give to see Mr Control Freak lose every single one of his senses because he was feral with desire—but I’ll die before admitting that out loud. I’d bet everything I own that the man is an animal when he eventually does let go. It’s always the quiet ones. I like my men the same way I like my martinis—dirty. And everything about Killian Beckett promises primal, filthy sex.
Killian gives a subtle shake of his head, but he doesn’t bite.
Guess I’ll have to try a bit harder. Goading him has become my favourite pastime since we got here three days ago.
‘There’s prepared, and then there’s prepared,’ I murmur, blowing a kiss to Caelon’s daughter, Orla, before leaning closer to the hunk of steel beside me. ‘Did you bang one off in the shower this morning in case you got lucky tonight? Or is some poor unfortunate woman about to be treated to all three seconds of pleasure?’
I glance up to see his jaw tighten. A vein pulses in his temple.
Bingo.
Wicked delight dances in my chest.
‘You needn’t worry about it either way, Eye-full Avery,’ he mutters dryly.
‘That was one tiny mistake!’ I grab his bicep and pinch it as hard as I can.
It wasn’t my fault Anton Roche, Paris’s sleaziest paparazzo, caught me in a compromising position as I exited a limo at Paris Fashion week. Rage rips through me every time I think about it. I have no problem whipping my breasts out for the camera. Hell, I’ve made an entire career out of it, but some things should be sacred. Having half my vag printed in the trashiest tabloids with the slogan “Wardrobe Whoops—Avery gives Paris Fashion Week an “Eye-full,” was a disgusting violation.
Thank fuck for laser hair removal.
Killian scoffs. ‘It was yet another ploy for attention. You just can’t get enough of the stuff.’
‘Actually, it wasn’t. That was one of the worst weeks of my life, not that you care.’
Killian says nothing, as usual, but something—I have no idea what—registers in his pupils.
We slow to a stop as we reach the end of the aisle. Cameras flash blindingly all around us as the photographer, Thorne Blackwood, snaps Scarlett and James from every angle.
Thorne is Dublin’s most sought after photographer. We’ve worked together several times since Zack Kiel, my overbearing agent, walked into the Luxor Lounge the week before my graduation and offered me a life-changing modelling contract. Thorne specialises in glamour shoots, probably because he’s a creepy horn-dog, but there’s no denying he’s a seriously talented creepy horn-dog.
James had to pull every string going, and pay triple his daily rate to get him to agree to fly out here for this, but only the best will do and, like him or not, Thorne is the best photographer I’ve ever worked with. The fact he’s had a questionable peak in his pants each time he’s photographed me is something I’d rather forget. And if James so much as suspects a twitch in Thorne’s nether regions while he’s photographing Scarlett, it will be the last twitch he ever gets. The Beckett brothers are notoriously possessive of their women, a trait which should raise serious concern yet oddly, I find hot as fuck.
‘Avery.’ Thorne’s beady eyes light as they rake over my blush pink bridesmaid dress. It accentuates every curve I possess—and I have plenty. He beckons me over as Scarlett and James turn to their guests, swamped with congratulatory hugs and kisses.
I attempt to tug my arm free from Killian’s, but he squeezes it tighter beneath his bicep, pinning me in position by his side. I glance up at him quizzically. His attention is firmly focused on Thorne. Specifically on the tiny tent in Thorne’s crotch. Beige linen trousers are doing less than fuck-all to hide his excitement.
Shit.
Killian is a military trained killer. Plus, he has an army of other trained killers at his disposal. He says little, but he misses nothing.
Thorne has no idea of the level of danger he’s in.
‘Great to see you!’ I lie, waving at Thorne and tugging Killian sideways.
‘Just gonna grab a glass of champagne,’ I motion to the crystal fountain, ‘then we’ll be right back.’
‘Good. I’m going to need lots of photos of the bridesmaid.’ Thorne’s gaze drops to my breasts. ‘And maybe tomorrow I could take a few of you on the beach.’
Killian drops my arm abruptly, pouncing forward gracefully and silently to tower over Thorne before he can consider he might have overstepped.
‘You have a fucking job to do. Go fucking do it, before I’m forced to do mine. And you don’t want to know what I do for a living,’ Killian hisses.
Wow. Mr Control Freak isn’t quite as emotionless and detached as he appears. There’s something seriously fucking hot about a hard man, and I’m not referring to the man who’s sporting a baby-sized boner.
Thorne takes a step back and scowls at Killian before spinning on his heel. He starts frantically snapping shots of James and Scarlett, who are now surrounded by giddy guests.
‘Does he always sport a micro boner when he’s working?’ Killian snatches my arm up again, tucks it beneath his, and frog marches me away. If it weren’t in the direction of the champagne fountain, I might object, but I need a drink.
‘Yep.’ I watch as Killian snatches up a crystal champagne flute and holds it beneath the stream of fizzing bubbles.
‘The guy’s a creep.’ He hands me the drink, his black eyes narrow as his line of sight trails back to Thorne.
‘He is, but he’s harmless.’ I shrug, bringing the glass to my lips.
‘Unfortunately for him, I’m not.’ Killian touches his ever present earpiece. ‘Eyes on the photographer at all times.’
I roll my eyes. ‘I’m pretty sure the best man isn’t supposed to be working today.’
‘I excel at multitasking.’ Our eyes lock, and my mind plummets straight to the gutter.
I don’t even like this man and for some reason, I’m wondering if he’d circle my clit with his fingers while he fucks me.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I’m as bad as Thorne.
Thankfully, I don’t have a baby-sized boner tenting my pants to reflect it.
Despite the sun beating down on my bare arms, my skin prickles with a weird sensation—like someone’s staring at me. I glance around, scanning the guests. Clearly I’ve been watching too many true crimes documentaries because no one is paying me any attention. No one except Killian, that is.
I down the glass of champagne and hold it beneath the fountain for a refill. Man, I need to get one of these things for my kitchen.
‘One more, then that’s your lot until dinner,’ Killian warns cooly. He stares pointedly at the drink in my hand.
‘Who the fuck are you? My father?’ I scowl. Of all the handsome, hot billionaires at this wedding, and I get lumped with the dryest shite around.
‘Thankfully, no. But I am the man who has to dance with you in front of all of these guests later.’ He sweeps a hand around the elegantly dressed crowd. ‘Unfortunately.’
Ouch.
I don’t know what I ever did to Killian Beckett, but the man hates me.
Well, hate might be a strong word for an emotionless fucker, but he clearly doesn’t like me.
‘You have such a charming way with words.’ I snort, sink my second glass of champagne, then reach for another refill. Defiance races through my blood.
‘Wait until you hear my speech.’ He deadpans, snatching a tumbler of whiskey from a passing waitress.
‘Don’t forget to mention how pretty the bridesmaid looks.’ I poke him in the chest with my index finger.
He flinches. ‘You want me to lie in front of all these people?’
‘Twat.’ I huff out a breath.
‘Right, let’s get these fucking photos over with.’ He adjusts his silk bow tie.
‘I’m going to need another drink before I can fake a smile standing next to you.’ I’m not even joking.
‘Avery,’ his voice drops to a dangerously low level.
Fuck him.
‘Yes, Dad?’ I smile sarcastically and help myself to another top up.
‘Don’t call me that,’ he growls.
‘Why not?’ Every minute hair on my body stands to attention as electricity crackles over my skin. I’m disgusted with how viscerally my vagina reacts to this ignorant fucker.
He snatches the champagne glass from my hands and stares at me with enough heat to melt the diamonds dripping from my neck. ‘Because the last woman who called me Daddy ended up getting spanked so hard she couldn’t sit down for a week. Now move.’
Fuck.
