Chapter 3
Beckham
The door to my room slams behind me as I stumble in, my hands still fucking shaking. I yank at my tie, tossing it somewhere on the floor before heading straight to the bathroom. I need a cold shower. I need to get her off my skin.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror, and I barely recognize myself. Hair disheveled, pupils blown, lips swollen from her kisses. I look like a man possessed.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist against the marble counter, welcoming the sharp sting of pain. Anything to distract from the throbbing between my legs, the taste of her still on my tongue.
Stripping off my jacket, I unbutton my shirt with unsteady fingers. The scent of her perfume clings to the fabric like it’s branded in. Spicy and sweet. And all fucking her.
What the hell did I just do?
I grip the edge of the sink, trying to steady my breathing.
It doesn't work. Nothing's working. My brain keeps replaying the way she felt around my fingers, so goddamn wet and tight.
The little sounds she made when I pushed deeper.
How she looked at me with those dark eyes when she came, like I was the only man in the world who could give her what she needed.
And that mouth. Jesus. The way she sucked my fingers clean, moaning like she couldn't get enough of her own taste.
My cock jerks, hard and aching just to remind me that it didn’t get to feel the sweet heat of her like my hand did.
I need to get it together, but the man staring back at me almost shakes his head. As if I’m a lost cause and too far gone into Hennessy’s orbit.
My phone buzzes on the counter—probably Maris wondering where the fuck I disappeared to. The welcome reception is still going on downstairs. I should go back. Network and shake hands. Act like I didn't just finger my rival's daughter to orgasm on a fucking terrace overlooking all the holiday cheer.
But there's no way I'm going back down there. Not with her scent on my skin and her taste on my tongue. Not with my dick still hard enough to cut glass. Those coaches and my bosses can all go to hell.
It was the mistletoe. That stupid fucking sprig hanging outside the elevator. It was the dress, hugging every curve she has. Or maybe it was the way she fucking looked at me, through me, inside me from across the room and raising her glass and her brow in a challenge.
I could put it on her, on the plant, on all my buttons being pushed at once from all corners, but I won’t.
It really doesn’t fucking matter because I gave in and fuck, it felt good.
No, it felt better than good. It felt like a thousand little pieces all slotting together.
It felt right, and that’s exactly why I need to stay away from her.
I knew it years ago. Time and space haven’t changed or diminished it at all.
And now I have to spend three days under the same roof as her. Share space, and it’s going to make it impossible to breathe. Not to mention I have to fucking be professional, and I know I can’t get out of fucking interacting with her, at the very least I have to do that damn interview tomorrow.
I strip off the rest of my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as cold as it will go. The icy spray hits my overheated skin, but it does nothing to calm me. Bracing my hands against the tile wall, I let the water pound against my back.
But as I close my eyes, all I can see is her face when she came, the way her lips parted, the flush spreading across her cheeks. All I can hear is her voice, breathless and needy.
My hand drifts down my stomach before I can stop myself. I'm rock hard, aching for release. One stroke and I'm already leaking. It would be so easy to give in, to imagine it's her hand wrapped around me instead of my own.
I jerk my hand away as my phone keeps buzzing on the damn bathroom counter. I try to ignore it, but the vibrating is incessant and annoying. Quickly rinsing and shutting off the water, I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist before checking the screen.
I swear to god if any of my guys are already in some bullshit, it’s suicide drills for everyone. Just over and over and over.
Roman
Where the fuck did you disappear to?
The AD's looking for you. Said something about alumni donors.
Kingston. Answer your damn phone.
I type back with one hand, water still dripping down my chest.
Not coming back down. Tell them I got a migraine.
His response is immediate.
Bullshit. This have anything to do with Vega's daughter?
My jaw clenches.
Like I said it’s a migraine.
You’re playing with fire Beck. Your ass always did like being right above the fucking fire. Well have a good night with your “migraine” but I expect you not to leave me to own my shit the entire weekend.
I stare at the text for a minute. He’s seen me spiral before. He’s the only one who covered for me when I nearly lost my assistant position over a bar fight in Vegas. The only one who’s seen what I look like when I snap.
And I can feel it again now. The same low burn in my chest, spiraling and coiling like a snake. I’ve got to be careful because I didn’t spend years working on restraint to be in my forties acting like I’m in my damn twenties again.
A ping hits my ears as an urgent email comes through on my university account.
I should avoid it because whatever it is will probably annoy the fuck out of me.
I don’t know how many times I have to tell people to stop marking shit urgent that’s not urgent.
No one gives a fuck about any of that shit.
They only care if I’m getting the boys ready to beat the next team, win the next trophy, get the next kid drafted.
Opening the email, I can feel my eye start to twitch.
URGENT: Mandatory Interview
2:00 p.m. - Interview w/ Hennessy Vega & Beckham Kingston for St. Charles University
Beckham,
Please do try and make it to this interview as a professional and represent our school well. No, you cannot get out of it, nor can you make any of your assistant coaches do it.
Merry Christmas,
Dean Morrison
Fucking Morrison. His tagline might as well be stamped on the email in blinking neon letters: DO THIS OR ELSE. The subtext isn't even subtle. My job depends on playing nice for the cameras, pretending I'm thrilled to be interviewed.
I toss the phone onto the bed and run a hand through my damp hair. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since that shitty sandwich at noon.
I grab the room service menu from the desk and scan it quickly. Overpriced as hell, but I'm too hungry to care. I dial the number.
“Room service.”
“Yeah, I need a steak. Medium rare. Fries. And whatever vegetables you have that aren't drowning in butter.” I pause. “And a Dr. Pepper Zero.”
“Will that be all, Mr. Kingston?”
“That's it.”
I hang up and eye the minibar. The whiskey is calling my name, tiny bottles lined up like soldiers waiting for orders. Ah fuck it, the university can bill me later. I grab one, twist the cap off, and down it in one swallow. The burn feels good, settling some of the restlessness in my chest.
It's not enough. I grab a second bottle. It’s not lost on my I was bitching about room service being overpriced but I’m throwing back mini bottles like I got them from a gumball machine.
I'm a fucking masochist. Always have been. Known for playing with danger even when I know I'll get burned.
Dropping into the armchair by the window, I stare out at the city lights. Snow is falling softly and starting to blanket things in a fine powdery layer. I wonder if it will stick or if it will melt quickly.
I have fifteen hours give or take to get my head on straight because I can’t be acting a fucking fool on camera about her.
But how the fuck am I supposed to act normal about the one girl, no woman I’ve been obsessively thinking about?
How the fuck does one just not give in to their obsession especially when she’s like a siren calling out to me?
My phone buzzes. I think about ignoring it. But curiosity gets the better of me, and I check the screen.
Unknown Number
Looking forward to our interview tomorrow, Coach King. I have some…penetrating questions for you.
How did you get this number?
The reply comes almost immediately.
I'm very good at my job. Media relations, remember?
I save her contact, typing “DANGER DO NOT RESPOND” as the name. A pathetic attempt at self-control that I already know won't work.
A knock at the door interrupts my self-flagellation. I throw on a t-shirt with my sweatpants and open the door, signing for the food without making conversation. The server's eyes widen slightly at my expression, and he scurries away without waiting for a tip.
I set the tray on the desk and lift the silver dome. The steak looks good, at least. I cut into it, watching the juices pool on the plate, and take a bite, pondering how fucked I am.
God help me because tomorrow I have to sit by the girl who tastes like Christmas and sin.
And I’m not sure I can be in the same room without giving in to tasting her again.