Chapter 12
Beckham
Fucking hotel blizzards are like prisons made of linen, overpriced alcohol, and girls that should be fucking mine. I've been hiding in my room for hours, watching game footage and ignoring the rumbling in my stomach, but even I can't outlast basic human needs.
The phone rings six times before someone finally picks up at the front desk. “Hello, I’m trying to reach room service, but no one is answering,” I tell them.
“I'm so sorry, Mr. Kingston, but room service has been suspended due to staff shortages from the storm. The restaurant and lounge are open if you'd like to get dinner there.”
Of course it fucking is. “Thanks.”
I hang up and stare at the ceiling for a full minute. Going downstairs means potentially running into her again. Staying here means starving. Neither option feels good, but hunger wins.
The elevator is mercifully empty on the way down. I check my watch, quarter til eight. Late enough that maybe most people have already eaten. The lobby is quiet, just a few guests huddled around the fireplace with drinks, looking out at the snow that's still coming down in sheets.
I scan the lounge quickly, ready to abort mission if I see a certain pair of candy cane nails, but the coast seems clear. I exhale, shoulders relaxing slightly as I make my way toward an empty table in the corner.
That's when I see her.
Hennessy sits alone at a table by the window, menu in hand, looking like she stepped out of some winter fantasy.
She's changed out of that ridiculous robe into another soft-looking sweater that slips off one shoulder.
Her hair falls in waves around her face, and even from here, I can see those goddamn candy cane nails as she flips through the menu.
I should turn around. Get a protein bar from the gift shop. Maybe see if there's a vending machine somewhere.
Instead, my feet carry me toward her table like they've got a fucking mind of their own.
She looks up as I approach, her brown eyes widening slightly before her expression settles into something knowing. She doesn't say a word, just raises one perfectly arched eyebrow at me, as if daring me to join her.
“Is this seat taken?” I growl, not bothering to sound friendly.
Her lips curve into a small smile. “Does it look taken?”
I pull out the chair across from her and drop into it, glaring at her like this is her fault somehow. Like she orchestrated this entire fucking thing just to trap me here with her.
“Hungry?” she asks innocently, sliding a menu toward me.
“Starving,” I mutter, not looking at the menu. Not looking at her. Looking at her is dangerous.
“The burger is supposed to be good,” she offers, as if we're just two normal people having a normal conversation.
I finally glance down at the menu, not really seeing the words.
My brain is too busy cataloging everything about her—the way her collarbone peeks out from that slouchy top, how her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip as she studies her own menu, the soft tapping of those red and white nails against the table.
“Good evening, folks.” A server appears beside us, notepad in hand. “Can I get you started with some drinks?”
“I'll have another glass of the cabernet,” Hennessy says, gesturing to the half-empty wineglass in front of her.
“Whiskey, neat.” I barely look at the server, my eyes drawn back to Hennessy despite my best efforts.
“And are you ready to order, or do you need a few minutes?”
“I'll have the burger,” Hennessy says. “Medium, with extra pickles.”
“Same,” I grunt, handing the menu back without looking at it. “Medium rare.”
The server nods and disappears, leaving us in a silence that feels too heavy for the space between us. Hennessy doesn't seem bothered by it. She just picks up her glass, taking a small sip before setting it back down and tapping her nails against the stem in a slow, hypnotic rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Red and white stripes catching the dim light of the lounge.
She's not looking at me now. Her eyes drift to the window, watching the snow pile up against the glass.
Then she scans the room, taking in the other guests—her eyes tracking the few other people trapped here with us.
Her silence is somehow worse than if she were teasing me.
It feels like she's waiting for something, and the anticipation is making my skin crawl.
I want her next to me. Not across the table where I can only look, not touch.
I want her pressed against my side, her thigh against mine, close enough that I could slide my hand under her clothing without anyone noticing.
Close enough to feel her breath hitch when I whisper all the filthy things I want to do to her.
But I can't have her. I shouldn't want her.
I repeat this to myself like a fucking mantra as I watch her fingers dance along the stem. I shouldn't want her. I can't have her. I shouldn't want her. I can't have her.
It's bullshit, and I know it. I've already had her. I've already tasted her, already claimed her. And I want to do it again. And again. And again until I've fucked her out of my system or died trying.
The server returns with our drinks, setting them down. “Your food will be out shortly,” he says before moving on to someone else.
I shift in my seat, adjusting myself discreetly. This is fucking torture.
“Snow's getting worse,” she finally says, still looking out the window.
“Looks that way,” I respond, grateful for the mundane topic. “They're saying we could be stuck another night.”
She hums in acknowledgment. A small drop of red clings to her lower lip, and she catches it with her tongue in a quick, unconscious movement that sends heat straight to my groin.
“You're awfully quiet tonight,” she observes, tilting her head slightly. The movement causes her hair to cascade over one shoulder, exposing more of her neck. I can see the faint mark I left there, barely visible but definitely there. “Something on your mind, Coach?”
Everything. You. Your body. Your taste. The way you felt wrapped around my cock. The sounds you made when I filled you up.
“Here we are,” the server announces, appearing with two plates. He sets them down with a flourish. “Anything else I can get for you?”
“We're good,” I answer before Hennessy can speak.
The burger looks good—thick patty, melted cheese, toasted bun. My stomach growls in appreciation. I've been running on coffee most of the day, and my body is demanding actual fuel.
Hennessy picks up her burger with both hands, those nails framing it like a fucking Christmas present. She takes a bite, and the sound she makes is practically pornographic—a low, appreciative moan that goes straight to my dick.
“Oh my god,” she sighs, eyes closing briefly. “So good.”
I shift in my seat, adjusting myself again as I pick up my own burger. I take a bite, barely tasting it despite my hunger. All I can focus on is her, the way her throat moves as she swallows, the tiny dab of sauce at the corner of her mouth that her tongue darts out to catch.
Her eyes meet mine over her burger, and I swear she knows exactly what she's doing. Each bite is accompanied by another little sound of pleasure, another flick of her tongue, another flutter of her eyelashes.
She's going to be the death of me.
I force myself to eat, mechanically working through my burger while trying not to stare at her mouth.
Another moan, this one deeper. I glance up to see her eyes closed, head tilted slightly back as she chews. Jesus Christ.
“Do you have to do that?” I mutter, stabbing a fry with more force than necessary.
Her eyes open, all innocence. “Do what?”
“Make those…noises.”
“I can't help it if the food's good,” she says with a shrug that makes her sweater slip further down her shoulder. “Don't you ever just enjoy things, Coach King?”
Yes, I enjoy fucking you senseless. I enjoy coming inside you while you sleep. I’d enjoy bending you over this table right now if there weren't other people around.
“I enjoy plenty of things,” I say instead. “What are you planning to do with your time stuck here?”
She sets her burger down, her lips curving into a knowing smile.
“I was thinking about seeing who I could get to sneak into my room next,” she says, voice low and teasing. “Last night's visitor was…thorough.”
“I'm not sure what you're talking about,” I try, but my voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
“No?” She tilts her head, studying me. “That's funny, because I woke up feeling very empty. And I definitely went to bed very…stuffed.”
I stare at her for a long moment. My throat feels tight, chest constricting with something between guilt and arousal.
I should probably apologize for sneaking into her room like some kind of fucking predator, but the memory of her sleeping body responding to my touch, the way she moaned my name even unconscious—I can't bring myself to regret it.
“I should probably say I'm sorry,” I finally manage, my voice low and rough. “For coming back. For not waking you up first.”
She watches me carefully, her eyes giving nothing away. My dick throbs painfully against my zipper just thinking about how she looked with my cum leaking out of her, how she felt around my tongue.
“I crossed a line,” I continue, leaning forward slightly. “Coming to your room without permission was—”
“Extremely hot,” she finishes, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Unless it wasn't you. Maybe it was just a ghost with a very talented mouth and a big dick.”
My hands clench into fists under the table as I fight the urge to grab her, to haul her upstairs and do it all over again.
“Either way, I really fucking enjoyed it.”
My cock gets even harder at her casual admission. The thought of her waking up feeling what I'd done to her, maybe even touching herself after is enough to have me coming in my pants.
“Do not invite anyone else into your room, Hennessy.” I growl, leaning closer.
The words are out before I can stop them, possessive and demanding. Her eyebrows shoot up, and I know immediately I've made a tactical error. Her lips curve into a dangerous smile.
“Oh, really?” She says, wiping her hands on her napkin. “Well, I am an adult, Beckham, so if I want to fuck every man or woman in this hotel, it's well within my right.” She leans forward, eyes locked with mine. “What are you going to do about it?”
The question hangs between us, a gauntlet thrown down. My vision narrows until all I can see is her—the challenge in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the smooth skin of her shoulder where that fucking sweater keeps slipping down.
“You wouldn't dare,” I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
“Wouldn't I?” she counters. “Maybe I'll start with Chad from the bar. Or that cute guy from the Northern State team. Or—”
“Stop,” I snarl, my hand shooting out to grip her wrist. “Just fucking stop.”
She doesn't pull away. Instead, she turns her hand in my grip until our palms are pressed together, her fingers interlacing with mine. The gesture is strangely intimate, more so than anything we've done.
“Then give me a reason to,” she whispers.
Something dark snaps inside me.
“You want to know what I'll do?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “I'll fuck you so goddamn thoroughly that the thought of anyone else touching you will make you sick. I'll ruin you for every other man who thinks he has a chance.”
Her pupils dilate, her breath catching. “Big words, Coach King. But talk is cheap.”
“Room. Now.” I release her wrist and stand up, throwing enough cash on the table to cover both our meals and then some.
She looks up at me, challenge written all over her face. “Make me.”
I lean down, my lips brushing against her ear. “If I have to make you, trouble, you won't be able to walk tomorrow. And not in the fun way.”