Chapter 14
Hennessy
“Fucking turn that thing off,” Beckham growls, his voice thick with sleep and annoyance as my phone rings for what must be the tenth time in two minutes.
I groan, my entire body protesting as I reach for the nightstand. Every muscle aches, reminders of how many times he took me last night. The sheets are tangled around my naked body, and I can feel the dried evidence of our activities on my inner thighs.
“Jesus Christ,” I mumble, squinting at the screen through sleep-crusted eyes. Seven missed calls and thirteen text messages. All from my dad.
Beckham throws his arm over his face. “If you don't answer it, I'm going to throw it against the fucking wall.”
I roll my eyes and hit accept, immediately switching to Spanish. “Hola, Papi. ?Qué pasa?”
Beckham's entire body goes rigid beside me. I can practically feel the panic radiating off him as he realizes who I'm talking to.
“Hennessy, gracias a Dios. He estado llamándote toda la manana.” My father's voice is tight with worry. Like yes, I know you’ve called me twenty times.
I watch as Beckham silently slides out of bed, giving me a clear view of his muscular ass as he stalks toward the bathroom. The scratches I left down his back are still visible, angry red lines marking where my nails dug in while he fucked me against the headboard around three this morning.
“Estoy bien, Papi.”
Beckham leaves the bathroom door slightly ajar as he disappears inside. I hear the shower turn on a moment later, water hitting tile.
“?Por qué no contestaste mis llamadas?” my dad demands because god forbid I have a life and not answer him right away.
I sit up, wincing at the soreness between my legs. “Estaba dormida. Lo siento.”
“Es casi mediodía, Hennessy.” I don’t live at home so who cares what times I sleep, my dad apparently.
I glance at the clock and realize he's right. We slept until almost eleven. We didn't actually fall asleep until the sun was starting to rise.
“Lo sé, lo sé. La tormenta fue estresante. Necesitaba descansar.”
I tell him I needed rest after the storm. I’m definitely not telling him Beckham Kingston fucked me into a great night of sleep.
Steam begins to curl from the bathroom doorway. I imagine Beckham standing under the hot spray, water sluicing down those ridiculous muscles, and my body responds instantly, nipples hardening against the sheet.
I hear my father sigh heavily, switching back to English. “Fine, but you know I worry. A bunch of hockey fuckboys in one space is never a good thing.”
I roll my eyes because one, he himself was a hockey fuckboy and two, there is literally no one here.
No one but Beckham but I’m sure as shit not telling my father that and causing him to go off the deep end.
We end the call, and I toss my phone onto the rumpled bed. Every movement sends little shockwaves of soreness through my body. My thighs protest as I stand, my core aches, and there's a tenderness between my legs that makes me press them together just to feel it again.
Hobbling toward the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and holy shit. My neck and chest are covered in dark purple marks that bloom across my skin like flowers. My lips are swollen, my hair just one wild ass tangle, and there are finger-shaped bruises on my hips.
I look thoroughly fucked, and I love it.
Steam billows out as I push the bathroom door open. Through the fogged glass of the shower, I can make out Beckham's silhouette—broad shoulders, narrow waist, and that ass.
Sliding the door open, I step in behind him. The hot water immediately soothes my muscles as I press myself against his back, my hands sliding up to trace the scratches I left there. Some are deeper than others, angry red lines that crisscross his warm skin.
“Sorry about these,” I murmur, not sorry at all.
He doesn't respond, just stands motionless under the spray. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the rigid set of his shoulders.
I trail my fingertips along the longest scratch, following it from his shoulder blade down to the small of his back. “Actually, I'm not sorry. I like seeing my marks on you.”
He turns around slowly, and I take a step back. His face is a mask. It's the same expression he wears on the bench during games. Coach Kingston, not the man who made me scream his name last night.
“Your father,” he says flatly.
“Is fine,” I finish. “And has no idea who I'm with.”
His eyes flick over my body, taking in the marks he left on me. For a second, I see a flash of obsessive satisfaction before the mask slips back into place.
“This is fucked up, Hennessy.”
I reach for the soap, lathering it between my hands. “So you've said. Several times. Usually right before you fuck me against something.”
His nostrils flare. “This isn't a joke.”
“Do you see me laughing?” I press my soapy hands against his chest, sliding them over his pecs, working my way down to his abs. “Look, he doesn't know. He won't know. I'm not an idiot.”
Beckham's hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist hard enough to make me gasp. “It's not about whether he finds out; you know the bad blood between us. It's about the fact that I'm standing here with his daughter's pussy still on my cock while he's calling to check on her.”
“Jesus, you're dramatic,” I roll my eyes, trying to pull my hand away. “And technically, you washed it off already.”
For a moment, we just stare at each other, water streaming down our faces until he backs me up against the cold shower wall.
“You think this is funny?” His voice is a dangerous growl in my ear as he presses his body against mine, pinning me to the wall. I can feel him hardening against my stomach.
“No,” I breathe, turning my head to press a kiss to his neck. “I think this is exactly what we both want, and you're just too scared to admit it.”
His eyes darken, and for a second I think he might actually be angry. Then, his mouth crashes down on mine, stealing my breath all over again.
He kisses like he fucks. Brutal, rough, and with a mouth that doesn’t ask—just takes. Like he’s going to ruin you, and then he’ll do it all over again.
The hot water pounds down on us as he devours me, one hand sliding up to grip my hair while the other moves between my legs.
His fingers find me slick and ready, and he groans against my lips. “Already wet for me? After everything last night?”
“Always,” I gasp as he slides them inside me. The stretch burns in the best way, my body sore but still desperate for him.
He works his fingers in and out slowly, his thumb circling my clit with just enough pressure to make my knees weak. His teeth scrape along my jaw, down my neck, biting at the marks he left last night.
“Fuck, Beckham,” I whimper, my hands grabbing at his sides.
Suddenly he’s gone, his warm body no longer pressed against mine, and confused I open my eyes, only to find him dropping to his knees on the shower floor. His hands grip my thighs, spreading them as he positions himself between my legs.
“Get your leg up,” he commands, already lifting my right thigh and draping it over his broad shoulder. The position leaves me completely exposed to him, my back against the cold tile, my pussy at the perfect height for his mouth.
He looks up at me, water streaming down his face, his eyes dark with hunger. “I need to taste you again.”
I brace myself against the shower wall, ready to feel his mouth on me, when my stomach lets out a growl so loud it echoes off the bathroom tiles.
Beckham freezes, his mouth inches from my center, and I feel his breath huff against my wet skin as he starts to laugh. His forehead presses against my inner thigh as his shoulders shake with laughter.
“Shut up,” I mutter, embarrassed. “We haven't eaten since yesterday.”
He glances up at me, water dripping from his eyelashes, a smirk playing on his lips. “Sounds like someone needs fuel before round five.”
Before I can respond, he sinks his teeth into the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh, making me yelp. The mark he leaves is deep and possessive—another to add to my collection.
“Asshole,” I hiss, but there's no heat behind it.
He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, practically dragging me out of the shower.
“What are you doing?” I stumble after him, dripping wet.
“Feeding you,” he says simply, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist before tossing one at me.
Twenty minutes later, we're sitting across from each other in the hotel restaurant. My hair is still damp, hastily pulled into a messy bun, and I'm wearing leggings and my last clean shirt. Beckham looks unfairly good in jeans and a black henley, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the menu.
“Like what?”
“Like you're thinking about climbing across this table.”
I smirk, deliberately running my foot up his calf under the table. “Maybe I am.”
His jaw tightens, but before he can respond, the waiter appears to take our order.
I order then watch Beckham transform before my eyes—his expression softening, his voice losing its edge as he politely orders a steak sandwich and fries.
The moment the waiter leaves, the mask drops, and Coach Kingston returns.
“You're good at that,” I observe, sipping my water. “Turning it on and off.”
“I've had practice,” he says flatly. “Unlike you, who looks like she just got fucked six ways from Sunday.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a complaint?”
“It's an observation.”
I lean forward, “She wants to fuck you.”
If our server had eye-fucked him any harder, she would have left a puddle in the middle of the floor.
Beckham rolls his eyes. “No, she doesn't.”
“She was practically drooling.”
“I didn't notice,” he says, and the crazy thing is, I believe him. His eyes haven't left my face since we sat down, like I'm the only person in his orbit.
I go to open my mouth when two middle-aged men in plaid shirts and work boots enter the room, stomping snow from their feet. They take the table behind Beckham, their voices carrying easily.
“Roads are finally getting cleared,” one says. “Pete’s got the main highway almost done.”
“Should be clear enough for people by one,” the other man replies. “Good thing too. Another front is coming off the lake in the morning.”
I watch Beckham's shoulders tense slightly at the news. The bubble we've been living in is about to pop. Reality is creeping back in, and I hate it.
Our food arrives, and I force myself to eat even though my appetite has suddenly vanished. Beckham demolishes his sandwich in record time, like he can't wait to get back on the road.
“Slow down,” I say, pushing my fries toward him. “You're eating like someone's going to take it away from you.”
He grabs a fry, dragging it through ketchup. “The sooner we get back, the better.”
“Why?” I challenge. “What's so urgent?”
His eyes meet mine, dark and serious. “The longer we stay, the more complicated this gets.”
“It's already complicated.”
“Then let's not make it worse.”
I finish my food in silence, my mind racing. I don't want this to end. Not yet. Not when I've barely scratched the surface of whatever this is between us.
After Beckham pays the bill, waving away my attempt to split it, we head toward the elevators. The lobby is bustling with activity as other stranded guests prepare to leave, the storm finally over.
The elevator arrives with a soft ding, and we step inside. As the doors close, I feel a heaviness settle in my chest. Twenty-four hours ago, I was praying for the storm to end. Now I'm wishing for another blizzard.
We walk down the hallway in silence, my key card ready in my hand. When we reach my door, I turn to face him, leaning against the wall.
“You okay?” he asks, frowning at whatever he sees on my face.
“Fine,” I lie, forcing a smile. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous pastime.” His attempt at humor falls flat.
I study him, taking in the tight set of his shoulders, the way his eyes keep darting down the hallway like he's expecting someone to catch us. He's on edge, already mentally back in the real world.
“So we'll never do it again?” I ask, unable to help myself.
His eyes darken, jaw tightening. “Don't push me.”
“Why not?” I step closer, tilting my head up to look at him. “Pushing you gets me exactly what I want.”
“Hennessy,” he warns, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes heat pool between my legs.
“I’m just checking because I have needs, and if you won’t be scratching them, then I need to start swiping on someone who will.”
I always get what I want. The proof of that is this weekend. I had him for a moment, but I want him longer. I want him to not be a dirty little secret.
And when I put my mind to something I can’t be stopped.
Check, Coach Kingston.