Chapter 17
Hennessy
My pussy clenches the second his hand brushes against my chest. God, I'm fucking pathetic. One touch and I'm already wet.
I watch him pull away, his eyes narrowing as he shifts back to his side of the truck. His jaw is tight and he's fighting for control. I love to see him struggle. Let him feel a fraction of what I've been dealing with.
“Thanks for the seatbelt assistance,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Though I've been buckling myself in since I was like, five.”
He grunts, starting the engine. “Force of habit.”
“What, you often strap women into your big, manly truck?” I can't help pushing. It's what I do with him.
“Shut up, Hennessy.”
I smile, settling back into the leather seat that smells like him. “I don’t think you really want me to.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot.
I notice his knuckles are scraped raw—probably from whatever punishing workout he was doing this morning.
I wonder if he was thinking of me while he destroyed his body, the way I've been thinking of him every night with my hand between my thighs.
“So where are we going?” I ask when the silence stretches too long.
“Place called The Iron Griddle. Off the main roads. Best pancakes you'll ever have.”
“Bold claim.”
“It's not a claim. It's a fact.”
I study his profile as he drives—the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble that scraped my thighs raw four nights ago has grown out even further. “You seem very certain about your breakfast opinions.”
“I'm certain about most things.”
“Except me,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick to me for a split second before returning to the road. “What's that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, playing with the zipper on my jacket. “Nothing. Just an observation.”
We fall into silence again, but it's different now. I can practically feel the tension rolling off him in waves. Part of me wants to keep pushing, to see if I can make him snap right here in the car. But I've been playing this game long enough to know when to hold back.
The Iron Griddle turns out to be a small, unassuming diner tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. The kind of place you'd drive past a hundred times without noticing. Beckham parks and comes around to my side before I can even unbuckle.
“I can open my own door too,” I tell him as he pulls it open.
“I know you can.” He reaches for my hand to help me down, and I take it, feeling the calluses against my palm. “You can do anything you want. Doesn't mean I can't help.”
Twenty minutes later, we have food in front of us, and I hate to admit that this place lives up to his claims.
The way Beckham Kingston watches me eat pancakes should be fucking illegal.
“What?” I ask, licking maple syrup from my bottom lip with deliberate slowness. “Do I have something on my face?”
His jaw tightens, eyes tracking the movement of my tongue. “No.”
“Then why are you staring at me like you want to throw me on this table?”
“Jesus Christ, Hennessy,” he hisses, glancing around the nearly empty diner. “Keep your voice down.”
I smile sweetly and cut another piece of pancake. “First you want me to shut up, now you want me to keep my voice down. I don’t think you really want either of those things.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches—my favorite tell that I'm getting under his skin. It's the same twitch I saw right before he pinned me against the wall and fucked me senseless. The memory makes heat pool between my legs.
I pop the bite into my mouth, making sure to lick the fork clean. “These really are the best pancakes I've ever had. Good call, Coach.”
He winces at the title, exactly like I knew he would. “Don't call me that.”
“Why not? It's what you are.” I lean forward, giving him a perfect view down my top. “A big, strong, commanding coach.”
“Hennessy.” It's a warning. A plea. A prayer.
“Beckham,” I mimic his tone, enjoying this dance too much to stop. “Relax. No one here knows us.”
He takes a long drink of his coffee. “That's not the point.”
“Then what is the point?” I set down my fork, suddenly tired of pretending. “You drag me to breakfast after telling me what we had was over, then sit there looking at me like you're starving and I'm the last meal on earth.”
“I didn't drag you anywhere,” he mutters. “You came willingly.”
“I always do with you.” The double entendre isn't lost on him; his eyes darken to stormy gray. “But seriously, what are we doing here, Beckham?”
He stares at his plate, pushing eggs around with his fork. “Having breakfast.”
“Bullshit.” I kick his shin lightly under the table. “You could've walked away at the coffee shop. You didn't.”
“You needed real food.”
“So you're what, my nutritionist now?” I laugh, the sound bitter even to my own ears. “That's rich coming from a man who exists on protein shakes and spite.”
That gets a reluctant smile out of him. “I eat real food.”
I steal a piece of bacon from his plate while making a mhm sound of fake agreement.
“Look.” I put my fork down with more force than necessary, making our plates clatter. “I need to be straight with you because this back-and-forth is driving me fucking insane.”
His eyes snap to mine, the muscle in his jaw working overtime.
“I like you, Beckham. I like fucking you. I like looking at you.” I lean in, lowering my voice. “And I know you like fucking me and looking at me too. But if you can't handle my teasing, my jokes, the way I talk—then let's make this the actual last time we spend time together.”
He stiffens, his knuckles going white around his coffee mug. “What are you talking about?”
“I'm not going to change who I am because it makes you uncomfortable. And you shouldn't ask me to.”
“I never asked you to change anything,” he says, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. “That's bullshit.”
“Yes, you do.” I hold his gaze, refusing to back down.
“Maybe not directly, but it's in every reaction.
Every time you tell me to shut up or keep my voice down.
Every time you flinch when I say something that doesn't fit your idea of proper.” I take a deep breath.
“It's subtle. Maybe even subconscious. But you do it.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his face unreadable. Then something shifts in his expression—a crack in that perfect control.
“You think I want you to be different?” His voice drops to a dangerous rumble. “You think I want you to be some quiet, proper little girl?”
“Don't you?” I challenge. “Isn't that easier to deal with than...this? I’ve spent my whole life being the good girl, Beckham. Being who everyone wanted me to be. Now, I just want to be the me that I want.”
“Fuck no.” He leans forward, invading my space across the small table. “If I wanted easy, I wouldn't be sitting here with you right now.”
My heart skips a beat, but I keep my face neutral. “Then what do you want?”
“I want—” He stops, jaw working as he struggles to find words. “I want to eat my fucking breakfast without having to worry about getting hard in public.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, unexpected and genuine. “That's not my problem, Kingston.”
“The hell it isn't.” His eyes burn into mine. “You do it on purpose.”
“And you love it,” I counter, leaning closer. “You love that I push you. That I don't back down. That I make you feel something besides cold, calculating control.”
He doesn't deny it, which is answer enough.
“So what's it gonna be?” I ask, softening my voice. “Because I can't keep doing this dance where you want me until you remember all the reasons you think you shouldn't.”
He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then he says, “I don't know what this is.”
“Neither do I,” I admit.
The confession hangs between us, honest in a way that makes my chest feel tight. We stare at each other across the sticky diner table, both of us trapped in whatever this fucked-up connection is.
After a long moment, Beckham returns to his food. I pick at my pancakes, the silence heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. For once, I don't feel the need to fill it with jokes or innuendos. Maybe that's growth. Or maybe I'm just tired of pretending this isn't complicated.
He finishes first, pushing his empty plate away.
“These really were amazing pancakes,” I say finally, setting my fork down beside my half-eaten breakfast. “You weren't exaggerating.”
“Told you.” His voice is gruff but lacks the edge from earlier. “I don't exaggerate.”
“No, you just glare and growl until people do what you want.” I take a last sip of my coffee, checking the time on my phone. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I've got a meeting in forty-five minutes.” I start gathering my things, shoving my phone into my pocket. “I completely lost track of time.”
Something flickers across his face before his expression smooths back into that neutral mask.
“I'll drive you back to your car,” he says, already signaling for the check.
The drive back is quiet, but not tense. I lean my head against the window, watching the campus buildings come into view. My mind races with everything I want to say, questions I want to ask. But I keep them locked behind my teeth, not ready to push any harder than I already have.
When he pulls into the coffee shop parking lot, I expect him to make some excuse about practice or meetings. Instead, he kills the engine and turns to face me.
“I'll walk you to your car,” he says, like it's non-negotiable.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease, but there's no bite to it.
He comes around to my side again, opening the door before I can reach for it. As I step down, his hand finds the small of my back, steadying me.
“You're right,” he says, the words sounding like they've been dragged out of him. “I do want you.”
My breath catches. “So what are you going to do about it?”
His eyes drop to my mouth, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he exhales slowly. “I don't know yet.”