Chapter 22
Beckham
Ismell her before I see her—vanilla and spice. So distinctly Hennessy and it’s seeped into my sheets, my towels, my goddamn skin. My cock stirs instantly, like a fucking Pavlovian response.
“Troublemaker?” I call out, dropping my gym bag by the door.
The lights are dimmed, Christmas tree twinkling in the corner.
Just one of many additions she's made to my previously spartan apartment.
Watching her fucking decorate the tree and my living room was worth every dollar and minute spent at that godforsaken craft store.
She wasn't supposed to be here tonight. She said she was having dinner with her friend Naila, some girls' night bullshit that I pretended not to be jealous of. But her boots are by the door, her jacket thrown over the back of my couch.
I follow the scent of cookies toward the kitchen, curious what the hell she's doing in my apartment when she's supposed to be out. When I turn the corner, I freeze in place.
Hennessy's dancing around my kitchen, her hips swaying to music I can't hear because of those fucking pods in her ears.
She's barefoot, wearing nothing but my old college practice jersey—the black and gold one from my college days that hangs down to mid-thigh on her short self.
Her hair's pulled up in a ponytail, tendrils falling loose around her face as she spins.
My kitchen looks like a fucking bakery exploded. There's flour dusting the counter, mixing bowls stacked in the sink, and a tray of what looks like chocolate chip cookies cooling on the rack. Another batch must be in the oven because I can smell them baking.
She hasn't noticed me yet, too caught up in whatever song is playing. Her lips move silently along with the lyrics as she reaches for spatula, using it as a makeshift microphone for a moment before going back to scooping cookies onto another rack.
I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to interrupt this moment. She looks so fucking carefree—so at home in my space. Something twists in my chest, a sharp tug that makes me reach up and rub at the spot, trying to ease the pressure.
Fuck. I don't want to examine what that feeling means right now.
I've never had anyone bake in my kitchen before.
Never had anyone comfortable enough to let themselves in and make themselves at home like this.
Never wanted it either. But watching her dance around, completely unaware of my presence, looking like she belongs here—it does something to me that has nothing to do with how hard my cock is right now.
She turns, finally catching sight of me, and lets out a startled yelp. One pod falls out as she jumps.
“Jesus fuck, Beckham!” she gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Thought you were having dinner with Naila,” I say, pushing off the doorframe and moving toward her.
Her lips curl into a mischievous smile that always means trouble. “I did. We finished early, and I wanted to surprise you.” She gestures to the cookies. “I know you said you didn't do Christmas, but everyone deserves homemade cookies.”
I reach for her, pulling her against me by the hem of my jersey. “You broke into my apartment to bake cookies?”
She rolls her eyes, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I didn't break in. You gave me a key, remember?”
“For emergencies,” I counter, my hands sliding down to cup her ass. She's not wearing anything under my jersey. Fuck.
“This was an emergency,” she insists, pressing her body against mine. “A Christmas cookie emergency.”
I spin her around by her shoulders, pressing her back against the counter. My hands slide down to her hips, gripping the jersey as I lean in close to her ear.
“Finish making your cookies, trouble,” I growl, my voice rough with want. “I want to watch you.”
She looks over her shoulder at me, that fucking smirk still playing on her lips. “Bossy much?”
“Always.” I press my lower half against her ass, making her gasp. “Get to work.”
She reaches for the mixing bowl, scooping dough onto the cookie sheet while I stand behind her, my front pressed to her back.
“You smell so good,” I murmur, brushing her ponytail aside to expose her neck. I press my lips to the sensitive spot below her ear, feeling her shiver against me.
“I know you have a sweet tooth,” she says, her voice slightly breathless as she continues scooping dough. “Even though you try to hide it with all that protein-shake bullshit.”
My hands slide under the jersey, finding her bare hips. “Only sweet thing I'm interested in right now is under this shirt.”
She laughs, pushing back against me as she reaches for more cookie dough.
“Oh, by the way,” she says casually, like I'm not practically dry humping her against my kitchen counter, “dinner's in the pan on the stove. Just needs to be heated up.”
I freeze, my hands stilling on her hips. “You made me fucking dinner too?”
She nods, placing the last scoop of dough on the tray. “Arroz con Pollo.”
“You didn't need to do that,” I say, genuinely surprised. “Especially not after working all day and then hanging out with your friend.”
She turns in my arms, facing me with a defiant tilt to her chin. “No, I didn't need to do it, but I wanted to. Just like I wanted to make cookies.” She pokes me in the chest with a sticky finger. “So you're gonna shut up and eat all of it.”
“Is that right?” I ask, catching her wrist and bringing the digit to my mouth. I suck the dough off slowly, watching her pupils dilate as my tongue swirls around her fingertip.
“Yes,” she says, her voice slightly hoarse. “That's right.”
I release her finger with a pop. “And if I don't?”
“Then no dessert for you.” She glances down at her body.
“Fucking brat,” I mutter.
“And you love it. Now, eat.”
“Thank you,” I say, stepping back and running a hand through my hair. “Seriously. No one's cooked for me since...”
I trail off, not wanting to bring up my mom right now.
Not when Hennessy's looking at me with those big eyes, all proud of herself for doing something so simple yet so fucking meaningful. We’ve spent the last few weeks eating out, or she’s come over after being at her parents.
This is unexpected, but it really shouldn’t have been.
“I'm starving,” I admit, moving to the stove as she slides the cookie sheet into the oven. The smell hits me as soon as I lift the lid on the pan—seasoned rice, chicken, peppers, and spices that make my mouth water instantly. “Fuck, this looks good.”
I grab a plate from the cabinet and pile it high, not bothering to wait as I take the first bite. The flavors explode on my tongue—slightly spicy, perfectly seasoned.
“Holy shit,” I mumble around a mouthful, already shoveling in another bite.
Hennessy beams at me, setting the timer for the cookies before turning to the sink. She starts gathering the mixing bowls and measuring cups, running water over them.
“Leave that,” I say, swallowing my food. “I'll clean up after I eat.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “I made the mess.”
“Hennessy.” My voice drops in a tone I know she instantly recognizes—the one that says I'm not fucking around. “I said leave it. You cooked, I’ll clean. That's how this works.”
She turns, eyebrow raised. “Since when do we have rules about kitchen duty?”
“Since you made me dinner after working all day. I'm not having you clean up too.”
She looks like she's about to argue, a stubborn set to her jaw appearing. But something in my expression must convince her because she sighs dramatically.
“Fine,” she says, shutting off the water. “But only because you look like you might spank me if I don't obey.”
My cock rises at her words. “Don't tempt me, trouble. Might do it regardless.”
She grins, sauntering past me to hop up on the counter beside where I'm eating. Her bare legs dangle, and my jersey rides up just enough to give me a glimpse of what's underneath.
“So how was your day?” she asks, stealing a piece of chicken from my plate.
I swat at her hand half-heartedly. “Get your own.”
“Yours tastes better,” she says with a wink. “Now answer the question, Coach.”
“Fine. Practice ran long. The defensive line is struggling with the new formation.” I take another bite, closing my eyes at how fucking good it tastes. “What about you? How was your 'girls' night'?”
“It was good. Naila's got drama with her new man. Apparently he's not as attentive as she'd like,” Hennessy says, swinging her legs. “She thinks he's seeing someone else.”
I grunt, more focused on the food than her friend's relationship problems. “Is he?”
“No idea. But I told her to just ask him instead of obsessing over his social media likes.” She steals another piece of chicken. “Plus, I missed you. It’s weird how quickly I got used to seeing you almost every day.”
I'm not used to this. Someone wanting to be around me, missing me when I'm gone. It's fucking terrifying and addictive all at once.
“Yeah?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral despite the way my heart pounds. “You missed my charming personality or just my dick?”
She rolls her eyes, nudging me with her foot. “Both, asshole. Though right now I'm leaning more toward the personality since you're being so appreciative of my cooking skills.”
I grab her ankle, holding it firmly. “Your cooking skills are fucking incredible. Almost as good as your other skills.”
The timer on the oven starts beeping, interrupting whatever smart-ass comment she was about to make. She hops down from the counter, her bare feet silent on the tile floor as she grabs an oven mitt.
I watch her bend over to pull out the cookie sheet, the hem riding up to give me a perfect view of her ass. My fork pauses halfway to my mouth as I take in the sight, heat pooling in my groin.
“Eyes up here, Coach,” she teases, straightening with the tray of perfect golden-brown cookies. She sets them on a cooling rack next to the others.