Chapter 15
A sweltering heat rouses me from sleep, the glimpse of sunlight peeking into the room indicating it’s morning. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept this well without tossing and turning. Probably because I finally slept on an actual bed instead of the couch. I would have most likely still been sleeping if I weren’t so damn hot. It’s like a sauna in here.
But as the fog of sleep clears, I come to realize it’s not the temperature that’s making me burn up. It’s something else.
Or perhaps I should say someone else.
Beckham’s arms are wrapped around me, his warm and solid chest pressed against my back. The pillow he placed between us last night is gone, not so much as a whisper separating us, a single leg around my waist locking me in place.
And that’s not all.
There’s something poking me.
Something hard and thick.
And incredibly tempting.
My cheeks flush as I push down the urge to turn around, to feel him between my legs. This man has a way of making every inch of my body react with just one look. One touch.
And I can’t touch.
“Beckham,” I say somewhat hesitantly.
A low, guttural moan escapes his lips, sending a rush of desire through me. He pulls me closer, not yet fully awake but clearly responding to my proximity.
“Beckham,” I say again, this time with a bit more edge.
And again, his only response is a moan.
Which sends another shock straight to my girly bits. My libido does a few warmup stretches, thinking she’s about to finally get some action after a five-year dry spell.
But definitely not today.
And definitely not with Beckham, despite how much my mouth waters at the prospect.
When he pulses against me, I know I need to change tactics before I throw caution to the wind and succumb to him. Instead, I elbow him in his stomach.
He jerks upright, nearly pushing me off the bed from the sudden movement.
“What was that for?” he barks, blinking his tired eyes open.
“You were poking me with your…” I whistle as my gaze darts down to his waist.
Which I definitely shouldn’t have done, since his impressive erection is still straining against his pajama bottoms.
“Shit.” He grabs the pillow that should have been separating us and covers himself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I?—”
“Mama,” Maggie’s sleepy voice interrupts, followed by a soft knock on the door.
I haul ass out of bed, not wanting her to come in here and see Beckham with a raging hard on.
As a mom, I’ve learned how to handle my fair share of difficult questions.
I’m not ready for my daughter to ask why Beckham has a pole in his pants.
A hard, long, thick pole that has the ability to bring me to orgasm more times than should be possible.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I say in a chipper voice as I step into the hallway, making sure to close the door behind me. “Are you hungry?”
She rubs her eyes and nods.
“Let’s get some breakfast in you so you have lots of energy for preschool.”
I take her hand in mine and lead her down the stairs. I’m not sure what kind of food I’ll find in Beckham’s kitchen, but when I start going through his cabinets, I’m surprised to find them well-stocked. He even bought all of Maggie’s favorite snacks — apple sauce, fruit chews, granola bars. I have no idea how he knew exactly what flavor and brand she likes, but he did.
“Do you want pancakes?”
Maggie’s eyes light up. “Yes!”
I collect the ingredients and mix them together, then fire up the gas on the griddle section of Beckham’s stove.
“Mr. Beck! Mama’s making pancakes!”
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting against the shiver of awareness that trickles down my spine from the memory of waking up wrapped in his arms.
With his dick pressing against my back.
And the way my body responded.
Hell, the way my body is still responding, especially when I turn around and meet Beckham’s heated stare as he casually strolls into the kitchen after letting Monte outside. At least his erection has gone down and he threw on a t-shirt. Although, I’m not sure that makes much of a difference, his built physique stretching the material.
“Something interest you, Haley?”
I inhale a sharp breath and blink repeatedly. I didn’t even realize I was staring at him.
Then again, I’m not sure that’s the appropriate word for what I was just doing to Beckham.
Ogling is probably more appropriate.
Mentally undressing.
Wondering if the way he fucks has matured with age like his kisses have.
“Not at all. I… Coffee,” I finally blurt out. “I was just looking for your coffee maker.”
Arching a disbelieving brow, he slowly stalks toward me. His dark eyes remain locked on mine as he leans closer, trapping me against the counter. Despite his proximity, not a single inch of his body touches mine, remaining painfully out of reach.
I swear I’m about to combust from the sexual tension filling me, my body throbbing with a craving to feel his skin on mine.
With calculated movements, he reaches past me, and the familiar sound of a one-cup brewer whirring to life fills the space. But even once it’s powered on, he doesn’t move, invading my space as if he owns it.
Owns me.
“Is this what you were looking for?” His voice is low and teasing, accompanied by a sly smirk on his stupid yet kissable lips.
Goddamn him for being so ridiculously attractive.
And for smelling so good.
And for making me forget every reason this is a terrible idea with just one hypnotic look.
One thing is certain… This man is going to destroy me. If my daughter weren’t sitting mere feet away, I’d probably slam my lips to his. Tug him against me. Wrap my legs around his waist and treat myself to the kind of mind-erasing orgasm only Beckham has been able to give me.
“Are you guys doing crush business?” Maggie’s sweet voice interjects, cutting through the charged atmosphere.
Slowly, Beckham tears his gaze from mine, but he doesn’t step back, keeping me caged in his strong arms.
“Crush business?” he asks with a single brow arched.
“Yeah.” She looks up from her coloring book splayed in front of her on the large island. “Kissing and stuff.”
“Do you mind if we do crush business?”
A contemplative look crosses her expression. But before I let her answer, I push against Beckham and duck under his arm.
“Never mind about that. Let’s focus on some pancake business instead.”
I hastily pour the batter onto the hot griddle, determined to ignore the electricity crackling in air. And how much I like crush business with Beckham.
“Here.” Beckham approaches with a steaming mug, handing it to me. “Oat milk and stevia.”
“Thanks.”
I take a sip, mindful not to ask how he knows the way I take my coffee in front of Maggie. Did I tell him? Was it one of the things we discussed in the weeks leading up to the wedding? If anything, I may have prepared a cup of coffee for myself in his presence. I didn’t think Beckham would be observant enough to watch how I liked my coffee.
“There’s a boy at school who has crush business with me,” Maggie says proudly.
“Is that right?” I ask, adding some chocolate chips to the pancakes before flipping them.
“Yup. He chases me during recess.”
“What’s this boy’s name?” Beckham asks in a stern voice as he heads to the French doors to let Monte back inside before returning to the kitchen.
“Christian.”
“And what are Christian’s intentions?” His gaze narrows in concern as he widens his stance, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“His…what?” Her tiny brows scrunch in confusion.
“Is he nice to you?”
Maggie nods excitedly. “He always lets me catch him when we play What Time is it Mr. Fox.”
Beckham chuckles, the raspy sound jumpstarting my libido yet again.
As if the old girl had time to cool down in the last few minutes.
“I suppose that’s all that matters.” He adds a scoop of kibble to Monte’s bowl, and his dog gobbles it up like it’s his last meal. “I’m going to jump in the shower,” he tells me before moving toward Maggie. “If I don’t see you, have a good day at school.” He gives her hair a quick tousle, then retreats up the stairs.
As soon as his footsteps fade away, I push out a long breath, praying this situation will get easier over time. If all our mornings are like this, I’m not sure if I’ll survive the next few months. I have a feeling my vibrator will be getting quite the workout in the weeks to come.
“Okay, sweet pea. Eat up.” I place a plate of pancakes in front of her, then set down her cup of water. “Will you be okay for a few minutes while I go get changed?”
“Yup,” she says around a mouthful of food.
“And don’t feed the dog any of those.” I point to her plate, watching as Monte circles her like a hawk, waiting for her to drop even the smallest morsel. “There are chocolate chips in there. Remember what I told you about dogs and chocolate?”
She nods gravely. “It can make them very sick.”
“Exactly.” I press a kiss to the top of her head, then dash up the stairs, coming to an abrupt stop when I see the door is closed. Of course it is. Beckham just said he was going to take a shower. It didn’t dawn on me until now that I’d need to get into the bedroom. I’m so used to it being Maggie and me that the thought never even crossed my mind.
“Beckham, are you decent?” I call out as I knock. “I just need to grab some clothes.”
I wait for a few seconds, but no response comes.
I press my ear up to the cool wood and listen, able to make out the sound of water running. The last thing I want to do is walk in on a naked Beckham, but I need to get dressed.
All I can do is hope he remembered to also close the door to the bathroom.
Placing my palm on the door, I hesitantly push it open, relieved when there’s no sign of Beckham.
I make a beeline toward my suitcase and pull out the first decent outfit I find — a pair of leggings and a tunic. After dressing, I check my reflection in the floor-length mirror and arrange my hair into a messy bun on the top of my head.
It’s innocent enough.
Except my reflection isn’t the only thing I see. Just behind me, the bathroom door is open, giving me the perfect view of the shower as I gaze into the mirror.
The shower where Beckham stands.
But he’s not washing his hair.
He’s giving a certain body part quite a bit of attention.
I should leave. Forget I saw him. Make an effort to learn his schedule so we don’t have to be in the bedroom at the same time.
But I’m mesmerized, unable to look away, even though that’s precisely what I should do. What I need to do.
He’s even bigger and more built than he was during our teenage years, every inch of him hard panes and defined ridges. Even his thighs are a sight to behold. And don’t get me started on the tattoos covering his arms and chest like the work of art he is.
But what has me completely captivated is the way he leans a forearm against the tile wall as he works his erection. The raw desire etched on his face causes a renewed wave of lust to crash over me, forcing me to steady myself with a hand on the dresser.
This is so wrong on so many levels, not to mention a massive invasion of his privacy. But as he jerks himself with increasing desperation, I can’t find the strength to put one foot in front of the other or look anywhere but at his reflection in the mirror. The harder he yanks, the faster my own breathing becomes.
Finally, a hungry growl rips through the space, the sound practically deafening.
But when he snaps his eyes open and catches mine through the mirror, I realize he wasn’t the only one who made a sound. I did, too, the ghost of my wanton moan still intermingling with the symphony of his release.
I’m frozen for a beat, at a loss for words. What can I say? Sorry I watched you jerk off, but it was one of the hottest things I’ve witnessed in a long time and I just couldn’t look away?
I doubt that would go over well.
Instead, I spin on my heels and hurry out of the room, contemplating the likelihood of never seeing Beckham again for the duration of our marriage.