Three days. I have three days at this conference to make him completely mine.
Game on, Coach King.
Chapter 3
Beckham
The door to my room slams behind me as I stumble in, my hands still fucking shaking. I yank at my tie, tossing it somewhere on the floor before heading straight to the bathroom. I need a cold shower. I need to get her off my skin.
My reflection stares back at me in the mirror, and I barely recognize myself. Hair disheveled, pupils blown, lips swollen from her kisses. I look like a man possessed.
“Fuck!” I slam my fist against the marble counter, welcoming the sharp sting of pain. Anything to distract from the throbbing between my legs, the taste of her still on my tongue.
Stripping off my jacket, I unbutton my shirt with unsteady fingers. The scent of her perfume clings to the fabric like it’s branded in. Spicy and sweet. And all fucking her.
What the hell did I just do?
I grip the edge of the sink, trying to steady my breathing. It doesn't work. Nothing's working. My brain keepsreplaying the way she felt around my fingers, so goddamn wet and tight. The little sounds she made when I pushed deeper. How she looked at me with those dark eyes when she came, like I was the only man in the world who could give her what she needed.
And that mouth. Jesus. The way she sucked my fingers clean, moaning like she couldn't get enough of her own taste.
My cock jerks, hard and aching just to remind me that it didn’t get to feel the sweet heat of her like my hand did.
I need to get it together, but the man staring back at me almost shakes his head. As if I’m a lost cause and too far gone into Hennessy’s orbit.
My phone buzzes on the counter—probably Maris wondering where the fuck I disappeared to. The welcome reception is still going on downstairs. I should go back. Network and shake hands. Act like I didn't just finger my rival's daughter to orgasm on a fucking terrace overlooking all the holiday cheer.
But there's no way I'm going back down there. Not with her scent on my skin and her taste on my tongue. Not with my dick still hard enough to cut glass. Those coaches and my bosses can all go to hell.
It was the mistletoe. That stupid fucking sprig hanging outside the elevator. It was the dress, hugging every curve she has. Or maybe it was the way she fucking looked at me, through me, inside me from across the room and raising her glass and her brow in a challenge.
I could put it on her, on the plant, on all my buttons being pushed at once from all corners, but I won’t.
It really doesn’t fucking matter because I gave in and fuck, it felt good. No, it felt better than good. It felt like athousand little pieces all slotting together. It felt right, and that’s exactly why I need to stay away from her. I knew it years ago. Time and space haven’t changed or diminished it at all.
And now I have to spend three days under the same roof as her. Share space, and it’s going to make it impossible to breathe. Not to mention I have to fucking be professional, and I know I can’t get out of fucking interacting with her, at the very least I have to do that damn interview tomorrow.
I strip off the rest of my clothes and step into the shower, turning the water as cold as it will go. The icy spray hits my overheated skin, but it does nothing to calm me. Bracing my hands against the tile wall, I let the water pound against my back.
But as I close my eyes, all I can see is her face when she came, the way her lips parted, the flush spreading across her cheeks. All I can hear is her voice, breathless and needy.
My hand drifts down my stomach before I can stop myself. I'm rock hard, aching for release. One stroke and I'm already leaking. It would be so easy to give in, to imagine it's her hand wrapped around me instead of my own.
I jerk my hand away as my phone keeps buzzing on the damn bathroom counter. I try to ignore it, but the vibrating is incessant and annoying. Quickly rinsing and shutting off the water, I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist before checking the screen.
I swear to god if any of my guys are already in some bullshit, it’s suicide drills for everyone. Just over and over and over.
Roman
Where the fuck did you disappear to?
The AD's looking for you. Said something about alumni donors.
Kingston. Answer your damn phone.
I type back with one hand, water still dripping down my chest.
Not coming back down. Tell them I got a migraine.
