Looking forward to our interview tomorrow, Coach King. I have some…penetrating questions for you.
How did you get this number?
The reply comes almost immediately.
I'm very good at my job. Media relations, remember?
I save her contact, typing “DANGER DO NOT RESPOND” as the name. A pathetic attempt at self-control that I already know won't work.
A knock at the door interrupts my self-flagellation. I throw on a t-shirt with my sweatpants and open the door, signing for the food without making conversation. The server's eyes widen slightly at my expression, and he scurries away without waiting for a tip.
I set the tray on the desk and lift the silver dome. The steak looks good, at least. I cut into it, watching the juices pool on the plate, and take a bite, pondering how fucked I am.
God help me because tomorrow I have to sit by the girl who tastes like Christmas and sin.
And I’m not sure I can be in the same room without giving in to tasting her again.
Chapter 4
Hennessy
There's a fine line between professional and fuckable, and I'm walking it in four-inch heels.
I twist in front of the hotel mirror, checking my ass in the tight pencil skirt I've paired with a crisp white button-up. The top three buttons are undone just enough to show the edge of my black lace bra when I lean forward. Professional enough for the camera, but designed to make Beckham lose his damn mind.
My hair falls in loose waves past my shoulders, but a few pieces look limp and lifeless. I grab my curling iron, wrapping a strand around the barrel.
An hour until I'm alone with him in his suite. One hour until I can see if the hunger in his eyes last night was just a momentary lapse or something deeper.
The memory of his fingers inside me makes heat pool between my thighs. I've gotten myself off twice since last night—once in the shower and once this morning—and I'm still fucking achingfor him.
I need to focus and get my job done. The one that pays me and then the one that hopefully gets me laid.
That job being Beckham Kingston. On his knees. Between my legs. Or maybe the other way around or both. Definitely both.
I laugh at my own thoughts as I reach for my makeup bag. I've already applied foundation and contour, but my eyes need that extra punch. I brush on a smoky shadow that makes my dark eyes look bigger, more intense. A coat of mascara, a swipe of my favorite YSL lipstick that looks almost innocent until you notice how it emphasizes the fullness of my lips.
My phone buzzes on the vanity.
Dad
Leaving now so I’ll be there in a couple of hours. Dinner tonight?
I sigh, setting down my lipstick. The last thing I need is my father hovering while I'm trying to seduce the man he hates most in the world.
Sure, Dad. Text me when you check in.
He doesn't know about my job. Well, he knows I work for the conference, but he doesn't know I'll be interviewing Beckham specifically. I conveniently left that detail out of our conversations, and the conference director was happy to keep my assignment list private when I explained the complicated history between the two men.
I spray a light mist of Tom Ford’s Spicy Vanilla perfume on my neck and wrists, then a quick spritz between my breasts. The scent is subtle but effective. Last night,Beckham couldn't stop inhaling when he was close to me, his nose brushing against my neck as his fingers worked magic between my legs.
My thighs squeeze together involuntarily at the memory.
I need to get my act together before this interview. The cameraman will be here soon to set up in Beckham's suite.
I press my lips together, then gently dab them with a tissue, making sure the color is set but won't smear off on anything or anyone. Can't have lipstick marks screaming evidence all over him.
I grab my purse, making sure I’ve got everything I need before texting Miguel.
