“Hennessy, gracias a Dios. He estado llamándote toda la mañana.” My father's voice is tight with worry. Like yes, I know you’ve called me twenty times.
I watch as Beckham silently slides out of bed, giving me a clear view of his muscular ass as he stalks toward the bathroom. The scratches I left down his back are still visible, angry red lines marking where my nails dug in while he fucked me against the headboard around three this morning.
“Estoy bien, Papi.”
Beckham leaves the bathroom door slightly ajar as he disappears inside. I hear the shower turn on a moment later, water hitting tile.
“¿Por qué no contestaste mis llamadas?” my dad demands because god forbid I have a life and not answer him right away.
I sit up, wincing at the soreness between my legs. “Estaba dormida. Lo siento.”
“Es casi mediodía, Hennessy.” I don’t live at home so who cares what times I sleep, my dad apparently.
I glance at the clock and realize he's right. We slept until almost eleven. We didn't actually fall asleep until the sun was starting to rise.
“Lo sé, lo sé. La tormenta fue estresante. Necesitaba descansar.”
I tell him I needed rest after the storm. I’m definitely not telling him Beckham Kingston fucked me into a great night of sleep.
Steam begins to curl from the bathroom doorway. I imagine Beckham standing under the hot spray, water sluicing down those ridiculous muscles, and my body responds instantly, nipples hardening against the sheet.
I hear my father sigh heavily, switching back to English. “Fine, but you know I worry. A bunch of hockey fuckboys in one space is never a good thing.”
I roll my eyes because one, he himself was a hockey fuckboy and two, there is literally no one here.
No one but Beckham but I’m sure as shit not telling my father that and causing him to go off the deep end.
We end the call, and I toss my phone onto the rumpled bed. Every movement sends little shockwaves of soreness through my body. My thighs protest as I stand, my core aches, and there's a tenderness between my legs that makes me press them together just to feel it again.
Hobbling toward the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror and holy shit. My neck and chest are covered in dark purple marks that bloom across my skin like flowers. My lips are swollen, my hair just one wild ass tangle, and there are finger-shaped bruises on my hips.
I look thoroughly fucked, and I love it.
Steam billows out as I push the bathroom door open. Through the fogged glass of the shower, I can make out Beckham's silhouette—broad shoulders, narrow waist, and that ass.
Sliding the door open, I step in behind him. The hot water immediately soothes my muscles as I press myself against his back, my hands sliding up to trace the scratches I left there. Some are deeper than others, angry red lines that crisscross his warm skin.
“Sorry about these,” I murmur, not sorry at all.
He doesn't respond, just stands motionless under the spray. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the rigid set of his shoulders.
I trail my fingertips along the longest scratch, following itfrom his shoulder blade down to the small of his back. “Actually, I'm not sorry. I like seeing my marks on you.”
He turns around slowly, and I take a step back. His face is a mask. It's the same expression he wears on the bench during games. Coach Kingston, not the man who made me scream his name last night.
“Your father,” he says flatly.
“Is fine,” I finish. “And has no idea who I'm with.”
His eyes flick over my body, taking in the marks he left on me. For a second, I see a flash of obsessive satisfaction before the mask slips back into place.
“This is fucked up, Hennessy.”
I reach for the soap, lathering it between my hands. “So you've said. Several times. Usually right before you fuck me against something.”
His nostrils flare. “This isn't a joke.”
“Do you see me laughing?” I press my soapy hands against his chest, sliding them over his pecs, working my way down to his abs. “Look, he doesn't know. He won't know. I'm not an idiot.”
