Her pupils dilate, dark eyes searching mine as I hover there, neither of us moving.
“Beckham,” she whispers, and it's both a question and something else entirely.
I pull back slowly, putting distance between us before I do something stupid like kiss her in broad daylight in a coffee shop parking lot.
Chapter 17
Hennessy
My pussy clenches the second his hand brushes against my chest. God, I'm fucking pathetic. One touch and I'm already wet.
I watch him pull away, his eyes narrowing as he shifts back to his side of the truck. His jaw is tight and he's fighting for control. I love to see him struggle. Let him feel a fraction of what I've been dealing with.
“Thanks for the seatbelt assistance,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Though I've been buckling myself in since I was like, five.”
He grunts, starting the engine. “Force of habit.”
“What, you often strap women into your big, manly truck?” I can't help pushing. It's what I do with him.
“Shut up, Hennessy.”
I smile, settling back into the leather seat that smells like him. “I don’t think you really want me to.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot. I notice his knuckles are scraped raw—probably from whatever punishing workout he wasdoing this morning. I wonder if he was thinking of me while he destroyed his body, the way I've been thinking of him every night with my hand between my thighs.
“So where are we going?” I ask when the silence stretches too long.
“Place called The Iron Griddle. Off the main roads. Best pancakes you'll ever have.”
“Bold claim.”
“It's not a claim. It's a fact.”
I study his profile as he drives—the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble that scraped my thighs raw four nights ago has grown out even further. “You seem very certain about your breakfast opinions.”
“I'm certain about most things.”
“Except me,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flick to me for a split second before returning to the road. “What's that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, playing with the zipper on my jacket. “Nothing. Just an observation.”
We fall into silence again, but it's different now. I can practically feel the tension rolling off him in waves. Part of me wants to keep pushing, to see if I can make him snap right here in the car. But I've been playing this game long enough to know when to hold back.
The Iron Griddle turns out to be a small, unassuming diner tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore. The kind of place you'd drive past a hundred times without noticing. Beckham parks and comes around to my side before I can even unbuckle.
“I can open my own door too,” I tell him as he pulls it open.
“I know you can.” He reaches for my hand to help medown, and I take it, feeling the calluses against my palm. “You can do anything you want. Doesn't mean I can't help.”
Twenty minutes later, we have food in front of us, and I hate to admit that this place lives up to his claims.
The way Beckham Kingston watches me eat pancakes should be fucking illegal.
“What?” I ask, licking maple syrup from my bottom lip with deliberate slowness. “Do I have something on my face?”
His jaw tightens, eyes tracking the movement of my tongue. “No.”
