My heart skips a beat, but I keep my face neutral. “Then what do you want?”
“I want—” He stops, jaw working as he strugglesto find words. “I want to eat my fucking breakfast without having to worry about getting hard in public.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, unexpected and genuine. “That's not my problem, Kingston.”
“The hell it isn't.” His eyes burn into mine. “You do it on purpose.”
“And you love it,” I counter, leaning closer. “You love that I push you. That I don't back down. That I make you feel something besides cold, calculating control.”
He doesn't deny it, which is answer enough.
“So what's it gonna be?” I ask, softening my voice. “Because I can't keep doing this dance where you want me until you remember all the reasons you think you shouldn't.”
He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Then he says, “I don't know what this is.”
“Neither do I,” I admit.
The confession hangs between us, honest in a way that makes my chest feel tight. We stare at each other across the sticky diner table, both of us trapped in whatever this fucked-up connection is.
After a long moment, Beckham returns to his food. I pick at my pancakes, the silence heavy but not entirely uncomfortable. For once, I don't feel the need to fill it with jokes or innuendos. Maybe that's growth. Or maybe I'm just tired of pretending this isn't complicated.
He finishes first, pushing his empty plate away.
“These really were amazing pancakes,” I say finally, setting my fork down beside my half-eaten breakfast. “You weren't exaggerating.”
“Told you.” His voice is gruff but lacks the edge from earlier. “I don't exaggerate.”
“No, you just glare and growl until people do what you want.” I take a last sip of my coffee, checking the time on my phone. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I've got a meeting in forty-five minutes.” I start gathering my things, shoving my phone into my pocket. “I completely lost track of time.”
Something flickers across his face before his expression smooths back into that neutral mask.
“I'll drive you back to your car,” he says, already signaling for the check.
The drive back is quiet, but not tense. I lean my head against the window, watching the campus buildings come into view. My mind races with everything I want to say, questions I want to ask. But I keep them locked behind my teeth, not ready to push any harder than I already have.
When he pulls into the coffee shop parking lot, I expect him to make some excuse about practice or meetings. Instead, he kills the engine and turns to face me.
“I'll walk you to your car,” he says, like it's non-negotiable.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease, but there's no bite to it.
He comes around to my side again, opening the door before I can reach for it. As I step down, his hand finds the small of my back, steadying me.
“You're right,” he says, the words sounding like they've been dragged out of him. “I do want you.”
My breath catches. “So what are you going to do about it?”
His eyes drop to my mouth, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think he might kiss me. Instead, he exhales slowly. “I don't know yet.”
Chapter 18
Beckham
Islam the door to my apartment, tossing my keys onto the counter where they skid across the granite and nearly fall to the floor.
