I close the door, leaning against it as I watch her explore my space. She moves with the same confident grace she always has, trailing her fingers along my bookshelf, examining the few framed photos I keep.
“Your charger's on the counter,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She turns, eyeing me with that look that sees too much. “Thanks for finding it. I was starting to think I'd hallucinated leaving it somewhere.”
“No hallucination. Just buried under my shit.”
She nods, but makes no move toward the kitchen. Instead, she takes another step into my living room, looking at the hockey memorabilia displayed on the wall.
“College championship,” she says, nodding at one of the framed jerseys. “My dad never shuts up about how robbed they were that year.”
“They weren't robbed. They were outplayed.”
She laughs, the sound warming something cold inside me. “God, you two are like broken records.”
I push off from the door, crossing to the kitchen. “You want a drink?”
“Sure.” She follows me, perching on one of the barstools.
My hands move to her hair before my brain can stop them, fingers sliding through those soft waves, gripping just tight enough to tilt her head back. Her lips part in surprise as I step between her legs, the barstool putting her at the perfect height.
“Beckham—” she starts, but I swallow my name with my mouth.
I kiss her like I'm drowning and she's oxygen. Like I've been wandering the desert for days, and she's water. My tongue slides against hers, desperate and demanding.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half surprise, half pleasure. My hands tighten in her hair as I angle her head, deepening the kiss until there's nothing but her taste, her scent, her warmth surrounding me.
When I finally break the kiss, we're both breathing hard. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, lips swollen from my assault.
“So,” she says, voice husky and breathless, “no drink then?”
“No damn drink,” I growl, pulling her off the stool and into my arms. Her legs wrap tighter around my waist as I carry her to the couch, our mouths crashing together again in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and need.
I lay her down on the couch, my body covering hers as I devour her mouth. My hand slides under her sweater, finding the warm skin of her stomach, inching higher toward her bra when she suddenly plants her palms against my chest.
“Beckham, wait.” Her voice is firm despite the breathlessness.
I freeze, pulling back to look at her. “What's wrong?”
She wiggles out from under me, putting some distance between us as she straightens her sweater. “I didn't come here for this. I literally just came for my charger.”
She’s tucking her hair behind her ear, not meeting my eyes, and the rejection hits me like a punch to the gut. “Right.”
“Look, I know we have...whatever this is between us.” She gestures between our bodies. “But we can't keep doing this back and forth thing where you want me one minute and push me away the next.”
I run a hand over my face, reality crashing back in. Whatthe fuck am I doing? Two days ago I was telling myself to stay away from her, and now I'm practically mauling her on my couch.
“You're right,” I admit, standing up and putting some distance between us.
An awkward silence stretches between us as she puts the charger in her bag. I should let her go. I should open the door and watch her walk out. Instead, I find myself stepping closer.
“Hennessy.”
She looks up at me, those dark eyes wary.
“I'm sorry.” The words feel foreign on my tongue. “I shouldn't have jumped you like that.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. “It's not like I didn't enjoy it.”
