“Control,” I say without hesitation. “Not having it—someone taking it from me. Someone who can make me stop thinking and just feel.”
“Noted.”
I take another sip of wine to steady myself.
“Favorite place you've ever traveled?” I ask deliberately steering us back to safer territory.
“Switzerland. Spent a summer there training with a European team. Mountains, clean air, incredible food.” He refills our glasses. “You?”
“Barcelona. Went with my mom for her research sabbatical when I was nineteen. The architecture, the food, the beaches...” I sigh. “I'd move there in a heartbeat if I could.”
The waiter appears with our food, interrupting our conversation. My salmon looks amazing, perfectly seared with some kind of herb crust on top. Beckham's steak is massive, because of course it is. Everything about this man screams big appetite.
“This looks incredible,” I say, picking up my fork. The first bite practically melts in my mouth, and I can't help the little moan that escapes me.
Beckham's eyes darken as he watches me. “Good?”
“Fucking amazing.” I take another bite, savoring the flavors. “You weren't kidding about this place.”
“I don't kid about food.” He cuts into his steak, the inside perfectly pink. “Or much of anything else.”
“I've noticed.” I steal a mushroom from the side of his plate, popping it into my mouth before he can protest. “You should try lightening up sometimes.”
“Says the woman who just stole food off my plate.”
I grin completely unrepentant. “Sharing is caring, Coach.”
“Is that what we're doing? Sharing?” His voice drops lower, sending a shiver down my spine. “Because there are a lot of things I'd like to share with you right now, and none of them involve food.”
Heat flushes through my body, pooling between my thighs. “Careful. We're supposed to be talking, remember?”
“We've been talking for an hour.” He takes a sip of his wine, eyes never leaving mine. “I think I've earned the right to tell you how fucking incredible you look in that dress and how much I want to stab everyone in the eye with my fork who’s looked at you.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the conversation pausing as we enjoy our food. I catch him watching me several times, his eyes darkening when I lick sauce from my lips.
“What?” I finally ask, setting down my fork.
“Nothing.” He takes a sip of wine. “Just like watching you eat.”
“That's...weirdly specific.”
“You enjoy things,” he says simply. “Most people just consume. You savor.”
The observation catches me off guard. It's strangely intimate, like he's been paying more attention to me than I realized.
“What else have you noticed about me, Coach Kingston?”
“Everything,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble. “I notice everything about you, Hennessy.”
The way he says my name—like its something precious and filthy at the same time—makes my skin flush hot.
“Like what?” I challenge.
“Like how your eyes get darker when you're turned on.” He leans in, matching my posture. “Like how you bite your lip when you're trying not to smile. Like how you're doing it right now.”
I release my lip, not even realizing I'd been biting it. “You're observant.”
“I'm obsessed,” he corrects, the admission hanging between us, raw and honest.
