“I could have handled it.”
“I know.” I pull out of the parking lot, tires squealing slightly. “But I couldn't.”
Chapter 21
Hennessy
The ride back to Beckham's apartment is so tense I can practically taste it. It’s like metal and testosterone and something darker that makes my thighs clench together.
“You're seriously not going to talk to me the entire ride?” I ask, watching his profile as he drives. His jaw is locked so tight I'm worried he might crack a tooth, and his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “Beckham?”
Nothing. Not even a grunt of acknowledgement.
“Fine,” I sigh, turning to look out the window. “Be that way.”
When we pull into his apartment complex, he circles the truck in three angry strides, yanks open my door, and practically lifts me to the ground.
Beckham slams the door to his apartment with his foot, the tree balanced in his arms like it weighs nothing. He stomps across the hardwood floor, his jaw clenched so tight I can see that muscle twitching from across the room. The one that tells me he's barely holding onto his control.
“Where do you want this?” he growls, his voice rough like gravel.
“By the window would be perfect,” I say, trying to sound cheerful despite the tension crackling in the air. “The stand is in that bag.”
He grunts in response, dropping the tree with a loud thud that makes me wince. Pine needles scatter across his pristine floor as he kneels down to set up the stand, his movements jerky and forceful. I watch as he positions the tree, tightening the screws with way more aggression than necessary.
“Beckham, I really think we should talk about?—”
“No.” The word cuts through the air like a knife. “Don't.”
I bite my lip, torn between pushing him and giving him space. I've never been good at the latter.
“Look, I know you're upset, but?—”
Before I can finish my sentence, he's on his feet and crossing the room. His hands grip my waist, lifting me up. I instinctively wrap my legs around him.
“Beckham!” I yell, grabbing onto the back of his shirt as he strides toward his bedroom. “What the fuck?”
He doesn't respond, but I can hear him muttering under his breath as he carries me. “Mine. Fucking mine. Should have killed that punk-ass kid. Touching what's mine.”
A thrill runs through me at his words, they’re primal and possessive and it shouldn't turn me on as much as it does. Every time he tells me I’m his, I believe it a little more. And god help me, I never want to stop believing.
My core clenches as he kicks open his bedroom door and deposits me on his bed with surprising gentleness compared to his current mood.
“You're mine,” he says, voice low and dangerous as he looms over me. “Do you understand that?”
His hands are already working at the hem of my hoodie, yanking it up and over my head before I can respond. My t-shirt follows, tossed carelessly to the floor. His eyes darken as they rake over my dark pink lace bra, pupils blown wide with desire.
“Beck—” I start, but he cuts me off with a shake of his head.
“No talking,” he growls, fingers making quick work of my jeans button. “Just feel.”
He tugs the denim down my legs, taking my panties with them in one smooth motion. I lift my hips to help, suddenly desperate to be naked beneath him. He stands back, breathing hard as he stares at me sprawled across his bed.
“Well, this definitely isn't taking it slow,” I manage to say as he tears his own shirt off, revealing his tattoo-covered chest that makes my mouth water.
“Fuck slow,” he snarls, unbuckling his belt with quick, efficient movements. “You're fucking mine.”
“And you're mine,” I interrupt, sitting up on my elbows to hold his gaze.
