“You didn't exactly give me a chance to talk, Coach.” I reach out, brushing a snowflake from his shoulder, feeling him go rigid under my touch. “Besides, I thought it might be more fun to surprise you.”
“You should go inside before you freeze.”
“My interview schedule says I have you tomorrow at two,” I continue, ignoring his dismissal. “Your suite. The conference is filming all the head coach interviews for its channel.”
He runs a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted. “Christ.”
“Don't worry, I'll be professional.” I smile sweetly. “On camera.”
“Hennessy—”
“Beckham.” His first name feels forbidden on my tongue, intimate in a way that makes his eyes flash.
Before I can take another breath, his hand clamps around my wrist. In one fluid motion, he pulls me across the terrace and into a shadowed alcove carved into the hotel's stone exterior, hidden from the windows by a massive decorative pillar. My back hits the cold wall as he crowds into my space, his body radiating heat that makes the December air feel like nothing.
“You think this is a game?” His voice is dangerously low as one large hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a reminder of his strength, his control. His other hand slides up my thigh, pushing the hem of my dress higher. “You show up here, wearing this, baiting me in front of a room full of people who'd love nothing more than to see me crash and burn?”
I should be intimidated. I should be pushing him away. Instead, I'm melting, my body betraying me as heat pools between my thighs.
“Maybe I am playing games,” I whisper, tilting my chin up defiantly. “The question is, are you going to play too, or just stand on the sidelines looking grumpy?”
His fingers tighten slightly around my throat, his thumb brushing over my racing pulse. “I'm too fucking old for games, Hennessy.”
“Really? Because from where I'm standing, you seem to be enjoying this one.” I press my hips forward, feeling the unmistakable evidence of his arousal against my stomach.
“You have no idea what you're asking for,” he growls, his hand sliding higher up my inner thigh, fingers tracing maddening circles on my sensitive skin.
I arch into his touch, my breath coming faster. “I know exactly what I'm asking for. I've known for years.”
His eyes are almost black in the dim light, pupils blown wide with want. His hand on my thigh pauses, hesitating at the edge of my panties.
“Either touch me and mean it, Beckham,” I challenge, my voice breathy but determined, “or I'll go back inside and let that Eastman coach finish what you can't seem to start.”
Something feral flashes in his eyes. In an instant, his fingers push past the barrier of my underwear, finding me embarrassingly wet and ready. I gasp as he slides one thick finger inside me, his thumb circling my clit.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “You want me to fuck you right here where anyone could walk out and see you coming on my hand?”
I can barely form words, my hips rocking against his hand of their own accord. “Yes,” I manage, clutching at his shoulders for support.
“You think that Eastman prick could make you feel like this?” He adds a second finger, curling them in a way that makes my knees buckle. “You think anyone else knows exactly how to touch you?”
“Maybe he could,” I taunt, even as pleasure spikesthrough me with each stroke of his fingers. “I'll never know unless I try, right?”
His hand immediately tightens around my throat, not enough to hurt but enough to make his point. His eyes are wild, possessive, a look I've never seen on his face before.
“If any of those fucking vultures in there so much as touches your hand,” he growls against my ear, “I'll break every goddamn finger they have. You understand me?”
My core clenches around his fingers at his words, my breath coming in short gasps.
“What if I want them to touch me?” I challenge, even as my body betrays me by responding to his possessiveness.
His thumb circles my clit, almost punishing.
“Then I'll knock them unconscious before they get the chance,” he promises darkly. “Every single one of them and use them all for goal practice. You think I'm joking? I've spent the last three years thinking about you no matter how hard I fucking tried not to. Three fucking years of torture. And now you're here, and you're mine.”
“Yours?” I manage to whisper, my voice breaking as his fingers curl inside me.
“Mine right now at this moment,” he confirms, pushing my dress up further around my waist. “Say it.”
