My dad continues on a tirade that I’m tuning the hell out until I hear my mom.
“Javier!” Mom cuts in, her hand tightening on his arm. “Not in front of the church.”
“Look, I really need to go,” I say, already moving backward toward my car. “Love you all, bye.”
Abuela steps between us, her tiny frame somehow filling the space. “Javier, let her go. The girl has stars in her eyes. You remember what that's like, no?”
Dad looks at Mom, who raises her eyebrows in that way that means he's fighting a losing battle. He deflates slightly.
“Fine,” he mutters.
Mom steps forward, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Go, baby. Have fun. We'll see you tomorrow.”
I hug her quickly, then my grandmother, who whispers in my ear, “Use protection, niña. Men like that make babies that are too handsome for their own good.”
“Abuela!” I laugh, my cheeks burning as I pull away.
I practically sprint to my car, tossing my purse onto the passenger seat and cranking the engine. The clock on my dash reads quarter past one as I pull out of the parking lot and head to my apartment.
I race through my place, throwing my church clothes onto my bed and digging through my dresser for what I'd hidden earlier. The red lace set cost more than I want to admit, but the look on Beckham's face will be worth every penny. I slip it on, checking myself in the mirror. The bra barely contains my tits, and the matching thong disappears between my ass cheeks.
I grab my long black coat, belting it tightly around my waist, and step into my highest heels. A quick swipe of lipstick, and I'm out the door again.
The drive to Beckham's feels longer than usual. My phone pings with a message, and I check it at a red light.
King
Where the fuck are you? If you're not here in 10 minutes I'm assuming you're in a fucking ditch somewhere and coming to hunt you down.
I smile, warmth spreading through me at his gruff concern. He'd never admit it, but he worries.
By the time I pull into his complex, it's nearly two in the morning. I make my way to his door, my heels clicking on the concrete. Instead of using my key, I knock, wanting to surprise him.
I hear heavy footsteps approaching, then his annoyed voice through the door.
“Who the fuck is knocking at my door at two in the fucking morning?—”
The door swings open, and Beckham freezes mid-sentence. He's wearing nothing but low-hanging pajama pants, his chest bare, hair mussed like he's been running his hands through it.
“Hennessy?” His eyes narrow. “Why the fuck are you knocking? You have a key. What's happening?”
I don't answer. Instead, I slowly untie my coat's belt, letting the fabric fall open. His eyes drop to my body, widening as he takes in the red lace that barely covers anything.
“Merry Christmas, Coach,” I say, my voice low.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, his hand tightening on the doorframe.
I step forward, and he backs up automatically, letting me in. The door slams behind me as he kicks it shut, his eyes never leaving my body.
“You wore that to church?” he asks, voice rough.
“No,” I laugh, dropping my coat to the floor. “I changed after. Didn't think Jesus would appreciate this outfit during midnight mass.”
His hand reaches out, fingers tracing the edge of the lace where it barely covers my nipple. “I sure as fuck appreciate it, but I’d have to get violent if you wore this for Jesus.”
“I thought you might,” I say, stepping closer until my nearly bare chest presses against his. “Sorry I'm late. Dad wasn't thrilled about me leaving.”
“Don't care,” Beckham growls, his hands sliding down to grip my ass.
