It’s the longest I’ve been left alone in the apartment since Beckham moved me in. But I should’ve known he wouldn’t leave me without a babysitter. Laurel calls me to be buzzed in, and I unlock the door, positioning myself in the rocking chair recliner that’s now in his living room. He said it was for when the baby comes, which is believable enough, but I think he got sick of me griping about only having the couch and the bed to lie in. I will say, the chair is nice—a cream, faux-shearling material, and comfortable enough that since it was delivered three days ago, I’ve already fallen asleep in it once. Okay, five times, but who’s counting.
“It’s unlocked,” I call when there’s a knock on the door. Laurel lets herself in, balancing a pizza box and—
“Is that a cat?” I shriek at the dirty orange ball she unleashes in the apartment.
She’s out of breath, panting like she’s run a mile. Laurel and cardio don’t mix. I learned that the one time I dragged her to a spin class.
“You have no idea how long it took me to catch that thing and not drop the pizza. Your boyfriend owes me.”
“For what?” I practically scream at her, the cat zipping past me to hide under the couch.
Cheddar watches everything play out from his perch on top of the bookcase.
She looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “For catching his cat.” She sets the pizza box down in front of me, flips the lid up, and hands me a slice, then takes one for herself.
The slice dangles loosely in my hand. “That’s not his cat.”
“What do you mean?” She snorts, setting her piece down on the box so she can shrug out of her coat. “That’s definitely his cat. You’ve sent me pictures. It needs a bath, by the way.”
“Laurel.” I’m flabbergasted at my best friend right now. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “I’m telling you, that’s not Cheddar. That,” I say, pointing to the top of the bookcase, “is Cheddar.”
“I know.” She plops on the couch, pizza in hand. Her cheeks are red from the cold. “I’m the one who rescued him from the streets.”
“He hasn’t left the apartment. You just brought in a random cat off the streets.”
“No, I—” The random cat chooses that moment to dart out from under the couch, making her eyes shoot from the orange furball streaking across the floor to the one perched on the bookcase. “Oh my God, I did!” She slaps a hand to her mouth. “Your boyfriend is going to kill me!”
I didn’t say anything the first time, but this time I do. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
She snorts. “Does he know that?”
“Um . . . I’m pretty sure he does. Now, are you going to catch that cat or not?”
“Nope, that’s your not-my-boyfriend’s job.”
I sigh, wondering where the poor kitty disappeared to now. At least Cheddar seems unbothered.
“Anyway”—Laurel passes me another slice, since I’ve polished off the first—“we have lots to catch up on.”
“We do?” We talk and text almost every day, so I have no idea what I might’ve missed out on. “Fill me in.”
“I met a guy.”
“Since we talked last night?”
“Mmm.” She chews the end of her crust, nibbling on it like some sort of woodland creature. “This morning I was getting coffee, you know from that little hole-in-the-wall I love?” She waits for me to nod before she goes on. “Anyway, he ordered the last blueberry scone, and you know those are my favorite. I said something like, ‘Oh, come on, dude, I wanted that.’ He turns around and looks at me, and Lennon”—she grabs on to my arm, a dreamy look in her eyes—“I kid you not, this is the sexiest man I’ve ever seen in my life.” She makes a noise like she wants to eat him up. “Dark hair, gray eyes—I didn’t even know gray eyes were a thing, Lennon!—these full, kissable lips, and he says to me we can share the scone, but the caveat is I have to sit with him. Like I was going to say no. We have a date planned for Friday.” She kicks her legs excitedly.
“That’s so amazing.”
“I’ll send you the deets, in case he’s a serial killer.”
Gotta love being a woman in the dating world and having to cover your bases in case the guy you’re seeing is a monster.
“What’s his name?”
“Crew—is that not the hottest name you’ve ever heard?” She dramatically swoons into the couch cushions. “I think I’m in love.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself now.”
Laurel is famous for this, falling hard and fast, and then getting bored by the third date. I want her to find love, to be treated like she deserves.
“I know.” She straightens the pillows. “But I’m excited. The last I don’t know how many guys I’ve been out with have all come from a dating app. This felt like something out of a movie.”
I point a finger in mock warning. “You better keep me updated. Since I’m bedridden, I have to live vicariously through you.”
She snorts. “You don’t have to worry about that. You know I’ll be giving you a play-by-play as soon as the date is over.”
Just then the mysterious cat she picked up off the streets of New York goes whizzing past, sending both of us screaming at the top of our lungs.
There’s never a dull moment when Laurel is around.
It’s late when Beckham gets home. I’ve already moved myself back to bed, a book clasped in my hands. It’s some of the raunchiest smut I’ve ever read, and I don’t know whether it’s helping or hindering my sexual frustration.
I peek over the top of the book, waiting for him to notice our new companion, who is now fluffy and clean thanks to the mobile grooming service I was able to pay an emergency fee to.
He hangs his coat up on the back of the closet door. “How are you feeling?”
“Great.” I draw out the word, watching him sit down and remove his shoes and socks. “How was your day?”
“Spectacular. Froze my balls off, but I got some decent photos. Spoke with Jaci, too, and she’ll be holding a meeting at the end of the week to announce what team’s story she’s chosen.” He loosens the buttons on his shirt. No tie today. “I’m exhausted. I haven’t had a day this long in a while. I want to shower and—Lennon, what the fuck is that?”
I force a smile, setting my book down on the bed. “What do you mean?”
“That!” His blue eyes nearly bug out, finger wagging accusingly at me. “On the bed, beside Cheddar, that thing that looks mysteriously like a cat.”
“It’s a cat.”
He scrubs both hands down his face. “Why is there an extra cat in my apartment?”
“Um . . .” I bite my lip. “Because Laurel rescued it off the streets thinking it was Cheddar.” His jaw drops, incredulous. “I know, I know. I love her, but sometimes she can be a bit zany. What’s another cat when you already have one?”
“Laurel is about to be the proud new owner of an orange cat.” He eyes the new cat with his hands on his hips. His lips are already beginning to soften the longer he looks at the sweet kitty.
“About that . . . I already named him, so he’s kind of mine. Or, I guess, ours.”
“You named him?”
“Yeah,” I reply, but it comes out sounding more like “Yuh.”
“What’s his name?” He says it like it’s a challenge.
“George Sanderson.”
“George—what?”
“He’s the orange monster from Monsters, Inc. Do I seriously have to put the movie on again, so you’ll actually pay attention this time?”
He shakes his head, looking frustrated yet somewhat amused. “That thing could have rabies.”
I scratch George Sanderson under his chin. “Do you have rabies? No, you don’t. You’re just a cute wittle baby.”
“He could be feral.”
“Does he look feral?”
“Well, no, but—”
“No buts.” I mime closing a mouth with my hand. “He’s a good boy. He deserves a loving home. I had a vet check him out already. I promise he’s fine.”
He huffs a breath, hands on his hips. “And you think we’re a loving home?”
“I mean, I’d hope so—I am eventually going to have to evict your pet sperm from my body.”
He points a finger at me in warning. “Not too soon. That’s why you need to stay off your feet.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He eyes the new addition for a moment longer. “He can stay as long as Cheddar is okay with it.”
“They’re cuddling,” I point out.
He smiles, looking at the two cats. “Like I said, as long as he’s okay with it.”
He grabs some sweatpants from the dresser and goes to shower.
I put the movie on, since clearly he’s already in need of a refresher.
By the time he’s returned from the shower, I’ve read another chapter in my book. I set it aside for now because it’s getting me a little bit too worked up.
“Your cheeks are flushed,” he accuses, plugging his phone in to charge for the night. “You weren’t up, were you?”
“What? No?”
Oh Jesus, why did it come out as a question?
“No?” He arches a brow. “Is there something you should tell me?”
“N-no,” I stutter.
I can tell he doesn’t want to let this go, but he asks, “Do you need anything from the kitchen? I’m getting some water.”
“Water would be great.”
He leaves the room, both cats hopping off the bed to trot after him.
I think Cheddar and George Sanderson are going to be the best of friends.
Beckham strolls into the room with the waters, sweatpants slung low on his hips, and I moan.
All it takes is a man holding water bottles and wearing sweats to get me going these days.
He pauses midstep. “Did you just—”
“Don’t say it,” I beg, squishing my eyes closed. “I’m just . . . really, really horny, okay, and that book isn’t helping.” I point accusingly at the paperback. “And you’re being attentive and wearing those sweatpants that I can literally see the shape of your dick in. I’m just sexually frustrated at the moment.” I grip the sheets in frustration. “We can do other stuff. I mean, it’s just penetration that’s off the table.”
Oh my God, am I begging this man for oral and just used the word penetration out loud? I’m hopeless. A complete disaster.
He arches a brow as he gently sets the bottle down before backing away from me as if I’m a bomb ready to detonate. “Are you asking me to go down on you?”
“Not asking,” I squeak. “Suggesting? Or maybe you could, um, do yourself and I could watch? That might make it worse for me, though.”
I can tell he’s trying to hold in laughter. Bless him for attempting to keep it together, but I still want to smack him.
“Babe, I might be flexible, but not even I can bend over and suck my own dick.”
“That’s not what I meant.” I press the heels of my palms to my eyes.
Suddenly, he’s there, warm hands wrapped around my wrists to tug my hands away.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sobering. “I’m not trying to make fun of you. I think it’s cute.”
“Cute?”
“Mmm.” He rubs his nose along my cheek, my whole body shivering in response. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Y-you won’t.” I’m a stuttering, shaky mess. “Dr. Hersh said oral was okay. Touching. Just no—”
He slaps his hand over my mouth. “Don’t say penetration again.”
When his hand falls away, I give a soft, “Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats, kissing along my jaw.
A pleading moan slips out of me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so desperate in my entire life.
I need this so bad.
“I’m going to be gentle with you. You have to be okay with that.”
“Do whatever you want with me.”
He laughs darkly. “Say that again when I can fuck you the way I want.”
My pussy clenches at the delicious promise in his words.
Wrapping a hand loosely around my neck, he rubs his thumb over my bottom lip. “So pretty. So perfect. So fucking mine,” he growls, diving in for my mouth.
My lips part, my body melting into the pillows. I’m so worked up I feel like he barely has to touch me and I’m likely to go off.
He gently moves the blanket aside, grabbing more pillows to use to prop up my hips after he’s gotten rid of my pajama pants. Parting my thighs, he kneels on the bed between my legs.
“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet. Is this all for me?” I nod vigorously, biting my lip to hold in a whimper. “I didn’t realize you needed me so bad.”
“I do.” A small cry escapes me at the feel of his hands rubbing my inner thighs. “I was trying to be good.”
“Mmm,” he hums, lowering himself between me. “Let me take care of you.” At the first swipe of his tongue, my hips buck against his face. He chuckles, amused, and loops his arms around my legs to keep me in place. He’s both gentle but firm in his touch. “You taste so good, baby.”
He flicks his tongue over my clit, and I swear I see stars. My fingers delve into his hair, holding on, tugging. If it hurts, he doesn’t say anything. “Yes, yes, yes,” I cry, rocking my hips against his face.
It doesn’t take me long before my orgasm crashes over me, but it’s not enough, and Beckham must sense this, because it’s not much more than ended when he’s back at it, working me up to another.
I’ve never considered myself someone who needs sex, but with Beckham it’s so good that I find myself wanting it more than I ever have before. It doesn’t help that pregnancy hormones have turned me into a raging hornball. Is this how teenage boys feel? Like if you don’t come, you might spontaneously combust?
He rubs at my clit with sure fingers, and that does it. My back arches, sweat dotting my skin as the orgasm rocks through me.
He wrings one more orgasm out of me before my body is spent. I lie there, my shirt askew, my legs weak.
“Let me clean you up,” he says, climbing off the bed.
“But you—” I reach for him, for the erection tenting his sweatpants.
He pushes my hand away gently. “Are fine.”
“Clearly not,” I protest, trying to sit up. Somehow the mountain of pillows behind me is dislodged. My hair is plastered to my forehead. “Let me—”
“No,” he says more forcefully this time.
“Fine.” I try to fix my hair with my fingers. “Then let me watch.”
He gapes at me. “What?”
I wet my lips. “You’re going to take care of that, right?” I challenge, my breath still short from the workout he gave me.
“Yeah, but—”
“Let me watch you. I want to see what you do to yourself. Please.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. I expect him to shut me down, say no, and that will be that. “I’ll clean you up first.” He grips his cock through the fabric of his sweats, staring at me, still spread out on the bed, the feast he just devoured.
Shaking himself free, he pads into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm white cloth that he uses to gently clean me up. After tossing the cloth into the bin, he watches me, his eyes dark and stormy.
He strokes himself like he did before, over his pants. Such a fucking tease.
“Take it out,” I practically beg, my mouth watering.
If I can’t fuck his cock, I can at least watch him fuck himself. It’s not the same but still sexy as hell.
“Where do you want me?”
I’m surprised he’s asking. “The chair,” I half gasp, half beg. Perhaps this is a bad idea. There’s no way I’m making it out of this without turning into a needy, wanting mess again.
He shoves the sweats down his thighs, his cock springing free. Grabbing the base, he strokes upward, twisting his wrist on the end. His eyes stay locked on me, watching me. I can feel him. But my eyes stay glued to his hand, his dick, watching with rapt attention as he jerks himself off.
His ab muscles contract, and I know he’s holding himself back. His movements become jerkier, unsteady.
“Wish this was you that I was fucking,” he groans through clenched teeth, squeezing his cock so hard I’m sure it must hurt. “Your mouth, your tits, your pussy. Anything but my hand.”
“I wanted—”
“I’m not fucking your mouth or tits tonight.” He closes his eyes, jaw clenched. “I have to be careful with you, and I’d be too rough. I know it.” His head falls back, and he moans, hand speeding up.
I know he’s close.
I lick my lips in anticipation.
And then he’s grunting, and groaning, and moaning, thick spurts of cum covering his stomach as his hand milks every last drop from his cock.
Holy fuck.
My heart is beating out of control like I just went three rounds with him. Apparently, the organ didn’t get the memo that I’m just lying here.
When he recovers, he yanks the sweatpants up and grabs the damp cloth he used on me from the bin and uses it to wipe himself off. “Did you like the show, honeybee?”
“You have no idea.”
He gives me a dark chuckle, then helps to fix my pillows before climbing into bed beside me and holding me close.
That’s when he sees the TV.
“Not this movie again.”
