Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 66859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66859 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 334(@200wpm)___ 267(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
“I don’t know how you did it, but I’m thankful,” I moan, biting into a piece.
“It’s reheated, don’t bust a load.”
I snort and look at him, daring to ask the question. “So, is there a missus Beckett who will be very, very angry with me being here?”
I mean, I know he went on a date so I know he’s not in a committed relationship, but I have no doubt in my mind Beckett has something juicy going on.
“No,” he says, quickly.
“No one?” I push. “Didn’t you go on a date?”
“Didn’t work out.”
“Right.” I grin. “So if I were to jump on your lap right now and fuck you, it wouldn’t be a problem?”
My statement is bold, but I did it for a reason. Shock value, being one, and to see his reaction. I’m a pretty girl, and a man like Beckett wouldn’t say no to some easy offerings if he was single. He stares at me, eyes scanning my face before dropping to my boobs. “You’re not my type.”
“You’re telling me every woman you fuck is your type?”
“Nope.”
“So you wouldn’t fuck me?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“You piss me off too much, that’s why.”
“I’m wild in bed, Captain,” I purr. “You wouldn’t regret it.”
“Quit tryin’ to fuck me, Pop-Tart.”
I blink.
He did not just call me Pop-Tart.
My most hated name.
A childhood torment.
“Do not call me that,” I snap. “It’s the most unoriginal nickname in the history of nicknames.”
“You call me Captain, I’ll call you Pop-Tart.”
“Fuck you, Captain.”
He grins, taking a bite of his pizza. “Not tonight, Pop-Tart.”
“Ugh, you make me sick. Where am I sleeping?”
“In my bed.”
I blink. “I thought we weren’t fucking.”
“Don’t have a sofa.”
I stare around the living room. There are only two very large recliners that look to be electric, but no sofa. “I’ll sleep on them.”
“They don’t work, they stay upright.”
Jesus.
“You don’t have a spare mattress, an air bed, something?”
“Nope.”
“I’m not sleeping in the same bed as you,” I huff, crossing my arms.
“Then go back to the club.”
Fuck.
He knows I’m not going to. I’m too tired.
Fuck it, I’m so damned tired I don’t care.
“I’m not goin’ to fuck you,” he points out.
“Whatever, Captain, that offer has long passed.”
I spin on my heel and walk away, acting like I know where I’m going. I really, really don’t.
“Up the stairs, to your left,” Beckett calls out.
Dick.
I follow his directions and head up the stairs and find his room, I also borrow one of his shirts because there is no way I’m sleeping in jeans. I glance around the room while he’s busy downstairs, walking over to the closet and opening it. I don’t see anything at first glance, but I notice that a drawer is slightly open and coming out of it seems to be something pink. I quickly open it and find a stash of women’s clothing.
Oh, Beckett, who are you hiding? And why?
I hear him come up the stairs so I quickly launch into the bed. He walks in, pulling his shirt over his head as he does. He tosses it on the ground, drops his jeans and walks over to the other side. God, the man has a killer body. All sleek muscles, tattoos, and biceps that are making me wish he’d reconsider my offer. I swallow and try to focus my attention on something else as he slides into the bed. His body is hard and warm next to mine, and my pussy aches in a way that is embarrassing.
I’m glad vaginas can’t speak, because mine would be screaming his name.
“Do you have many sleepover guests?” I ask, putting my hands up and under the pillow.
“No.”
“Why did you let me come?”
“Because I don’t need shit when somethin’ happens to you because I’m not watchin’. It’s my job, so here you are.”
“Could have put me on the recliner ...”
“Listen,” he says, glancing at me, “shut the fuck up, or I will put you on the recliner.”
“Why are you always so moody?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“God, fuck, shut up, Poppy.”
“I’m just asking a question,” I mutter.
“You’re makin’ me moody,” he growls.
“Why do you hate me so much?” I ask, the same question I’ve asked him before.
I wonder if his mood toward me isn’t actually directed at me at all.
I think he’s taking out some other frustration on me.
“I don’t hate you. Go to sleep.”
I exhale and close my eyes, my head spinning. Having someone lie next to me, someone that doesn’t make me feel unsafe, is a nice feeling. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt the presence of someone beside me that doesn’t intend to harm me. At least, I don’t think Beckett intends on harming me.
Can’t be too sure.
Beckett is quiet and his breathing gets deeper and deeper. I lie there listening to the sounds of him falling asleep, and my heart does a funny little flip.
His hand moves and grazes against mine.