Page 37 of Married to the Frenemy

I haul ass out of bed, not wanting her to come in here and see Beckham with a raging hard on.

As a mom, I’ve learned how to handle my fair share of difficult questions.

I’m not ready for my daughter to ask why Beckham has a pole in his pants.

A hard, long, thick pole that has the ability to bring me to orgasm more times than should be possible.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” I say in a chipper voice as I step into the hallway, making sure to close the door behind me. “Are you hungry?”

She rubs her eyes and nods.

“Let’s get some breakfast in you so you have lots of energy for preschool.”

I take her hand in mine and lead her down the stairs. I’m not sure what kind of food I’ll find in Beckham’s kitchen, but when I start going through his cabinets, I’m surprised to find them well-stocked. He even bought all of Maggie’s favorite snacks — apple sauce, fruit chews, granola bars. I have no idea how he knew exactly what flavor and brand she likes, but he did.

“Do you want pancakes?”

Maggie’s eyes light up. “Yes!”

I collect the ingredients and mix them together, then fire up the gas on the griddle section of Beckham’s stove.

“Mr. Beck! Mama’s making pancakes!”

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting against the shiver of awareness that trickles down my spine from the memory of waking up wrapped in his arms.

With his dick pressing against my back.

And the way my body responded.

Hell, the way my body is still responding, especially when I turn around and meet Beckham’s heated stare as he casually strolls into the kitchen after letting Monte outside. At least his erection has gone down and he threw on a t-shirt. Although, I’m not sure that makes much of a difference, his built physique stretching the material.

“Something interest you, Haley?”

I inhale a sharp breath and blink repeatedly. I didn’t even realize I was staring at him.

Then again, I’m not sure that’s the appropriate word for what I was just doing to Beckham.

Ogling is probably more appropriate.

Mentally undressing.

Wondering if the way he fucks has matured with age like his kisses have.

“Not at all. I… Coffee,” I finally blurt out. “I was just looking for your coffee maker.”

Arching a disbelieving brow, he slowly stalks toward me. His dark eyes remain locked on mine as he leans closer, trapping me against the counter. Despite his proximity, not a single inch of his body touches mine, remaining painfully out of reach.

I swear I’m about to combust from the sexual tension filling me, my body throbbing with a craving to feel his skin on mine.

With calculated movements, he reaches past me, and the familiar sound of a one-cup brewer whirring to life fills the space. But even once it’s powered on, he doesn’t move, invading my space as if he owns it.

Owns me.

“Is this what you were looking for?” His voice is low and teasing, accompanied by a sly smirk on his stupid yet kissable lips.

Goddamn him for being so ridiculously attractive.

And for smelling so good.

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