Page 67 of Married to the Frenemy

Our door.

I throw Beckham off me and grab the duvet, covering our bodies in the seconds before Maggie appears by the bed. A furrow creases her brow as she looks between Beckham and me, both of us panting.

“Why was Beck on top of you?”

I shift my gaze toward him, horrified my daughter caught us having sex. He doesn’t share in my unease, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around my shoulder and drags my body against his, kissing the top of my head.

“Your mom had an itch I was helping her scratch,” he tells her, then flashes me a smirk.

I’d love to wipe it off his face, since he’s obviously enjoying this. I can’t seem to care though, not when he’s happier than he’s been in the past few years. Lighter than he’s been in the past few years.

And I love seeing this side of him. Don’t want to do anything to go back to the people we were before we succumbed to our desires, to hell with the past.

“She sometimes helps me scratch my back when I can’t reach,” Maggie announces.

“Moms are good like that. Aren’t they?”

“Yup,” she chirps, then looks my way. “Can I have my breakfast?”

“I’ll be right there, sweetie.”

“Okay.” She spins on her heels and runs from the bedroom, sounding like a herd of elephants as she scurries down the stairs.

It’s not until I hear her tell Monte he has to wait for his breakfast that I release my breath and pin Beckham with a glare.

“Helping me scratch an itch?”

“It’s not a lie.” He rolls on top of me, settling between my legs once more. “You did have an itch.” When he nips at my neck, a renewed wave of desire rushes through me, despite having just been caught by my daughter. “And I’m more than happy to help you scratch that itch whenever you need.”

“How charitable of you.”

“That’s me.” He pulses against me, a devious look in his dark eyes. “Extremely giving.”

“Beckham…” I push him off me, although it’s a test of willpower when every inch of my body still craves his touch.

Regardless of whatever’s going on between us, Maggie is and always will be my priority.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just scarred my daughter for life. I’d rather not risk her walking in on us yet again.”

“That’s what you get for being addicted to my cock.”

Playfully swatting him, I climb out of bed and move to the dresser, grabbing a fresh pair of panties. “I’m not addicted to your cock.”

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“And what did I say?” I face him, pulling a pair of shorts up my legs after tugging on a t-shirt.

He rests his hands behind his head, a cocky grin lighting up his sinful face. “I may not be quoting verbatim, but it was something along the lines of ‘Oh, Beckham. How are you so good at this?’” he says in his best imitation of me.

I shoot him a glare. I can’t deny it. I did say that.

“‘I love your cock. It feels so good inside of me. I’ll never get enough of it. You’re the god of sex.’”

Rolling my eyes, I grab one of the pillows off the floor and throw it at him. “I did not say that.”

“Maybe not.” He waggles his brows. “But you were thinking it.”

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