Page 35 of Married to the Frenemy

“I was watching that,” I attempt to protest as another yawn escapes.

“You’re done watching it.”

Standing, he grabs my hand and pulls me up from the couch, his grip on my hip holding me steady.

“You’re being unusually bossy.” My words come out somewhat slurred, despite only drinking one glass of wine tonight.

“Trust me, Haley…” A devious smile teases his lips. “You haven’t seen bossy.”

His voice is a low growl that sends shivers through my body. It makes me wonder just how bossy he might be in the bedroom now that he’s older and more experienced. Based on that kiss earlier, he’s definitely a man who likes to take charge. I was more than happy to give up control to experience the bliss filling me from his expert kiss.

My insides ignite from the memory, my gaze drawn to his lips, full and tempting. A part of me wouldn’t mind feeling them again, and this time without an audience, forcing us to keep things PG-rated. As his eyes trace over my mouth, I get the feeling he’s thinking the same thing.

He leans closer, his hand on my hip tightening as a combination of desire and restraint dances in his dark gaze.

We’re standing on a landmine, waiting for one wrong move to set off an explosion.

Or one right move.

“Come on,” Beckham says around a sigh, releasing his hold on me, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake. “You need to sleep.”

“Right. Sleep.” I swallow down any disappointment that he didn’t kiss me. I’m not supposed to want him to kiss me.

Do I actually want him to kiss me?

Or has it just been so long since I’ve had the attention of another man that I’m doing things I normally wouldn’t?

I try to convince myself it’s the latter, but deep down, I know it’s not the case. Not with the way my body always buzzes to life in his presence, even after he ignored me and pretended I meant nothing to him. The passing of years hasn’t dulled that. If anything, it’s even stronger now.

“Is there a side you prefer?” Beckham asks once we step into his bedroom.

I refuse to call it our bedroom.

The room is dimly lit with warm hues emanating from a lamp on the nightstand on the far side of the bed. Pieces of him are scattered throughout the space — a guitar in the corner, a pile of books on the dresser, even an old record player on a stand against the far wall.

“It’s your bed. I’ve been sleeping on a couch the past few years.”

His jaw twitches, something he does whenever he’s upset or angry.

“I’ll sleep on this side then.” He nods to the one closest to the door.

“Is that where you usually sleep?”

“No.” His eyes lock with mine. “This way, in the unlikely event of an intruder, they’ll have to go through me to get to you.”

“Oh.” I ignore the butterflies that take flight in my stomach from the protectiveness in his voice.

Then he spins and disappears into the en-suite bathroom.

The sound of running water fills the silence as I blow out a long breath and move to my side of the bed, pulling back the fluffy duvet before slipping underneath.

It’s even more comfortable than I imagined.

And to make matters worse, his sheets smell like him. Leather. Bergamot. And raw earth. When he was ripped from my life, I found myself craving his scent, needing it to feel any sort of comfort.

Now, as I bask in it once more, I feel more at ease than I have in years, so much so that I start to succumb to sleep within seconds.

But not before sensing the bed shift as Beckham crawls onto the other side.

---