ASHLEY
“Langley,” I quietly hiss, smacking his hand away from my thigh.
Beckett’s hand slides right back like it’s magnetized to me, like this man cannot physically be normal for five minutes.
He’s sitting there, calm as hell, nodding along to whatever the sponsor is saying like he’s not actively feeling me up under the table.
“Hmm? Yes, cupcake?” he hums, eyes laser-focused on the guy across from us while his thumb drags slow, infuriating circles on my bare skin.
Oh my God.
Is he serious?
We are at a formal dinner. With his teammates. His coach. Sponsors.
“Everything okay, Ashley?” Matthews chimes, chewing on his smirk like he knows exactly what’s happening under this linen tablecloth.
“Fine!” I squeak, stabbing my salad like it personally insulted my entire bloodline.
Matt
