BECKETT
“I need you to knock me up.”
Jesus.
I slam the water off and shove the glass open, steam still rolling off my skin. And there she is—already stripping her shirt off like it’s a normal f*****g morning.
It’s not.
“Ashley.”
She doesn’t even look up. Just tosses the shirt to the floor and pushes her thumbs into the waistband of those soft sleep shorts I like too much. My c**k’s already reacting, but my head hasn’t caught up yet.
“You want to say that again?” I growl.
Her bra’s on the floor now.
She steps toward me like I’m not dripping, like I’m not still trying to figure out if I heard her right or lost my mind.
“I said what I said,” she murmurs.
I grab a towel—don’t even bother drying off. Just wrap it once, rough, and catch her wrist before she gets close enough to press
