Page 22 of Wicked Fury

The interior reeks of sweat, cheap cologne and rubber—a mix of angst and testosterone. I want to gag. Instead, I wrestle with the desire to land a solid punch on Lincoln’s jaw. But that would mean touching him more, and I’m already suffocating from too much physical proximity.

“Bringing the step-sex toy?” Penn, Lincoln’s brother, asks with a grin that rivals even my stupid stepbrother’s. Penn’s brows are knitted together, moving up and down in an exaggerated manner as we make our way down the aisle.

“Shut the fuck up unless you want to end up through the fucking windshield,” Lincoln snaps smoothly, not missing a beat.

Laughs erupt around us, but I see the way Lincoln’s other brothers Jeremiah and Graham are looking at me. There’s suspicion there, curiosity that’s sharper than the broken glass littering the parking lot outside. And pity. I hate pity.

“Can you please pick a seat?” I challenge under my breath, irate that he’s dragging this out and putting me on display for his own enjoyment.

“My terms, angel,” he whispers back, leaning in so close his lips almost graze my ear. “You’re just along for the ride.”

I pull away, my cheeks burning with an unwanted flush. It’s the proximity, the heat of his body, not… anything else. Definitely not the wicked glint in his eyes that suggests he knows exactly what kind of effect he has on me.

“Right,” I huff, sarcasm laced thickly enough to choke on. “Saint Lincoln, Daddy’s golden boy always has to be in control.”

“Just with you.” He’s being playful, but there’s a hardness behind his tone. The way he’s looking at me that tells me he’s dead serious about this whole thing.

“Whatever,” I mutter, brushing past him to find a seat, desperate to put some space between us. But as I sit, I can feel his presence hovering over me.

“Settle in, sis,” he teases, the word dripping with irony as he takes the spot next to me. “It’s going to be a long ride.”

Gritting my teeth, I watch as the coach gives Lincoln a nonchalant shrug when Lincoln tells him that he’s bringing me along. His eyes skim over me like I’m just another piece of equipment—a helmet, maybe, or a water bottle—something that exists solely for the convenience of the team.

“Keep your head in the game, Blackwood,” he grunts, voice gravelly and indifferent. “What you do off the field is your business—as long as you bring home that win tomorrow.”

The words are dismissive, the subtext clear: players are pawns in his grand strategy, and I’m just collateral damage in his quest for victory. It’s disgusting, the way they idolize the scoreboard over basic human decency. But then again, what should I expect from a man whose empathy probably got benched years ago?

I slide into an empty seat, one with enough space to stretch out and escape this nightmare. But before I can even exhale, a hand clamps around my wrist. I’m hauled backward, my body colliding with a wall of muscle and heat. Lincoln’s lap becomes my unwanted throne, his firm thighs caging me in place.

“Comfy?” he whispers, lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that has no right to feel so… charged.

“Get off me,” I hiss, trying to sound fierce, but there’s a tremor in my voice betraying my tumultuous emotions. My skin crawls as I feel his dick, hard and unyielding against the small of my back. A wave of anxiety crashes into me, followed quickly by a surge of white-hot anger. This isn’t just about control—it’s ownership, his body claiming a space it has no right to.

“Relax, Iris,” Lincoln murmurs, his breath hot on my neck. “You might even enjoy the ride.”

A bubble of hysterical laughter threatens to burst from my lips. Enjoy? With his pierced dick pressing insistently against me like some kind of depraved compass pointing due south? Hell would freeze over first.

But beneath the disgust and the anger, something else flickers—something dangerous and traitorous that I squash down with all the strength I have left. Because while my mind screams ‘get away,’ my body betrays me with a warmth that pools low in my belly, an instinctual response to his nearness that makes me want to scream.

“Never gonna happen,” I manage to spit out, forcing rigidness into my posture, though every nerve ending is wrecked with a perverse awareness of him. My boundaries are trampled underfoot, and I feel naked under his penetrating scrutiny. I couldn’t relax right now even if he jabbed me in the neck with a horse tranquilizer.

Lincoln chuckles, a sound so rich, vibrating through me. “We’ll see about that,” he says, his voice dripping with a promise that sounds more like a threat.

The bus engine rumbles to life, the vibration of it melding with the tension that crackles between us. As we pull away from the curb, I close my eyes and focus on the steady rhythm of my heartbeat, trying to drown out the sensation of Lincoln’s chest rising and falling against my back.

The weight of Lincoln’s arm around my waist is heavy, like chains rather than flesh and bone. I fight the urge to squirm on his lap, painfully aware of the heat emanating from his body. It’s not just physical warmth—it’s something more charged, a current that sizzles through the small space between us. The thrum of the bus engine isn’t enough to drown out the sound of my racing heart.

“Enjoying yourself?” The words are acid on my tongue, but they barely conceal the tremor in my voice.

He doesn’t answer, but I can feel him, hard and insistent against me. A wave of nausea hits, chased by an unbidden thought: Does he get off on this, on holding me hostage with his brute strength? Or is it the proximity, our bodies locked together, that stirs something in him?

I’m disgusted with myself for even considering it, for the way my skin prickles with awareness—not all of which stems from revulsion.

“Scared, Iris?” His breath is hot against the shell of my ear, and I flinch.

“Terrified,” I admit, sarcasm failing to mask the resentment boiling inside me.

At that moment, my stomach decides to betray me with a pitiful growl, loud enough to be heard over the chatter of the team. My cheeks flame with embarrassment, but then Lincoln’s attention snaps to something—or someone—else.

---