Page 35 of Wicked Fury

Coach doesn’t answer, just huffs in what could be agreement or frustration at my attitude. It’s hard to tell. Then again, I’ve never been one to care much about clarity.

The walls close in, each ticking second of the clock above the door marking my descent further into hell. Dad’s presence is an oppressive force, his disappointment a tangible weight on my shoulders.

“Shape up, Lincoln,” he snaps, his words like a bellow in the silence. “I didn’t raise you to be some half-assed player. Remember, I can show up at any time?—”

“Wouldn’t dream of forgetting,” I say through gritted teeth, the reminder of his ever-looming scrutiny like a chokehold. “Especially since it’s your fucking name on everything.”

“Watch your mouth,” he warns, but his threat hangs weak in the air, diluted by overuse.

“Understood,” I say through gritted teeth, imagining each syllable as a punch I’d rather be throwing. I can feel the heat under my skin, a familiar itch that begs for something destructive to scratch it.

“Good. Dismissed.” He waves me off, like swatting a fly he can’t be bothered with.

“Later, Coach.” I nod curtly, already plotting my next steps. The desire to wrap my hands around Iris’ delicate neck and watch her squirm is almost a living thing inside me now, clawing its way to the surface.

As I walk away, the office door clicks shut with an ominous finality, closing on their judgmental stares. But they don’t matter. Only my angel does, and the way she’ll look under me—desperate, ruined, and beautifully broken.

The locker room is a hollow echo of solitude since everyone else on the team has cleared out by now. My hands work methodically, stripping away the sweat-soaked armor that is my practice gear.

I step into the shower stall; the solace of hot water promising to heat my skin and hopefully release some of the tension threaded through my entire body. I twist the faucet, and it groans to life, spewing forth a cascade that pelts against my skin, scalding and sanctifying. The steam curls up around me, the humid air heavy with the scent of soap.

My mind, a traitor, slips away to Iris. Her image is sharp. Those green eyes of hers that beckon like emeralds in the depths of the abyss, her full lips twisted into that signature smirk, hinting at a challenge, a thrill. It’s not just desire that twists in my gut; it’s the need to dominate, to own.

“Damn you, Iris,” I mutter, leaning my hands against the cool tiles, letting the water sluice over my tense shoulders. The memories surge, visceral and vivid—her laughter echoing in my head, the electric touch of her skin against mine, a jolt straight to the core. I can almost feel her now, phantom sensations that fuel my darkest appetites.

She’s become my obsession, a puzzle to solve, a code to crack, a flame to extinguish or be consumed by. I want to ruin her, to unravel that perfect poise and see what lies beneath. To watch her come undone under my hands. That one night weeks ago wasn’t enough. Hell, last week in the hotel only has me fucking desperate for more. The control I fucking had over her was like fucking heroin.

“Fuck,” I hiss, as the water continues its relentless assault. The heat does nothing to relax me like I had hoped. My little bitchy stepsister has me to wound up. The thought of having her, bending her to my will—it’s intoxicating, maddening.

“Control yourself, Blackwood,” I growl under the barrage of the shower, my voice barely audible above the din. But who am I kidding? When it comes to Iris, control is a delusion.

And so I stand there, allowing the water to wash over me, knowing full well it’s powerless to cleanse the desires that stain me. Iris, with her sarcastic quips and self-destructive streak, has burrowed too deep, and I—I am all too willing to dive into that darkness with her.

Steam clings to my skin like the last vestiges of restraint, but it’s no match for the desire brewing inside. My hand moves with a mind of its own, an act of rebellion as much as desperation—desperation to feel something, anything, other than the gnawing ache that she leaves in her wake. Water cascades over me, a waterfall trying to wash away sins yet to be committed as I grip my cock harshly.

“Fuck,” I murmur, each stroke fueled by images of her—the way her eyes spark with flames as she verbally goes toe to toe with me, the way her lips curl in that perpetual smirk that I’m dying to wipe off, the way her tight pussy felt wrapped around me as I used her body for my own pleasure. The picture of her is crystal clear, even through the fogged-up haze; Iris, writhing beneath me, caught between ecstasy and ruin.

My forearm tightens and I feel my tendons strain against the grip I have on my dick as I move faster and faster, chasing my orgasm and punishing myself for letting this fallen angel crawl under my skin and infect me like she has. I never saw myself as a masochist, but clearly some part of me likes the way her disobedience and inability to fucking heel makes me feel and seem weak.

The tension coils tighter, and then snaps, and I chase the climax like I’ve been blitzed and have to scramble. A guttural sound escapes me as my release crashes over, a wave obliterating reason, control, everything. My cum paints the shower floor at my feet and the water washes it all down the drain, but it feels like a hollow victory. This obsession with her—it’s a hunger that one solo climax can’t sate.

Turning off the water, I wrap a towel around my waist, muscles still quivering from the aftershocks. The locker room feels colder now, the air conditioning having kicked on and large bodies no longer operate the space pushing the temperature up. As I walk toward the exit, head still clouded with thoughts of her, I barely notice the figure by the door until it’s too late.

“Shit!” I bark out as my body collides with Nicole’s, her papers fluttering like a house of cards. Her wide-eyed stare meets mine, and I catch the unmistakable flicker of something like desire before she looks away, cheeks flushing.

“Why the fuck are you lurking around the locker room?” I say, not bothering to keep the edge out of my voice and don’t give her a chance to respond.

“Could’ve knocked me over and caused an injury, you know,” I sneer, the words dripping with malevolence as I tower over Nicole. She recoils, her eyes betraying a hurt I find satisfying.

“Sorry, Lincoln, I was just—” She stammers, but I’m already striding past her, leaving her to gather her papers and whatever shards of dignity she can salvage.

“Save it. I don’t need your excuses.” My voice is laced with contempt. “Just keep your eyes to yourself next time.”

Her mouth opens and closes, a fish out of water, and I can’t help the smirk that curls my lips. Power courses through me—a rush, a thrill.

“Taking in the sights, Nicole?” My voice drips with taunting, each word a dagger aimed straight for her pride. Her eyes widen, caught red-handed, but it’s the faint blush spreading across her cheeks that stokes my fury. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

I brush past her, the air practically crackling around me as I pull on my sweats. I yank my t-shirt over my head; the fabric pulling tight against my chest.

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