Page 27 of Break the Ice
They escort me all the way into the locker room before the energy finally seems to buzz down. I drop onto the nearest bench and begin tearing off my gear.
I’m bleeding worse than I thought. It must’ve been the collision with Morasca’s helmet. My brow cracked open.
I barely let the medic tend to me. I’m much more distracted by the news Coach Oates delivers once he shows up to the locker room.
“He’ll need nineteen stitches, but he’ll be fine in no time. It won’t mess up our first line.” He pauses to turn his scolding gaze onto me. “But it damn sure messes with our sense of teamwork.”
I snort. “I defended myself. Go lecture Morasca when he wakes up from the KO I gave him.”
“No, Alpha, I’m telling you too!” snaps Coach, jamming a finger in my chest. “You both fuck with each other like you’re competing to prove who has the bigger schlong! That ends here and now. Got it?”
Too stubborn to speak, I merely give half a nod. For the time being, it’s good enough for Oates. The matter’s dropped the second his phone rings and he answers like it’s the end of the discussion. I’ve got no problem moving on.
I decline the medic’s request to bandage me the rest of the way up and make my way out of the locker room. The last thing I feel like doing is sitting around the lockers waiting out my punishment like a foolish coward.
If Oates and the other coaches are going to punish me for defending myself, then I’m going to enjoy every moment leading up to it.
Nobody else bothers to stop me as I head from one end of the facility to another—then an elevator ride up a couple floors where the manager’s offices are located. And the office of our public relations consultant, Sugar Tits.
I stroll up as she looks away from her computer screen and notices me approaching the door that’s ajar. She can’t bring herself to react in time except for the perplexed knit of her brows. I’ve already slammed shut the door and stand in front of her. The many different ways I can torture her today are on my mind.
“Golding… you’re… bleeding…” she sputters out.
I grin, a droplet of blood dropping from my brow. “Got into a pretty bad brawl with Morasca. It’ll be a PR nightmare if it gets out to the public.”
She gasps and half rises out of her chair. “What were you thinking?—”
“You going to be there tonight? I’ve got the room reserved,” I interrupt, loving the way I can draw different reactions out of her. She goes from shock to confusion to disgust. “Don’t worry, I’ll send a car to your place to pick you up.”
“You think you’ll have a car—that I’m going to—you’re delusional!” She snaps upright, her fingertips skimming the top of her desk, with her dark eyes narrowed on me. Her words come out sounding like the growl from a feline. “You must think I accepted that degrading deal of yours. Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s going to be a party of one tonight.”
“Are we still pretending the thought of all the things I’ll do to you doesn’t make you wet, Sugar?”
“We’re not pretending. I’ve been pretty up front.” She snatches her keys and phone and struts around the desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go address whatever mess you started?—”
I cut her off by grabbing her throat. My fingers wrap around the slender column and wrench her toward me ’til her body’s pressed up against mine. We’re both breathing heavily, peering into each other’s eyes. Hers wide with shock at my sudden rough move and mine steeled by the darker side my mocking attitude normally covers.
I tip her face up to mine to allow for close study of her every feature. Many I’ve already memorized, even without her realizing I have.
Marisse March has been a constant on my mind from the moment I first walked up on her in that silky blouse and tight skirt as the coach introduced her to the team.
She’s begun to frustrate the hell out of me the more I’ve been in her presence and the more she seems to hate me.
“Face it, Sugar, you want me,” I whisper, hovering my mouth over hers. My other hand creeps between her thighs and ghosts across her supple skin. All slow but insistent so that it serves as a confusing dichotomy. Marisse gasps as my palm slides over her cotton-clad pussy and feels the small wet spot that’s materialized. “You need to be fucked so you’ll lose that little attitude of yours. I’ll have you smiling from the greatest fucking high. You won’t even know what’s up and what’s down.”
Marisse’s fingers clench onto my forearm. Her breath catches on another desperate gasp. I’m gripping her by the cunt. I’ve dug the base of my palm into her pussy and felt the eager heat she produces. The way she becomes slicker the more I grind my palm against her.
Her long, manicured nails sink into me and her whole body racks in unexpected pleasure. “Golding… Rafe… st-stop—oh! OHHHH!”
She pants as I tease the ever living fuck out of her with the palm of my hand, right up ’til she’s about to explode against me, then I strip her of the pleasure. I rip my hand away and step back to leave her flustered and trembling on the spot.
Her mouth hangs open. I grin at her and fold my arms.
“You look so sexy like this. So hot and bothered. What’s the matter, Sugar? A little cranky I didn’t make you come?” I taunt. “Don’t worry. That’s what tonight’s for. I expect you there.”
I walk out, thriving on the adrenaline that’s rushing me.
Few things are so exciting as what I’ve discovered my favorite new pastime is—tormenting Marisse March in some toxic dynamic of work enemies who hate each other.
