Page 43 of Break the Ice
He must read my mind. He separates from my mouth long enough to instruct me to stand up and put my hands on the desk.
“Time to play, Sugar,” he whispers, nipping at my jaw.
A shiver of excitement passes through me. I stand straight and place my hands down as instructed.
“I have an engagement to go to.”
“I’m aware. But unfortunately for you, I want to play round one. Sounds like you’ll have to do both. Any idea how?”
My eyes close and I lick my lips, feeling hot and parched. “We need to talk about veto power.”
“There is no veto power in this game. I told you, it’s truth or dare,” he explains, pressing his nose behind my ear for an inhale of my scent. “Consider it Alpha’s version. You either complete the dare as it’s been given to you… or I’m going to tell the truth about you and what happened that night. So, which is it… truth or dare?”
I grit my teeth. “Dare.”
“Smart choice.”
“This dare… it’s going to be during the lunch?”
He holds me steady with a firm hand on my hip. His longer, leaner body entraps mine under him. His masculine heat radiates off him ’til I’m foggy-brained and disarmed.
“Yes, during the lunch,” he answers, nuzzling my throat. His free hand sneaks under the hem of my sweater dress and ghosts across my thighs. He finds my clit through the satin fabric of my panties and begins rubbing me in slow, agonizing circles. “You’re going to be my filthy little slut and do as I say, aren’t you? If you want to win the round.”
I blow out a shaky sigh and answer him. “Yes, I’ll do it. Whatever it is.”
“That’s what I want to hear. You’ll be done with all five rounds in no time. This’ll be a good show for everyone—and a memory you’ll never forget.”
“Rafe,” I gasp when his hand slides down the front of my satin panties. All air evaporates from my lungs as his fingers splay me open and work in a cool, sleek object. He tucks it inside my panties, resting it under my clitoral hood.
A tiny little egg of a vibrator placed strategically right where it’ll illicit the most pleasure.
“I’ll be watching,” he says, kissing my cheek. “Behave yourself and you’ll be fine. You might even make it past round one. Remember, don’t touch. Leave it right where I put it. See you there, Sugar.”
He gives my hip another squeeze, then steps away like he hasn’t spent the last five minutes caging me in. I’m shocked at the feel of the tiny bullet vibrator inside my panties and the sobering realization I’ll be out in public like this.
What the hell have I gotten myself into agreeing to this game?
Would I really be worse off letting Rafe go to the police than accepting this fucked up deal for his silence?
He said if I behave myself then I’ll be fine. I can only hope he meant he wouldn’t turn on the vibrator if nothing goes wrong. But right and wrong are relative in Rafe’s world—he’s usually so backward, doing something right is what’s wrong. How can I possibly know what to expect?
“Thanks for the invite,” says the lead sports reporter for the Seattle Sentinel. He eyes the moody atmosphere of Gourmande. The restaurant is Gothic in nature, with chiseled stone and an iron-gated garden. But its decadent menu and artsy vibes have made it a favorite of the city’s most well off.
We’ve reserved an entire section in the restaurant for our afternoon PR lunch. It’s the Wolves’ way of meeting with some of the media’s most influential outlets to foster good will. I’m focused on making sure the lunch goes well from the moment it begins.
Though I didn’t plan it myself, as the team’s new image consultant, it’s in my best interest to establish a rapport with the media. I’ve forgotten all about the little egg Rafe snuck into my panties. Even as its sleek, cool surface makes my clit feel swollen and hot.
If Rafe’s in the vicinity, he’s given no hint he’s watching. He was probably playing mind games. That’s half the fun for an asshole like him. He finds pleasure in pissing people off and controlling their emotions. He wanted me to be a panicked mess during this luncheon.
I do my damnedest to prove him wrong.
I’m my usual friendly self, laughing at the appropriate times and making connections with different potential allies around the table. I work best in situations like this, where I’m turned loose and left to my own devices.
The sports editor for Channel 8 News engages me about my past athletic career. It’s a topic I’m used to discussing ad nauseam, which is how I’ve perfected many of my answers. I give Mr. Bluth a polite smile as I explain what happened at the 2018 Olympics and why my career was cut short.
“You were one of the best in your sport,” he says.
“I was, but the injury had other plans. I’m living a different kind of dream.”
