Page 41 of Whistle

“You’re delusional.”

“Get your ass out of my car,” he ordered, snatching his keys and bag and slamming the door behind him. I stayed where I was, sipping the coffee and staring at his ass as he walked away.

His ass was top-tier. Probably the universe’s way of trying to make up for his gnarly personality. It was tight and round, just enough for his track pants to mold against.

The ivy-green windbreaker he wore said COACH across the back and rippled a little around his shoulders when he tensed and looked back. Lines appeared around his eyes as he squinted, his stubbled jaw popping when he clenched his teeth.

I loved riling him up. He was so easy.

The damnable whistle bounced between his pecs as he stomped back to the car, around the hood, and to the passenger side. Smirking, I took another healthy sip of the coffee.

Cool morning air gusted around me when he yanked open the door. “Get your disobedient ass out of my car before I lose my temper.”

I stepped out. “Yes, Daddy.”

Coffee sloshed when his hand snatched the front of the hoodie I wore and yanked me forward unexpectedly. My chest pressed against the window, the car door between us.

His nostrils widened, the golden orbs around his irises flaring as he leaned over the doorframe and into my personal space. Coffee-scented breath fanned over me when he spoke. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Yeah.” I agreed. “It landed me in jail.”

The crinkles around his eyes deepened, and something about those lines screamed sex appeal to me. Like his body was lived in like the best pair of jeans.

“Unless you want to go back, I’m your warden now. So do not piss me off.”

But, oh, it was so satisfying.

My lips parted, and he made a pained sound. “Not another word. Not a fucking one.”

Instead of speaking, I swiped the tip of my tongue over my lower lip. His eyes zeroed in on that action with single-minded precision.

He still wanted me. After that taunting kiss in California, he’d gone stony. Barking orders and avoiding looking at me like it had been some sort of adrenaline-induced mistake.

But the only adrenaline in this moment was the rush I got from seeing that look.

Withdrawing his hand from my shirt, he pulled away. “Let’s go.”

I went, sashaying my ass a little bit more than usual as I went ahead of him on the sidewalk. I could feel his eyes burning a hole into my back, and it only gratified me more.

The second I stepped inside the natatorium, any confidence and control I felt withered and died. Everyone looked up, and heavy silence blanketed the space. I kept my eyes moving, skimming over the Speedo-clad bodies, swim caps, and tiled pool deck. Noting the way the water waved and how the line dividers bobbed. Across the room was a wall of bleachers. More swimmers were there with towels.

The door shut behind us, and I stayed frozen in place. A hand met the small of my back, and I jolted, the touch jarring. Coach didn’t react to the way I bolted, just pressed his hand heavier, propelling me forward.

His whistle blew, cracking through the silence. “Team meeting!”

Someone jogged over to the locker room door and shoved his head in. “Team meeting!” he bellowed before letting the door fall closed and heading to the bleachers.

“Coach, you’re late. I think this calls for extra laps,” one of the guys called. Pretty sure he was one of Rush’s friends.

“Put a cork in it, Owens,” Coach snapped, moving around me to head toward the team.

He was comfortable here. They all were.

I wasn’t comfortable anywhere. Except in discomfort.

The locker room door swung open, and a few more guys came out. Three of them were dressed in street clothes, which was shocking compared to everyone else who were all practically naked.

“Navarro! Sinclair! Andrews!” Coach roared, then followed it with a blip of his whistle. “What the hell are you doing here?”

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