Page 58 of Wrong Score

“Drew means nothing to me.”

“Leave,” he says again, but this time his voice cracks.

“If you’re that worked up, then use me,” I say softly, stepping closer.

His breath hitches, and I know I’ve stepped over the line we’ve been playing with for months. “Use you?” he asks.

"All that build-up. It's burning in you, isn't it? You need a release. Release it on me," I tell him, my body already tingling at the idea of Bex unloading all his build-up inside of me.

His expression is almost pained at the idea of it.

"Seeing Drew that close to you... I don't just want to fuck you. I want to ruin that pussy for anyone else but me, do you understand? The way I want you should scare you--it scares me. And nothing more will happen after we leave my office. Even if I had it in me to choose anything over hockey, which I don’t, I’m retiring to England and your career and life is here."

I step forward, placing my hand on his chest. He might be right, he might only be capable of these stolen moments we've had together, and our lives might not be headed in the same direction but I'm too selfish not to take the little he has left to offer.

"Take me however you need it. I want to know what it feels like to be ruined by you. Even if it’s just once."

He sucks in his lower lip. I can see it in his eyes that he knows he should turn me away, but I'm too wet for him to hurt me. I'm too turned on not to come as soon as he enters me.

His eyes darken again and hood with arousal. We both need this, not just him and he sees it in my eyes too.

"Hands flat on my desk, Rowan. Nothing on but your panties. I want to take those off myself." He waits for me to signal that I understand his instructions and then sidesteps to let me pass.

He watches me walk to his desk, stripping off the jacket he left me on my seat, and beginning to quickly unbutton my blouse.

I turn back to watch him pull his polo up over his head as he walks to the door, twisting the lock until it engages, the sound building more anticipation, an agreement on both our parts that neither of us leave until we both get what we came for.

I stand there as he sheds off the last of his clothes, his hard cock bobbing in front of him with me bent over his desk in only a beige thong. He steps behind me, his hands caressing my ass until his fingers twist into the material of my panties, tugging up tight, causing delicious pain that makes more arousal seep into the material. He bends over me, his erection sliding between my bare thighs, his chest flat against my back, pulling my thong tighter.

I moan out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, my center squeezing at the need for more of him.

"Do you know how long I've thought about fucking you like this? Bent over my desk, all mine to claim, this perfect pussy waiting for me? Do you know how long I've wanted to make you scream loud enough that a packed stadium of fans hears you beg me to let you come?" he asks, his free hand sliding around the front of me, his fingers moving the thong out of his way as he works my clit, sliding to my entrance but not giving me the penetration I need. Instead, his fingers move away just as I think he's going to press into me.

"How long?" I ask, knowing that up until a few weeks ago, he hasn’t wanted me anywhere near this stadium.

"Since the first day I saw you sitting in the front row of the press box two years ago. Those prim little trouser suits, that slicked back perfect hair. A good little journalist—too smart to get mixed up with the likes of me,” he says against my ear as he works me to a sopping wet mess for him. “I wanted to know what you'd look like, properly messy and feral, begging for every inch of my cock as I fed it into you," he says, my fingers digging into his desk, my body humming with need. "I was a good lad, did my best to keep my distance, and then you went and let him sit next to you, making me properly jealous enough that I picked a fight with a ref."

His words hit me harder than they should. Was he really thinking about me all this time? Watching me, wanting me? My mind flashes to every moment we’ve shared these last few months, every argument, every stolen glance, and now I understand—it was never just the tension between a coach and a reporter. It was this, always this, building and burning until it finally exploded. And now, I’m his fire, and he’s mine.

His fingers slide out of my folds and hook on either side of my panties, pulling them slowly down my legs, until I step out of them and then he tosses them onto his desk. “Those are mine now. You don’t get those back. After you leave my office thoroughly fucked, I want to know that you’re out there in the stadium for the rest of the game and interviews tonight with no panties on because they’re in my desk.”

I should keep my smart mouth to myself, but I can’t—not with him. "If I had known that Drew would make you jealous, I would have had him sit next to me sooner,” I admit.

The sound of a slap and the sting of Bex's hand against my ass makes me jump and squirm, but my center clenches tighter and more heat pools low in my belly.

"You want this, don't you?" he asks, a soothing hand rubbing the spot he spanked.

I nod, and I hear the sound of a groan rumble through his chest.

"No condom. I want to coat every inch inside of you with me," he says, but I know it's a question. He's asking for permission.

“Yes,” I whisper, my voice trembling with a mixture of anticipation and need, knowing full well that a baby can’t come from this, even if, somehow, we both wanted it. "No barriers between us."

A feral sound escapes his throat, his grip tightening on my hips, his control slipping, and then he’s there, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He pauses for a heartbeat, his hand splaying across my lower back to hold me steady. "You’re not leaving this office without my mark on you," he mutters, and then he thrusts forward, filling me completely.

I cry out at the intensity of it, the sensation of him stretching me, claiming me and putting me back together, being wanted like this—by him. It's overwhelming in the most exquisite way. My nails dig into the desk, anchoring me as he pulls out just enough to drive back in, setting a pace that’s rough and relentless, just like him—just like he promised he would take me.

"Fuck," he groans, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks, but I don’t care. Every thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting through me, building with an intensity that borders on too much.

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