Page 23 of On the Edge of Scandal

Her gaze darts back to where she’s leisurely stroking me and when she moistens her lips I just about die. “So can I? Do you like this?”

“I . . .” Fucking hell, why do I sound like I swallowed a frog? “Yes, I like this very much, and of course you can, but . . .”

Any protest I was going to make dies in my throat as she swallows me down, her tongue slicking a sense-blowing spiral over the head and down my shaft, like almost all the way down, so far she has to unwrap some of her fingers to make room.

The woman has no discernable gag reflex, and it’s taking all of my willpower not to blow in her mouth. Christ on a cracker, cannot think about spilling in her mouth, because that renders my mind into gray matter Jell-O. Horny brain matter soup. Partly because of what she’s doing, but also her generosity and easy acceptance of my limitations. Some of the women I’ve dated haven’t been as easygoing about it. They’d made me feel like a disappointment and a burden. Bronwyn makes it seem like more of a game: how can we make this work, how do we both get what we want?

Gratitude has me slipping my fingers into her loose hair to offer affection, greed has me gathering it away from her face so I can watch her while she’s sucking me. She draws off again, and I think I’ve gone too far, even though I was careful not to tug or yank. There’s a glow in her eyes that tells me this is in no way pity head, but that she’s very much enjoying it, and then her swollen mouth tugs into a wicked grin.

“You can pull, you know. I like it. Not like jerk me around, but a little strain on my scalp?” She hums with pleasure, her eyes closing in a long blink, and shit, yes, I can do that. With a graze of her breasts over my aching dick, she settles again and when she takes me in her mouth again, I do as I’ve been given permission to, wrap my fingers in her soft hair and draw my hands back until she makes a pleased little moan around my cock. I have died. Died and gone to heaven.

After a few more minutes, I cannot take it anymore, at least not without this being over, and I don’t want to disappoint her. Not after what she’s given to me, not after what she’s asked for.

“B, if you want to come with me inside you, we, uh, have to move to the next portion of this program.”

There’s the vibration of a laugh around me, and I have to brace myself in order not to just spurt down her throat. But there are no insults, no roll of her eyes, and though I would so not mind if she took this all the way, I like that she’s determined to hold onto what she wants, too. Finally she’s rolling the latex over me, and settling herself over my hips. Since I can basically stay still, it’s not so painful. Way less painful than a bunch of the alternatives, at any rate, and I’m willing to suffer a little for this.

“I can’t . . . I can’t move a lot, but you can ride me as hard as you want. I’ll be okay, promise.”

She gives me a look that says she doesn’t quite believe me but I don’t want to leave room for argument. “Look, this is one of the best options. Yes, it’ll be a little painful, but I’m deciding it’s worth it, and I want it. If you get to make that call, so do I.”

I grab her hips and pull her in and thank the hockey gods that she grips my cock to angle me right while she sinks down. It feels like every good thing I’ve ever asked for, and while she starts out at a gentle rock, she doesn’t stay that way for long. Soon she’s thrusting back, spreading her legs as wide as she can, and working her clit against my pelvis until she’s panting and digging her short nails into my shoulders.

“God, Ash, you feel so fucking good. Yes, oh my god, yes.”

Which is when I feel it, the pulse of her internal muscles gripping me, urging me toward my own climax. I hold off as long as I can so she can rock out the rest of her orgasm on me, but it’s not long until I’m digging my fingers into her hips and holding her still so I can make a few painful but also, god, exquisitely pleasurable thrusts up into her slick core.

Dead, dead, I’m fucking dead, my mind blown wide open, all thoughts of anything but her scattering to the corners of the earth. After we’ve both eked out every ounce of pleasure from coming, she rolls to my side and I use a tissue to clean up while she pulls up a blanket from the foot of the bed and drapes it over both of us.

That is not how I anticipated that conversation going, but if this is how I can help get her through the rest of the SIGs, I’m not going to argue.

Chapter Fourteen

Ash

The girls had a great practice today after handily dispatching with an outmatched Swiss team two days ago, and I was tempted to let them go early, but that’s not a good precedent to set. I do, however, let them scrimmage, since they enjoy it and, honestly, it’s fun to watch. Also, it gives the coaching staff an opportunity to look out for habits we’ve drilled in practice that players drop when it’s time for games. Happens all the damn time.

They’re doing well, though, and it’s . . . fun. Easy. They’ve worked their asses off and it shows. It’s paying off. Are they perfect? No, of course not. But they’re human, and damn close to flawless, which is about all a man can ask for. Of course, I’ll demand more on the off-chance they’ll give it, but if they can’t, I sure as hell won’t be disappointed.

My eye is drawn to a bit of a scuffle in the far corner of the rink, and I think about shouting at them to get out of the corner and knock it off, but it breaks up before I make my call. They all appear to skate off, get back in the game, but it’s getting chippy out there. Too much adrenaline, too much aggression, too much excitement for the game tomorrow.

On the one hand, it’s good for them to get some of that out here with their own team instead of earning time in the sin bin for that kind of shit tomorrow. On the other hand, I want them to keep some of that nervous energy pent up so it’ll explode when it’s needed, because we’ll need it against the Canadians tomorrow. Also, I don’t want anyone getting hurt.

It’s shitty enough getting injured in a game, but in practice it’s even worse. Ignominious, because what the hell was it even for? At least in a game it was for a cause, it was to win. But practice? Boo. Nobody wants that.

I’ll give them two more minutes to blow off some steam, and then I’ll call it. I scribble a few notes on my clipboard about the observations I made during practice, contemplate how to address issues—to the whole team, one-on-one with the player, what’s the best strategy for getting my message not only heard, but the fixes implemented. This is what I don’t think a lot of coaches spend much time thinking about: communication style matters. And while I don’t want to sound like a sexist pig, in my experience it matters more to women than to men, and—

My planning and musing is interrupted by more jostling. Apparently two minutes was too long for them to go without getting into trouble. Then I hear it. The sickening crunch and grind of a player hitting the ice hard, and a sharp cry. Not just a yelp of surprise or grunt of impact. My girls are tough. I’ve seen them played bloodied and bruised, and I’ve had to take some of them out over their protests when they were clearly hurt and could injure themselves further if I kept them on the ice. I rarely hear noises like that and when I do, it’s not good. Whatever just happened, ithurtsomeone.

I’m on my feet as soon as my brain can send the message to stand, and yeah there’s a twinge in my hip, but it’s not as important as what just happened on the ice. When a few bodies clear, I can tell that what just went down is Bronwyn, and that’s when my head explodes, supernova style, and everything goes black except her.

Against my better judgment, or really any judgment whatsoever, I’m over the boards and on the ice, moving as fast as I dare because if I hit the ice, it’s all over. I hate the way I can only shuffle over when what I want to do is sprint. Hate how she’s still lying on the ice, hate how she’s got an arm wrapped around her waist and is curled up around it. What did she hurt?

Broken arm? Broken wrist? Shoulder? Did she take a stick to the stomach? I didn’t hear or see her get slammed against the boards, but could be. I should’ve been paying better attention.

When I reach Bronwyn who’s still curled up like a pea in a pod on the rink, Nguyen’s standing there, no helmet on with a guilty-as-hell look on her face.

“Coach, I’m sorry. We were just getting a little rough, and then—”

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