Page 137 of The Stud

Nor does the third.

“I don’t know who looked more concerned, med or his coach.”

This handle turning to grant us access conjures up a gnarled, “Thankfuck.” Inside the pocket storage room that clearly houses extra supplies for the locker room, I carelessly shove her against the shelving, wind my hand around her throat, and barbarically command at a hushed volume, “Say it again.” Arden delightfully whimpers at the pressure prompting my forehead to fall to hers. “Say. It. Again. Slayer.”

The corner of her lips briefly twitch upward. “I love you.”

Feral growls precede me smashing my mouth on hers.

Roughly spreading her lips.

Whirling my tongue around while nudging apart her thighs with my knee.

I abruptly pull back at the same time I squeeze a bit harder. “Again.”

Initially, she resists, yet the combination of additional pressure and my fingers undoing the button of her jeans convinces her to airily croak, “I love you, twenty-eight.”

Like a beast broken free from his choke chain, ravishing the love of my life becomes the only thing I can do.

The only thing I’m capable of doing.

Getting her turned around, jeans and panties pulled down just enough to thrust inside, head banging into the shelf of toilet paper rolls happens so blindingly fast that it leaves my own mind spinning.

Not that I give a shit.

No.

Hearing her cry out for me with my hand curled around her throat and dick relentlessly ripping her in two outweighs all other fucks to give.

“Again,” I huff near her hearing aid ear, hips brutally hammering, bucking her entire body into the hard surface. “Say.” The perpetual pounding persists. Hastens. “It.” My balls slam against her backside while my other set of fingers rapidly rub her clit from the front. “Again.”

Arden’s head lifelessly bounces back to the same steady rhythm as her ass, juices worshipping my cock, pussy screaming the words I want her voice to.

“Whose fucking pussy is this, Slayer?”

Grazes from her swinging loose locks brush the side of my neck and shoulder convincing me to curl further inward.

Stroke faster with my finger.

My cock.

“Whose number do you fucking wear?”

An attempt to speak is felt against my palm yet the vibrations simply spur me to clench tighter.

Pump faster.

More ferocious.

“Whose name do you fucking scream?”

Wetness drips to my balls.

Smothers my shaft.

Slathers itself against the edge of my sweater, staining my gear.

The very gear I have to wear back out on the ice.

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