Page 44 of Major Penalty

His hips grind against me, pressing his hardness against my stomach.

“You’re not as sweet as you pretend to be, are you?” His lips brush my ear, his voice a deep, taunting growl. His fingers slowly and purposefully rub against my clit through the wet fabric.

My only response is a helpless whimper that rips from my throat.

“You wanna see how good my hips work, even with an injury, little thing?” he asks, his voice sounds like sin.

Oh my fucking god.

His fingers are still moving, sliding torturously, testing me, learning every little sound, every twitch, every shaky breath I can’t hold back.

Then his hand stops. I hardly have time to blink before his other hand is fisting the hem of my skirt and dragging it higher. I gasp as his fingers hook under the waistband of my panties.

Then he leans in again, his mouth so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath. His lips hover close enough to steal every thought from my head, to make my pulse hammer in my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can only feel the way the way his breath ghosts over my lips like a dark promise.

Then his fingers start to move again, dragging my panties down, inch by excruciating inch. I suck in air, my body going completely rigid as the cool air hits my bare pussy.

He’s lips brushing mine in the most infuriating way. The cotton slides down my thighs, over my knees. My skin prickles with goosebumps as he pushes them all the way to my ankles.

And he pulls back. No kiss, no lingering touch.

I blink up at him, breathless and dizzy, my body still burning, my mind still spinning.

His eyes flicker downward just for a second before he jerks his gaze away like it might kill him to look between my legs.

His fingers snag the panties from where they hang on my ankle. His blue eyes pinning me in place.

I sit there, mortified, watching him bring them to his mouth. His teeth clamping down on the wet spot.

I make a sound, shocked and strangled, as Ares grins through the fabric.

With my panties between his teeth, he grabs his hoodie from where he tossed it and pulls it on—slow, deliberate, completely unbothered. Then he takes them from his mouth and slides them into his pocket, claiming them without a word. My mouth drops open, eyes wide. Did he really just pocket my soaked panties? “Schedule a scan,” he says, voice rough. “Thank you for taking a look at my hip.”

And then he turns and opens the door. I immediately scramble off the table, pulling my skirt down as he walks out without a backward glance shutting the door shuts behind him.

I can still feel his fingers on my skin. My heart is in my throat. My panties—God. My panties are in his pocket.

Chapter twelve

~ARES~

The air inside Amalie Arena is electric. Tens of thousands of roaring fans, deafening horns, and vibrating boards surround me, but none of it touches me.

Pain fucking does.

It claws through me, tearing at my hip with every stride, every shift, every explosive push forward. The snap of the puck is a knife wedged in my bones, twisting deeper.

But pain is just another opponent. And I never fucking lose.

I cut across the ice, eyes locked on the play, scanning for an opening. My pulse pounds, a relentless drum against my ribs, but underneath it is the real distraction.

Her.

Irene is watching me; I can feel it. Even with thousands of people screaming, with the heat of the game thick in the air, with my entire body breaking down, my mind keeps going back to her. To what I did, to what I stole.

It’s been two days. Two days since I had my fingers against the soaked cotton between her thighs, since I nearly lost my mind. Two days since I took her panties and walked away with them in my pocket before I did something I couldn’t take back.

And she left after that. I heard she canceled her appointments and went home early because of some “emergency.”

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