Page 76 of Vicious Games

His fingers squeeze my ass, rocking me harder, chasing both our highs.

“And if I’m coming, you’re going to fucking come too.”

It sounds like a promise.

Or maybe it’s a threat.

I’m not sure anymore.

The only thing I am sure of is that I want to come too. God, do I want to.

“Make me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible between heavy breaths. “Please. I want to.”

Lucky lets out a guttural growl, his hands moving away from my ass and tightening around my hips. Before I know it, his mouth is on me, lips wrapping around my nipple over my clothes, his teeth sinking down just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain through my entire body.

The mix of sensations—the friction, the heat, his desperate grip on me—it’s too much.

A wave crashes over me, drowning out everything except the sound of my own voice shouting his name as I come apart. My vision blurs, stars exploding behind my eyes, my entire body wracked with tremors as warmth rushes through me, soaking my panties.

Lucky doesn’t stop, though. He uses my hips to grind me against him, dragging out every last ripple of pleasure until he stiffens beneath me, cursing under his breath, his face buried between my breasts.

I hold him there, fingers curling into his soft hair, both of us shaken, breathless, coming down from whatever high we just hit.

When our breathing evens out, I loosen my grip, and Lucky leans back just enough to run his knuckles over my cheek. His touch is softer now, his chestnut eyes locked onto mine.

“Phase two complete,” he murmurs, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. Almost… tender. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I shake my head, too dazed to form words.

But then something hits me.

Oh, God.

My stomach plummets. My face flames.

Oh, no. No, no, no! I think I just…wet myself on him.

A fresh wave of mortification crashes over me.

Lucky’s hands are still on me, his relaxed expression morphing to worry.

“What? What’s wrong?”

I can’t say it. I won’t say it.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

But I have to, don’t I?

The second I move off his lap, he’s going to see what I’ve done. And then that’s it.

No more tutoring sessions. No more cooking dinners. No more…this.

“Frankie,” he says, his tone turning serious. It’s the same tone his father used that day at their house—calm, authoritative, undeniable.

“Don’t make me say it,” I whisper, my voice small. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Whatever it is, you can tell me. This is a safe space, remember? Nothing we do here leaves this apartment. No one will ever know.”

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