Page 73 of Bend & Break
“You didn’t even try.”
“I was distracted.” He props himself up on his elbows, eyes locked on me with that grin that still manages to knock the air from my lungs. “You running around in that practice kit? Yeah, no chance I was saving anything.”
I kick the ball lightly at him, careful not to hit his ribs, and he laughs, catching it against his chest.
For a few minutes, it’s just us on the field, goofing around, stealing moments where the world doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down.
And even though he shouldn’t be doing any of this, I let him. Because he’s right—we need it. I need it.
The ball rolls to a stop between us, and I rest my foot on it, lost in my own thoughts.
“You’re stalling,” he says, his accent curling around the words.
“I’m strategizing,” I shoot back, chin tilted, though my pulse skips when he closes the distance. Step by step, he herds me across the grass until the goalpost presses against my back, cold and unyielding.
Mads lifts my wrists, his fingers wrapping easily around both, testing. “Strategizing,” he repeats. “Me too.”
He starts at my jacket, peeling it away from my shoulders with a painful kind of slowness. The night air is cool against my skin, but his palms are warmer, sliding over me as if he owns every inch. When he sinks to his knees, tugging at socks and cleats, I can’t help the laugh that slips out, breathless and unsteady. He smirks up at me, eyes glinting with triumph, before hooking his fingers into the waistband of my shorts.
Piece by piece, he strips me down, leaving only my jersey behind.
He pulls a roll of athletic tape from his pocket—how long has he been planning this?—and ties my hands loosely to the post.
I laugh, the sound shaky at the edges, because even turned on as hell, I can’t quite get on board with how absurd this is. “You can’t just tie me up on the field like?—”
“Like this?” His grin sharpens, infuriatingly sure of himself, though his eyes never leave mine. He’s searching, waiting for even the smallest flicker of hesitation. My pulse stutters, but I don’t give him one.
When he finds nothing, he says, “Say the word and I’ll stop.”
I don’t. I won’t. The laugh still lingers in my chest, tangled with want, with the thrill of letting him push me exactly where I’ve already decided I want to go.
Like always.
Instead, I whisper, “What if someone sees?”
His mouth curves as he leans down, and the sheer difference in our height makes my knees weak. “They won’t. But if they do, then they’ll know you’re mine.”
Trust Mads to be both utterly serious and completely over-the-top in the same breath. “You sound like a bad romance novel,” I tease.
He presses closer, one hand braced against the post above my head, the other skimming down my side in a touch that’s all promise and possession. “Good,” he murmurs. “Then I’m doing it right.”
All I register is the rhythm of our breaths, the rough bite of the post at my back, and the way his lips finally capture mine—hungry, playful, and absolutely certain.
The kiss deepens, and my wrists strain against the tape—not because I want to get away, but because I want more and I’d claw my way out of hell if it meant being closer to him.
Mads seems to like that, a low sound vibrating in his chest as he shifts his weight, pressing me harder against the post. The metal is unforgiving, but the warmth of him eclipses everything else.
“You always fight,” he murmurs against my mouth, nipping lightly at my lower lip. “Even when you don’t want to win.”
“Maybe I just like giving you the illusion of control,” I manage, though it comes out breathless.
His laugh is dark and delighted. “Illusion, hm?” His hand slides lower, teasing along my lower stomach, drawing a shiver from me. “Tell me again how much control you think you have.”
I don’t answer, mostly because words are useless when his mouth trails down the curve of my jaw, then lower still, each touch pulling me under just a little more. The night air is cool, but every place he touches burns, and the tape at my wrists only makes me more aware of how easily I’ve given myself over to him in such a short amount of time.
I tug once more at the binding, a small rebellion, and he looks up at me, eyes dark with triumph and something softer. “Stay still,” he says, a little tender, a little commanding. “Let me have this.”
And I do. Because despite the way we always banter, despite my own bravado, there’s nowhere else I want to be but tied up at his mercy.
