Page 97 of Mad As Hell

“But,” the doctor continued, “I want you to take it easy. Finish out the rest of the quarter in here. You can play the last half.”

“Not fucking happening.” The glare Ryan shot him would’ve folded lesser men.

“Listen, kid, that CT scan we did is clearing you, but you lost consciousness out there.”

“For a second,” Ryan argued.

“I don’t give a shit. The last thing I want is your coach to have my balls in a blender because I let you push yourself.” Dr. Travers shook his head. “It’s bad enough I’m married to his sister. You think Coach is a hardass? It’s genetic, and she actually has access to my balls on a daily basis.”

I couldn’t help the snorting laugh that slipped out.

“Quarter’s almost done,” the doctor added, softening his voice. “Score’s still the same. Rest up, and then get the win when you’re back on the field.” He glanced at me. “I need to get back out there. Can you make him stay put?”

“Yes, sir,” I agreed.

As soon as the three men left, Ryan was already swinging his legs over the side of the table.

“What the hell!” I planted my hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. “You have to stay here.”

“I’m not leaving my guys out there, Maddie,” he snapped, his eyes flashing. “I can at least stand on the sidelines.”

“God, sometimes you are so freaking infuriating!” I snarled, giving him another shove as I moved between his spread thighs to block him from standing. “Just stay here and relax. You’ll get your chance to go kick some more Viper ass.”

His eyes blazed as he stared at me. Slowly, one corner of his mouth hooked up. “Maybe I want a different kind of ass.”

“What?” The confused question was barely past my lips before his hands settled on my hips and he picked me up to straddle his thighs.

“Ryan!” I squeaked in alarm and tried to wiggle free. It was useless; his iron grip held me tight against his chest, and all my struggling did was help raise another kind of thing. This one was decidedly more corporeal than spirit.

“Ryan.” His name tumbled out in a breathless whisper.

His gaze darkened. “Fuck, I love when you say my name like that.” He leaned forward and grazed his lips across my exposed shoulder. “Again.”

My head tipped back, giving him more access. “Ryan.”

He groaned softly, lifting his hips to press his hard-on against my center.

I cried out, looping my arms around his neck so I wouldn’t tumble backward.

His teeth nipped at my collarbone. “Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of fucking you in here?” A hand slid up my ribs to knead my breast.

I arched into his touch, dizzy and overwhelmed while craving more. When his fingers twisted my nipple, my hips jerked against him like there was a direct line between my tits and pussy.

“We don’t have much time,” I murmured, knowing there was a literal clock ticking down somewhere.

He lifted his head, the impish look in his eyes sending a thrill down my spine. “You know, there’s an old wives’ tale that athletes shouldn’t get off before a game or big match. Apparently the idea is to focus all that pent up aggression on the field.” His hand moved aside the collar of my—his—shirt and slipped under the cup of my bra to pluck at my sensitive bud.

I whimpered, screwing my eyes shut as I rocked into him.

All at once, he stopped. He pulled his hand out and moved me off his lap.

My eyes snapped open, and disappointment swelled in me.

He shot me a wry smile. “What can I say? I’m superstitious.” He slipped off the edge of the table, his front brushing against me.

I moved to step back, trying to ignore the way my pulse thundered in my ears, but his hands shot out and held me still. In one sweeping motion, he spun us and positioned me on the table.

“But that doesn’t mean I can’t get my girl off,” he added with a throaty chuckle that made my lower belly clench.

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