Page 188 of The Coach

Jackson is fully in control. Dominating. Teasing.

And I let him—for a moment.

I let him push my dress up, let him stroke my thighs like he’s mapping me out, claiming every inch.

I let him tilt my chin up, his mouth hovering over mine, his breath warm and ragged as he whispers, “You gonna be a good girl for me, Ivy?”

Then, I flip the script.

Because two can play this game. Before he can react, I snatch the Polaroid out of his hands.

His eyes flash with surprise, his grip tightening on my thighs. He starts to speak but I stop him.

“Shh.” I smirk, lifting the camera, aiming it right at him. “You trust me?”

His nostrils flare, his jaw tightening. Oh, he doesn’t like this.

Good.

I snap the first picture.

The click of the shutter is obscene in the silence, and Jackson immediately steps back, running a hand down his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head like he’s trying to keep control. Like he’s hanging on by a thread.

I bite my lip, my pulse thrumming with the wildest rush of power.

Because he’s hard.

So. Fucking. Hard.

And now?

Now, he’s at my mercy.

I snap another picture.

This time, of the way his sweats hang obscenely low, the thick outline of his cock straining against the fabric.

“Fuck,” he growls, raking a hand through his hair, looking dangerously close to losing it.

I trail a finger down his chest, slow and teasing. “What’s wrong, Coach?”

He narrows his eyes. “You know exactly what’s wrong.”

I snap one more photo—of his hands. The same hands that have had me writhing, begging, ruined more times than I can count.

“Damn,” I muse, watching the picture slide out. “You’re so fucking hot.”

Jackson moves fast. Too fast.

One second, I’m holding the camera, feeling cocky as hell.

The next?

I’m bent over the nondescript basement counter, my wrists pinned behind my back, my cheek pressed to the cold surface.

“Think you’re cute?” he rasps, voice pure gravel, his body crowding mine, his cock pressing against my ass.

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