Page 202 of The Coach

It’s conflicted.

Tormented.

Like he knows he shouldn’t.

But he wants to.

Badly.

I rise on my toes, brushing my lips against his jaw. “Come on, Coach. What’s a little pre-game warm-up?”

His breath shudders. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

I grin, trailing my fingers down his abs, slipping my hand beneath the waistband of his sweats. “Then at least you’ll die happy.”

Jackson growls, gripping my hips, lifting me onto the dresser in one swift motion.

He nudges my legs apart.

Jackson’s eyes flash with heat, with something dark and desperate.

His fingers dig into my hips as he tugs my panties to the side, his other hand wrapping around the back of my neck.

I shiver, my breath hitching.

“Better make it quick,” I tease again, trying to keep the upper hand.

But Jackson?

He doesn’t play fair.

He presses his forehead to mine, his breath ragged. “Oh, baby. You think I don’t know how to make you come in under five minutes?”

I gasp as he slides two fingers inside me, curling just right, his thumb pressing against my clit.

My fingers claw at his shirt, my thighs trembling as he works me with practiced precision.

His voice is low, commanding. “You’re already dripping, Ivy. So desperate. You need this, don’t you?”

I nod frantically, my head falling back against the mirror behind me.

Jackson’s lips brush my jaw. “Then be a good girl and take it.”

And then he sinks inside me with one deep thrust.

I cry out, my fingers fisting in his shirt, my nails biting into his back.

Jackson groans, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.

I whimper, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He drives into me hard, the dresser shaking beneath us, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the luxurious hotel room.

It’s fast.

Feral.

One hand on my throat, his other gripping my thigh, anchoring me to him as he pounds into me.

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