Page 113 of Renegade Ruin

WILLOW: You did?

BISHOP: Yes. Now, before you go tell your friends all about us, I need you to do me a favor.

WILLOW: Anything.

BISHOP: You might regret saying that. (smirk emoji)

BISHOP: That little green toy…I need you to slip it between those pretty pussy lips of yours and turn it on before you head to the game.

WILLOW: Absolutely fucking not.

BISHOP: Oh there will be fucking, but not until you’re sufficiently wet and aching for me.

WILLOW: I’m the damn owner of the team. I’m not wearing a sex toy to a game.

BISHOP: We both know you’re wet just thinking about it.

He’s not wrong, but that’s not the point.

BISHOP: Consider this the punishment you asked for.

WILLOW: I meant a spanking.

BISHOP: That can also be arranged.

WILLOW: I’m not wearing it.

BISHOP: The choice is yours. But we both know if you don’t wear it, you’ll be thinking about wearing it the whole time. Just know my cock is painfully hard in this cup and it will be torture for me the entire game, knowing you’re wet because of it.

WILLOW: I hate you.

BISHOP: And I adore the idea of you hate fucking me later.

WILLOW: This conversation is over. I’ll see you after the game.

Nervous tension radiates off me as I take cool water and rub it onto the back of my neck. It does nothing to stifle the heat coursing through me. This man has me strung tighter than a rubber band and ready to snap.

From the beginning he’s pushed my limits, carefully taking note of the things that turn me on. Exhibitionism being one of them. Not that I want to have sex in front of a room full of people—I don’t—but I have never been more turned on than when he fucked me against a glass window over Times Square. It was safe—the windows were tinted appropriately so that no one wouldsee—but that thrill that they could was unlike any other. This was taking it a step further while adding another element. Could I keep my composure? Would I give myself away? I can’t even lie to myself and pretend I’m not completely turned on by the challenge.

But I’m the goddamned owner. Owners don’t act like this. Owners don’t wear specific player’s jerseys. Owners also don’t fall in love with members of their team, yet here we are.

While drying my hands, I reassure myself this is a terrible idea and there’s no way I’m going to follow through with it.

When I return to the kitchen, I find Indie and Leigh have already taken their first shots and poured another one for each of us. I grab my shot glass and raise it in the air before they can ask me any more questions.

“Champagne to all my real friends,” I say with a grin, knowing damn well they’ll complete the toast we fell in love with the year we turned twenty-one.

“Real pain to all my sham friends,” they yell in unison, and we all hit our glasses on the table before downing the clear liquid.

Before the burn subsides, I pull up my big girl panties and unleash the story of Bishop and me onto my best friends, not pausing for a single second until I’ve finished the twisted tale.

I’m out of breath by the time I’m done, and Indie and Leigh sit with their eyes wide and their jaws hanging slack.

“Well shit,” Indie mutters.

“So you’re all in?” Leigh asks, caution lacing her voice.

I dip my head and smile. “Yeah. I’m not crazy, am I?”

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