Page 7 of Yes, Coach

Murphy

The hours between Taryn's morning visit and three-thirty feel like a fucking eternity.

I try to focus on game film, but all I can see is the way she traced her finger around my coffee mug. Try to review practice schedules, but my brain keeps replaying the sound she made when she tasted my coffee. Try to eat lunch, but all I want to do is eat her fucking pussy.

Christ. I'm losing my goddamn mind.

By the time the final bell rings, I've jerked off twice more—once in my office bathroom during lunch, once in my truck in the faculty parking lot like some desperate teenager. Neither time helped. If anything, it made the ache worse.

I'm standing behind my desk when she appears in my doorway at exactly 3:35 PM, and the sight of her nearly brings me to myknees. She's taken off her cardigan, leaving just that too-small button-down that pulls across her chest. Her skirt has somehow gotten shorter since this morning, or maybe she's rolled the waistband. I see a little birthmark on her inner thigh I never noticed before.

Perfect, dark little spot I want to trace with my tongue. Leave a bite mark around it like it and everything attached to it belongs to me.

She’s let her hair down. It’s loose around her shoulders and I imagine what it would look like spread over my pillow with me looking down while I put my dick inside her, or paint her fucking toenails or read her a story.

She looks like every forbidden fantasy I've ever had, standing there with that innocent smile that doesn't match the come fuck me or come save me look in her eyes.

Both of which I want to do with my whole fucking soul.

"You came," I say, and immediately regret how rough my voice sounds and my choice of words, because now I can barely fucking breathe thinking of how she would sound doing just that.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" She steps inside and closes the door behind her with deliberate care. The click of the lock echoes like a gunshot. "I always keep my promises, Coach."

The way she uses my title makes me wince. Like it's a game. Like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

"Sit down." I gesture to the chair across from my desk, but she doesn't move.

"I've been sitting all day." She moves closer, her hips swaying in that way that makes my teeth clench. "I'm tired of sitting."

"Taryn." Her name comes out like a warning, but she doesn't stop. Doesn't back off like she should.

"You know what I kept thinking about during calculus?" She's close enough now that I can smell her perfume. Something sweet and young that makes my fucking mouth water. "About you telling me I could come to you when I didn't want to be strong."

"That's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" She reaches for Tom Brady, my fucking plant, and runs one finger along a leaf. The gesture is innocent, but the way she does it makes it feel dirty. "Because I've been thinking, Coach. About what it would feel like to let someone else make all the decisions for once."

My hands grip the edge of my desk, but I keep my voice level. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then show me."

The words hang between us like a lit fuse. I can see the exact moment she realizes what she's said, the way her eyes widen slightly. But she doesn't take it back. Doesn't apologize or laugh it off.

She means it.

And that's when something inside me snaps.

"Alright." My voice goes deadly quiet, the same tone I used to use before I leveled quarterbacks. "You want me to show you?"

I move around the desk in three quick strides, and as I come closer she backs up. Back and back and back until there’snowhere to go, and suddenly she's trapped between me and the wall. My hands slam against the concrete on either side of her head, and I lean down until our faces are inches apart.

"You want to know what it feels like to let someone else be in charge?" My voice is rough, dangerous. "You sure about that, baby girl?"

The endearment slips out without permission, but the way her breath catches tells me she likes it. Her pupils are blown wide, and I can see her pulse racing in her throat.

"Yes." The word is barely audible, but it might as well be a shout.

"Then you're going to listen to me very carefully." I let my voice drop to that tone I used to use on the field—pure authority, no room for argument. "And you're going to do exactly what I tell you to do. Understand?"

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