Page 35 of Off-Ice Misconduct
His instincts must kick in, sensing there’s a predator in his midst. Sleep-crusted eyes blink open.
“Oh, hello, sir,” he says in a croaky voice. Then he rolls over with his bottle, eyes fluttering closed again.
“McKinnon,” I bark.
Ace jumps, looking for the fire until his eyes settle on me. I’m the fire. I do a quick scan, a McKinnon Scan as I’ve been calling it. Ever since the day he showed up in my office hurt, I’ve checked him over. How’s the bruising from that idiot? Is he happy? Is he in top McKinnon form? It hasn’t taken me long to categorize the small details of him, so it’s easy to deduce that something happened. It was enough to drag him away from the party he begged me for permission to attend, and dump him into this pity party for one.
We’ll deal with that later. Brats like him need firm boundaries.
I lean forward slowly, curling fingers around the collar of the letter jacket. “Take. It. Off.”
He flinches. “What?”
“You heard me.”
He doesn’t move.
“Off, McKinnon. Now.”
There’s a flicker of defiance on his face. A brat spark. I almost smile. He thinks this is a game. It’s not.
He sets the bottle down first and then shucks the jacket off with dramatic flair, huffing and pouting up a storm, shivering when the cold hits his bare skin.
Don’t worry, princess, I’m about to warm you up.
I snatch it from him and hang it over a chair beside us, out of his reach.
“Stand up.”
“Luke—”
“Now.”
He stands, wobbling a little.
As much as I’d like to toss him over my lap, I’m too big to stuff myself into one of the stadium seats and throw him over it. I’ll have to make do. Planting one solid foot on a chair, I grab his wrist, tossing him over my thigh. He goes still, tense, knowing what’s about to happen, knowing he’s been asking for this all fucking week with his actions.
All the taunts, all the teasing via text, culminating in this moment. Maybe if I’d done this sooner, he would have sulked in bed last night instead of the cold arena.
“Drinking when I explicitly forbade it.”
Smack, smack, smack.
His breath catches.
“Running off, not answering my texts, making me worry about you all damn night.”
Smack, smack, smack.
My hand cracks over his jean-covered ass, loud echoes reverberating off the walls.
“Oh, and let’s not forget about hot tubs, half-naked with other men, ignoring me, acting like nobody owns your ass.”
Smack, smack, smack.
“Because someone owns you, don’t they, princess?”
“Yeah, yah-huh,yessss,” he says as if he can’t get the words out fast enough.
