Page 83 of Off-Ice Misconduct
Breath catches in my throat. “You brought one for me?”
“Yes.”
It’s no big deal. Just a few bandages and probably some antiseptic.Just a man who wants to patch me up himself.My mouth opens, but no words come out.
“I saw that your friend noticed our conversation and thought it best that I was extra cautious. That’s all, princess. I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“But on the ice?—”
“I’m a hard ass.” That … yeah, that tracks. “And watching you get hurt up close like that? I was losing my fucking mind. It took every ounce of my willpower—something I don’t have much of when it comes to you—to stop myself from dragging you off the bench. It was three agonizing periods.”
Oh.
Oh.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “No need to apologize. We’re doing things that make you far more vulnerable than you’re used to.”
Can I lean my forehead on his massive chest? Because I need to. I do it anyway, letting my head sink against his solid form. He smells so good. Like sweat and cologne and safety.
“Yeah, maybe.”
He’s not leaving. He’s staying.
His hand gently squeezes my neck, grounding me. All the anger dissipates into nothing, and the anxious crashing waves even into placidity. It’s not just the storm of the game or the utter turmoil that raged through me earlier, either; it’s everything—the mountain of responsibility, Dad, the unfathomable hole in my chest Mom left when she died.
Weird.
I wasn’t even thinking about that shit, but it’s always there, I guess, haunting the fuck outta me.
“Better?” he says.
“Yeah, Daddy.”
His lips hover by my crown, dangerously close to pressing a kiss there. I’m not even scared he will. He’s already proven trustworthy. Maybe I thought for a minute he wasn’t, but itturned out not to be true. In fact, I’m the idiot. I cared about having his attention a little too much. Was it just a vulnerability thing like he said? Or something else? I’m shelving that to unpack later as well. Right now, I just want to feel. Follow his instructions wherever they lead, whether it’s reward or punishment.
“Alright, hands on the desk, McKinnon.”
My hands are on the—oh. They’re around him. Didn’t notice I’d wrapped myself around him like a fucking baby koala, um, if a baby koala was the size of a black bear like I am. Before I can ask why he wants them on the desk, he’s removing my shower shoes, arranging my thighs, gripping under the hamstrings, and planting my bare feet on the desk. The towel breaks open, exposing my leaking dick. It’s a good thing I’m flexible with these fucking positions he wants me in, but fucking hell, the way I’m on display for him…
“Daddy’s decided he wants to suck your cock.”
“P-Please.” I’m not above begging.
A rough finger toys with my hole. “But we’re gonna have a conversation first.”
“N-Not fair. How’m I …ahh … supposed to—fuck! How am I supposed to talk, Daddy?” I’ve said it before, that finger, it’s so, soooo, fucking good. It’s all scraped up like sandpaper. The gentle way he toys with the sensitive skin around my hole sets off an ache in my desperate cock.
“Find a way or I stop.” Evil bastard. I nod, which is cheating because it’s not real talking, but I’m all about the loopholes. “Does Coach define fighting in the locker room with teammates as naughty?”
Not in those words, but he hates it. He says fights should be on the ice with the other team. Those fights he’s all about. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Then why should I suck your cock?”
Is this a test? See how far my willpower goes before I break? But let’s see if I can’t test his as well.
“Because I’m pretty, Daddy.”
