Page 91 of Off-Ice Misconduct
Princess crosses his arms. “You need to get Coach off my ass.”
I lift a brow.
“He kicked my fucking ass today. I did drills until I puked and then did some more. He wants me to end things with you.”
I don’t mean to smile, but I smile. I’m not worried about Tate.
“You fucking sadist. You like my pain.”
Only the physical kind. The rest? That’s mine to manage, not Tate’s. If he keeps fucking with McKinnon’s head, I’m going to have to pull my brother into the boxing ring for a chat.
“C’mere, princess,” I say in a rough voice because, yes, the idea of him being punished via death by hockey drills gets my dick hard. He approaches, but he’s morphed from “big, scary hockey player” into “terrified mouse”. As soon as he’s close, I snag him with a hand to his low back, wrenching his neck open with the other, sucking on his pulse point. Unlike the other day when I could only lick and tease it, this time I can leave a fat purple hickey.
He takes what I give him, pulling in a shaky breath loaded with arousal. “F-Fuck.”
“Are you gonna leak for me, puck bunny?”
I know how others use that term, but, for me, it’s because he’s my prey who happens to play hockey. If it’s humiliating for him, good, it’ll turn him on more. And all he can do is leak for me helplessly, because he’s not allowed to come.
“Yes, Daddy,” he breathes into my ear. “Please. I wanna … wanna be good for you.”
Shoving my hand down his damp boxers, I squeeze a handful of his ass. “Mine, this is mine.”
“All fucking yours.”
I know he came here to yell at me, but he’s the one who walked into a lion’s den. He’s a lot smarter than his grades say he is, so he’ll know that. I shove his jacket off, letting it hit the floor. A pretty little birdie told me via text message that his test results came back clear, and since I already knew I was, I’ve been dying to do something to him. I drag him up the stairs to my bedroom and push him onto the bed.
“Clothes off,” I demand.
He’s quick to shed his t-shirt and boxers, revealing his one helluva body. We’re a month into the regular hockey seasonnow, and all the training and games have further sculpted his body. I swear his ass is bigger, rounder.
“You’re gonna pay for coming by my house like a fucking brat,” I promise.
“Oh, c’mon. I’m not tempting at all?” he says, splaying himself on my bed like he’s posing for a hockey calendar, his large thighs crossed at the ankle, hard cock leaking against his stomach. “Kinda seems like you can’t keep your hands off of me.”
“I’m tempted, alright. Tempted to send your cocky ass packing after I’ve spanked it.” But I’m tearing off my clothes as if they’re burning me. I want them off, I wanna rub my skin against his.
“Wait, are you getting naked, too?” His eyes are glued to my every movement. “None of this feels like a punishment, just sayin’.”
“Believe me, it will.”
I let him watch, slowing down a bit once I’ve got my top off, unbuckling my belt with a snap of the leather for some flare, taking off my black jeans first and then my boxer briefs, rather than shucking them off at the same time. He sits up when my naked form steps toward the bed, and I slot between his legs, his hands slide up my thighs, stopping when they get to my bare ass.
“You’re so big and I don’t just mean your cock. Everything about you. I’ve never seen so many muscles on one person. Still don’t know where you find clothes that fit you.”
Gazing down, I rub my thumb over his forbidden lips again. “Time to make you pay for your brattitude. Ass in the air.”
His mouth drops. “Are you gonna…?”
“Fuck your ass? Nope.”
Ace’s gorgeous pout takes over his face as he huffily gets into place on his knees, lowering his chest to the bed so his ass sticks way up. When he spreads his knees apart, I get a glimpse of his heavy, dangling balls. They fall just below his crease, and I haveto reach out for a squeeze. They’re wrinkled against my finger pads.
Seeing him like this, I can’t fathom why I’m bothering with this two-week thing. Maybe there’s a small part of me that believes he’ll be gone after that. He’s made it clear from the beginning that this is an exploration for him—he’s the toppy-type, he does the owning. His foray into being “the owned” is new.
It’s not new for me. When I was his age, I explored too, figuring out what I like and don’t. I was made for owning a body—gender doesn’t matter. I dominate.
I smack his ass just to leave a handprint there.
