Page 23 of Blitz
“Trick—”
“No. You don’t get to call me that right now.” He flinched. Just a little. But I saw it. “I should’ve walked away the first day I met you.” I was breathing hard. My fists were clenched at my sides, and I didn’t know if I wanted to hit something or collapse.
He nodded once. Only once. “If that’s what you want,” he said. No anger. No begging. Simply quiet devastation.
And I hated him for making me feel like the villain in my own story.
I spun around abruptly, determined to leave, but each step grew heavier with doubt. My throat tightened with every stride, a lump forming that I couldn’t swallow. My hands trembled at my sides, and the backs of my eyes burned hot. I didn’t cry—not ever—but for one terrifying second, I thought I might. I didn’t understand the mess in my chest—grief, fury, need. It made no sense. Nothing did. Not the anger, not the way I wanted to run, or the ache that told me to turn back. I didn’t know how to feel this, and that scared me more than anything else. My feet faltered because it wasn’t only him I was leaving behind. It was everything I wanted but couldn’t have. In a whirlwind of emotions, I turned on my heel and headed back to the house,stormed past him, down the short drive, and into his house through the open door, with him trailing closely behind.
“Cole?” His use of my given name grated on me, igniting a firestorm of frustration. It didn’t matter that I’d told him not to call me Trick, but Cole wasn’t me.
He shut the front door and leaned there, uncertain. I stalked up to him and jabbed him sharply. “My name is Trick!”
He furrowed his brow, confused. “But you just said?—”
My hand meant to jab at him again but, instead, curled into the fabric of his shirt as I yanked him toward me. Our lips collided, my anger changing into something else. Something I’d been fighting since I first saw him standing at the practice facility on day one, looking at me as if I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. The clash of teeth and tongue was everything I couldn’t articulate with words. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as our kiss deepened.
Surprised by my sudden shift, he stiffened momentarily, then hands found my waist. Heat blazed through me, scorching away every doubt. His grip tightened, fingers digging into my hips as if he was afraid I might disappear. I couldn’t blame him. Five minutes ago, I’d been walking away. I felt the hard press of the door at my back as he reversed our positions in one fluid motion. The world narrowed to the hot slide of his mouth over mine, the slight rasp of stubble rubbing my chin. I couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to.
When we finally broke apart, both panting, his eyes were dark and questioning. I could practically hear the thoughts racing through his head—what did this mean? Where were we going? Why now? These were questions I didn’t have answers for—not yet.
“Trick,” he whispered.
I stepped back, needing space to breathe. “It means nothing. It’s just sex!”
His eyes flashed with something like hurt before his face hardened, and he stepped closer, not touching me, but close enough that I could feel heat radiating from his body. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared of anything,” I lied, the practiced response automatic.
His laugh was soft, without humor. “That’s the biggest lie you’ve told yet, Trick. You’re terrified.”
“This means nothing.” I shoved him back and turned the tables as he stumbled back into the wall, and it was me running the show, his head thumping into the drywall. I pressed my forearm across his chest, holding him there while I searched his face. I expected anger, maybe even disgust, but what I found was worse—understanding, as if he could see right through me.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I growled.
“Like what?” he asked, not fighting my hold.
“Like you know me.” I shoved him again, pushed my leg between his thighs, ground against him, and felt a jolt of satisfaction when his hard cock brushed mine and his breath hitched. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“I know enough,” he said, voice rough. His hands came up to grip my hips, not pushing me away, but holding me there.
I kissed him again to shut him up, harder this time, biting his lower lip until he groaned. I didn’t want his insights or his compassion. I didn’t want gentleness or kind words. I wanted the mindless rush, the physical release to let me forget everything else. His hands slid under my shirt, hot against my skin, and I arched into the touch despite myself.
Just once.
We didn’t leave the hall; my need was too urgent. I tore at his clothes, buttons scattering across the hardwood floor as I ripped his shirt open. His hands were frantic, yanking my jersey over my head and messing up my hair. I didn’t care. All I cared aboutwas the feeling of skin on skin, the way his muscles tensed under my fingertips.
He stumbled, his back hitting the stairs as I pushed him down, and we collided in a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. I followed, straddling him on the steps, the edge digging into my knees. The discomfort was nothing compared to the fire burning through my veins. His mouth found my neck, teeth scraping over my pulse point, and I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped me.
“I hate you,” I gasped, even as my body contradicted every word. “I hate what you do to me.”
“Trick, no,” he murmured across my skin, his voice rough with desire.
I silenced him with another bruising kiss, and I ground down into his erection, reveling in the groan that rumbled through his chest.
My hands fumbled with his belt, desperate to feel more of him. His fingers were urgent, sliding beneath the waistband of my shorts. When his palm pressed against me, I nearly came undone right there on the stairs.
“Bedroom,” he managed between kisses, trying to stand.
