Page 24 of Wicked Spite
My hands roam over his toned body, exploring every inch of his skin that I can get my hands on with a hunger that cannot be satiated. But despite the all-consuming desire coursing through my veins, I can’t help but feel a flicker of doubt creep in. He’s holding back.
“Either fuck me, killer, or stop wasting my time,” I challenge him, my voice laced with frustration and determination. My words hang heavily in the air, leaving Penn flabbergasted, and for the first time in his life, genuinely surprised. I don’t believe for a second that this man doesn’t have people throwing themselves at him day and night, so I don’t know why he’s so shocked that I want him to be my distraction tonight.
Penn’s eyes narrow, glinting with a dangerous intensity as he leans down, his lips hovering just above mine. “You can’t handle what I want to do to you,”
His hand slides down my belly and his fingers find my wet pussy, not pausing before he shoves two fingers deep inside me. He pumps his fingers roughly, curling them to hit the perfect spot while pressing his thumb against my clit. I nearly scream at the sensation, my inner walls clenching around him.
“Fuck, Penn,” I pant, my nails digging into his broadshoulders. The pleasure is almost too much to bear. I can feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my belly with each thrust of his fingers.
Penn grips my hair in his free hand and continues to roughly finger my tight cunt, his fingers bend and flexing expertly inside me and pressing all the right buttons to have me coming apart, soaking his fingers. Seemingly coming to a decision, he smirks, pulling his fingers out of me and standing up. I think he’s going to take his clothes off and join me, but instead he licks his fingers, savoring the taste of me on each digit. “Sleep tight, hellfire. And thanks for the panties. I’ll make sure and use them later.” He holds up my panties and tucks them in his pocket before he walks out with a bounce in his step reminiscent of a fucking skip to my Lou cadence.
Chapter 9
Penn
The clock ticks away as I sit alone on the bench in St. Charles University’s locker room, my mind a fucking mess. It’s Saturday afternoon, and the last game of the season against St. James University is about to begin. Last night’s memories are branded into my brain, and I can’t help but think about how I didn’t fuck Reagan.
I was so close; it was right there in my grasp, and I was ready for it. Would have been so fucking easy, but I need to not be sex-whipped. I see what it does to my brothers, and they count on me to clean up our messes. To tie up any and all loose ends and Reagan is a loose end. Sticking my dick in any of her holes is a bad fucking idea, but fuck did I want to. I need to think with my head and not the one swinging between my legs.
My brothers and teammates have already left, their impatient shouts and laughter now only a faint memory. I need to get myself into the zone, focus on the game, but all I see when I close my eyes is Reagan—that cocky smirk, her golden eyes daring me to snap.
I force my thoughts back to the game. I strap on my helmet, feeling the cold metal press against my fingertips as I make sure it’s on good. The scent of my pads and damp grass fills my nostrils, grounding me.
My cleats clatter against the floor as I head to the tunnel.
“About time, man,” Jeremiah grumbles as I step out. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, impatience written all over his face.
“Had to get my head right,” I reply, flashing him a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Better be worth it,” he bites back, but there’s an edge to his voice. We both know what’s really going on. What’s really eating at me. But he won’t say it. Not here. Not now.
I shake my head before pushing past my brother. My mind’s already drifting back to Reagan. I push it down, bury it deep. Not now. Later. After we win. After I’ve shown everyone what I can do.
“Game time,” I declare to the guys surrounding me, stepping forward, leading the way out. The roar of the crowd hits us like a wave, and I let it drown out everything else. For now, it’s just me, the field, and the game. Everything else can wait. Everything else will have to wait.
As I run out, the noise crescendos. The world narrows to a point. And somewhere in the back of my mind, a plan starts to form. A plan for Reagan. But that’s for later. Right now, it’s all about the win.
The band blares our fight song through the stadium, a wave of sound crashing over me. My cleats dig into the turf as we sprint out into the middle of the field, adrenaline pumping hot and fast. The sounds of the crowd are deafening. As usual, I scan the area just out of habit more than anything else.
My gaze lands on the players on the bench before drifting upward and that’s when I see my goddamn Achilles’ heel. Why the fuck is Reagan St. Pierre at a football game? Literally feels like the last place she would be.
She looks like fucking sin, even in her baggy ass hoodie. Her long dark hair cascades down her shoulders, and the black beanie on her fucking head is making me want to paint it with my cum. She sees me, and for a heartbeat, there’s something almost vulnerable in her gaze before it disappears behind that smirk she gives me too damn much.
I look to the right and the left to see who the fuck she’s here with. Guy or girl, I don’t care. No one is getting cozy to my little hellfire.
It’s when I finally zero in on the left of her that I see the empty chair beside her, a gleaming plaque catching the sunlight: ‘Thomas Harris’. Shit, of course. The legendary coach who turned St. James into a football powerhouse. Eight straight championships in the nineties. The pieces click together in my head, faster than I can process them.
I feel the knot in my stomach tighten. Sophia Harris was John St. Pierre’s wife. Which makes Reagan…football royalty. Fan-fucking-tastic. Just what I needed.
“Hey, wildcard!” Coach’s voice pulls me back to reality. “You ready to play fucking football or what?”
“Always,” I snap, though my mind’s still half with Reagan. “Let’s make ‘em regret ever stepping on this field.”
“That’s the spirit,” he laughs, clapping me on the back.
“Let’s go, boys!” I shout, leading the charge.
Our huddle breaks, and the roar of the crowd crashes over us like a tidal wave. The scoreboard glares down—44 - 44, with only four seconds left on the clock. The fucking irony is not lost on me. All these goddamn fours in my face and the score matching my fucking jersey number. The Spartans need this touchdown like they need air.
