Page 46 of Wicked Spite
Her body tenses against mine, her breaths coming faster now.
“Shut up,” she manages to hiss, but it lacks conviction.
“And then came all over me,” I continue, unrelenting. “So fucking pretty when you let go like that.”
“Psycho,” she whispers, a warning and a plea all rolled into one.
“But the best part?” I tighten my hold on her hair and pull back just enough to look into her dazed eyes. “Watching you while I used your cum to get myself off.”
I can practically see the conflict raging inside her, but it only adds fuel to the fire burning in my chest. I can’t help but smirk as I lean in closer, my breath mingling with hers.
“God, you should’ve seen yourself,” I say, my voice rough with desire. “So, fucking desperate. And me? Covered in your slickness, pumping myself to your flushed, pliant body…nothing has ever felt so goddamn right.”
Her nostrils flare, and her teeth grit together as if she’s trying to bite back whatever retort is on the tip of her tongue.
Without giving her a moment to think—or fight back—I grab her chin and force her mouth to mine. It’s not gentle or sweet; it’s raw and consuming. I feel her resistance for a split second before she retaliates by sinking her teeth into my lip. Pain shoots through me, sharp and immediate, as the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
I pull back just enough to catch my breath, panting slightly as I stare down at her. She looks defiant and triumphant, blood smearing across her lips where they touched mine.
“Fuck,” I whisper, grinning like a madman despite the throbbing pain in my lip. I feel the blood coating my teeth and lips as I laugh softly. “You know I fucking love when you bite me.”
She shoves at my chest, and I let her slip out of my hold. Reagan steps back, her eyes narrowing as she tries to collect her wits. Her chest rises and falls with each ragged breath, theadrenaline still coursing through her veins, making her pulse visibly throb at her throat. Clad in my jersey, she looks every bit as wild and untamed as ever.
I take a step back myself, giving her some space. “You look fucking good in my colors.”
Reagan wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing my blood even more.
She huffs, rolling her eyes as she turns away toward where the girls are, but not before I catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Whatever,” she mutters.
“Oakley, Iris,” I acknowledge my brothers’ respective girls, scanning the two of them with a quick glance. They’re standing by the entrance to the stadium. “Ramsey, you’re on escort duty.”
“Got it,” Ramsey responds, his tone clipped and efficient. He’s already moving toward them, his dark hair falling messily over one eye.
“Make sure they get good seats,” I add, my voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous register. “And for fuck’s sake keep an eye on them. All goddamn three of them are danger magnets.”
“Understood.” Ramsey’s eyes flicker, but he nods, leading the girls away.
“Good luck, pennywise,” Oakley calls back, her voice soft.
“I knew you liked me better than Jerry, lil Ashford,” I reply, watching as they disappear into the throng of people streaming into the stadium.
The air is thick with anticipation, the smell of popcorn and sweat mingling in a cloud that hovers above the crowd. I walk back into the locker room and see my brothers waiting for me.
“Alright, dickheads,” I say, turning to Lincoln and Jeremiah. “Let’s win this fucking shit so I can add a ring to my fucking fingers.”
Lincoln cracks his knuckles. Jeremiah just nods, his eyes going cold and calculating. I look around for Graham, but figure he’s already out there.
We jog onto the field, the roar of the crowd hitting us like a wall of sound. It vibrates through me. This game, like everything else in my life, is just another place where I can prove myself and I have every intention of coming out on top. This is where I belong—under the lights, in the center of it all.
“Wildcard!” Coach yells from the sidelines. I nod my head and take my position. The cold of January not bothering me one fucking bit.
“Blue 42! Blue 42! Set, hut!” The ball snaps back, and I’m off, muscles coiled and ready. Everything sharpens—the colors of the jerseys, the flash of helmets, the pounding rhythm of feet slamming into the turf.
“Go, go, go!” I shout to hype myself up, dodging a defender with a quick sidestep. My eyes scan the field, locking onto my quarterback. With a flick of his wrist, the ball soars through the air, spiraling perfectly into Coleman’s waiting hands. Touchdown.
The crowd erupts, their cheers merging into one deafening roar. I can feel their eyes on me, the admiration, the desire, the envy. I thrive on it, let it fuel me, let it feed the hunger that gnaws at my insides.
“Nice throw,” Jeremiah mutters to Linc as we jog back to the huddle.
