Page 111 of Bleacher Report
"Don't you dare," I whisper.
He lets out a sound that’s half groan, half growl, grabbing my thighs and lifting me against the wall with a roughness that sends my pulse skyrocketing.
I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively, feeling the hard, thick ridge of him grinding against me.
It steals another whimper from my throat.
His hand cups the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the side of my throat as his eyes lock on mine.
"I need you," he breathes, voice cracking on the edge of it. "I need you so fucking bad, Peyton. I did it all for you—Jesse, the PT, the movie nights, Sproutacus...every single moment. Because for once in my life, I want to be the kind of man who deserves you."
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, but they’re swallowed by the desperate slide of his hand between us, his fingers sliding the thin layer of my cotton panties to the side. The air hits my bare skin, cold and shocking, but he’s already there, touching me, stroking me, coaxing me to open for him.
"Please," I gasp, my hips rolling against his hand.
"Fuck," he mutters, leaning his forehead into my shoulder. "You’re already soaking wet. So responsive for me, aren’t you?"
My legs are already beginning to shake, my body desperate for the deep, thick penetration that only he can deliver.
He slides his finger back out of my panties and slides his boxer briefs down with one hand. His hard cock bobs under me.
"Condom?" he pants, looking down at the rubber mat floor of the locker room for his pants.
"I'm on birth control," I whisper, the words shaking free. "I want to feel you, Hunter. Nothing between us. I want all of you."
His hand trembles as he guides himself to my entrance.
"Are you sure?"
I nod fiercely, digging my nails into his shoulders. "I’m sure."
And then he thrusts into me in one deep, slow slide, and the world tilts off its axis.
I cry out, the stretch, the pressure, the overwhelming fullness of him stealing my breath, making my toes curl, suspended behind him.
He groans something filthy into my neck—something about how tight I am, how good I feel—how he sees stars every time he enters me, but it blurs around the sound of my own heavy panting.
He pulls out slowly, then drives back in, each motion grinding my back against the locker room wall, each thrust shoving the air from my lungs. But I wouldn't want it any other way. Being taken by Hunter Reed is rough, and careful, and protective…and completely addicting.
"I’ve wanted you like this since the first time you smarted off to me at the charity event," he grits out, fucking me harder now, his hands braced on the wall by my head. "Since the second you told me I was an asshole."
I gasp out a broken laugh, my body already climbing too fast, too high.
"Maybe...I like assholes," I manage to gasp.
He huffs a low laugh, then buries himself deeper inside me, making me sob.
"Then you’re in luck because I’m just your type," he growls against my ear.
I’m going to come undone on a damn locker room wall, and I wouldn’t change a single second of it.
I’m close.
So close.
Every nerve ending screams for release as he drives into me harder, rougher, his hands grabbing at my hips, anchoring me to him.
"Is this your fantasy? Taking you against the wall of the locker room?” he asks.
