Page 22 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

A dark, humorless laugh slips past his full kissable lips. “There’s that name again. I always knew one day you’d worship me,” he whispers, as though his godliness is a secret only we share.

“It’s so cold. Please. Let me go,” I cry out.

“I can’t do that. Running away is against the rules and when you break the rules .

. . you get punished.” His hips roll into me once more while soft lips brush against the shell of my ear.

Voice low and serious but still that hint of playfulness in his tone that suggests he would be more than happy if I did break the rules, if only to inflict said punishment.

“What rules? What are you talking about?” I preen, arching my back away from the cold ice as the chill seeps through my clothes.

But he splays his long, thick fingers over my abdomen, shoving me back down, forcing my back flat against the ice as he sits up and straddles me.

He leaves his hand there, his silent warning that I better not move again.

I shiver but work hard to follow his command and stay still.

“To the game, silly. The rules are simple, be a good Little Stalker Princess for me. Can you do that?” He smiles wickedly as he strokes his finger with his free hand down from my lips to my chin, to the crevice of my breasts, down my torso, to my belly button, only stopping when he’s right above my pubic bone where his .

. . oh my God . Every nerve ending fires off at the touch of a single finger. I’m doomed.

“What does that mean ?” I groan, as he lifts my skirt up to my stomach, forcing the exposed bare skin to sit directly on the ice. I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing, but it sounds so good, so deliciously sinful and too good to be true.

I’ve been tempted before by other men, hell, even by Bradford, but Lucien isn’t like any of them.

I want nothing more than to be wrapped around him, pinned beneath him, just as I am now.

It’s unbearable how badly I want him. But I can’t sit here and be teased all night long. I have packing to get done.

He tilts his head, eying me warily.

“It means I finally have something worth playing with, so I need you to be a good toy. No running away and no breaking,” he sing-songs.

A toy. He wants me to be his toy? One that doesn’t break. A fuck toy more like it, but I have to admit that the sick part of my brain that likes his crazy-eyed demeanor—that demented area that wished for this, prayed for it—is shouting at me to be his shiny new toy.

“You want to play with me?” I breathe, my words choked as I try to get the question out.

The air between us is sexually charged and my breathless words do little to hide my own desire. This is not where I saw this going.

“Abso- fucking -lutely, I want to play with you. With your body. Your mind. Your entire fucking nervous system,” he says.

A twisted rollercoaster of emotions circles through me before resignation finally settles in. What’s one quick rendezvous? I’ll be lost like all other toys in the next thirteen hours anyway so . . .

“What do you want to play?” I pant, his heaviness making me breathless.

“A game for keeps. I win, I get to keep you,” he says, pulling at one of the ribbons in my hair until it unties.

“You can’t keep me,” I choke out, trying my hardest to keep the emotion out of my voice.

The ribbon slides between his pinched fingers as he strokes it from tip to end, admiring the length.

It takes me too long to notice what he’s doing, and by the time I do, it’s too late.

He snatches both my wrists and holds them above my head, securing the ribbon around them.

I hiss a breath when he secures the final knot.

“We’ll see about that. Now don’t move,” he instructs.

He squeezes one of my breasts and I gasp, “Hey, what are you doing?”

His eyes flick to mine.

“Taking what I want.”

So, he does want me, at least for now, and maybe that works for me because now is all I have anyway, right? Maybe this is a sign? But is he being serious or is the real game him messing with me?

“You want me?” I ask, somewhat surprised that he’d feel this way.

“So fucking bad.”

“But . . . but we can’t,” I stutter.

“Of course we can. There’s nobody here to stop me, and even if there was, there’s no way I’d ever miss the opportunity to touch you like this.

” He traces the edges of my wrists, dragging down my arm to my elbow then following up to the curve of my neckline before settling below the swell of my breasts.

I yearn to moan, to give in to the want, but I remain vigilant.

“We shouldn’t.”

“We absolutely should.” He grabs my breast again and I have to clear my throat to keep the moans at bay.

“I can’t .”

“There’s no such thing as can’t . Only won’t ,” he challenges.

He arches a brow, waiting on me to make the clarification. “Not in this case.” Normally I’d agree with him. Can’t is not a common word in my vocabulary but in this instance, I can’t. I’ll be in even more trouble with my dad if we’re caught.

Instead, I say, “Someone could see.”

“And I bet that makes you wet just thinking about it,” he taunts.

Fuck, he’s good. Even strung by my own hair ribbon and laid flat against a slab of ice, he has me more aroused than I’ve ever been. I’m burning with lust, the freezing of my back barely registering.

“We could get in trouble,” I insist.

The corner of his mouth tilts in a devious smirk.

“I’m already in trouble, remember?”

He has a point. The same can be said for me. I’m already in trouble. I’m already being forced to leave my dream school, to leave him . I’m already being punished. I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. I’m out of excuses and he knows it.

“Play the fucking game, Sydney,” he urges.

I narrow my eyes.

“What’s my reward if I say yes?” I run my nose up the side of his cheek, stopping at the shell of his ear. “What do I get if I win?”

He seems taken aback, like it should be obvious what I get out of this, but he has no clue what I really want.

More time.

“Orgasms,” he says with a smirk. “Lots and lots of orgasms. I’m going to make you come in ways you didn’t even know you could, and I’m going to hear you scream every time I do. It will be so painful but so, so worth it. How does that sound, Princess?”

I turn to look at him again, the rest of the world falling away when our eyes connect. It sounds too good to be true, but it’s more than I’d expected when I came here. I nod, too fixated on his promises of orgasms and the tingle between my legs to do much else.

“That’s my girl. Keep still,” he warns, but I’m too hung up on the words ‘ my girl’ to heed it.

“Why?” I ask.

Why me?

“Because I need you to be still for this next part,” he answers, avoiding my deeper meaning and distracting me by thumbing my nipple back and forth through the costume material.

It hardens with the additional stimulation to the point of pain.

They were already stiff from the cold, but now they’re sharp points cutting through the fabric.

“No, why are you doing this ?” I press.

Lucien Morrow is wanted and adored by many, but as much as I’m relishing this stolen moment with him, I can’t help but feel somewhat tricked.

Not by him exactly, but by the universe.

Why give me the object of all my desires today, when no matter how bad I want it, it will be stripped from me by sunrise tomorrow?

It’s cruel and unusual punishment to be teased like this.

“Because. I am as obsessed with you as you are with me.” His freakishly golden eyes stare into me, demanding focus and fealty.

They say ‘take what I’m giving you or suffer the consequences.

’ His pelvis grinds into me, showcasing his point and, despite the cold, I melt into him, giving him all that’s left of me.

The version of me that’ll die right alongside this forgotten memory.

He grinds into me again and again and again; growing harder every second.

Maintaining eye contact is becoming difficult, but I can’t look away.

I want to dream of these eyes, even when years have passed, and I’m stuck living a life I never wanted.

I want to remember the time I almost had Lucien Morrow, even if it means he moves on the second I’m gone.

His obsession doesn’t rival mine. I’ll be forgotten the moment he realizes I was no one special, but right now, he’s mine.

“You—don’t even—know me,” I moan as my head lolls back and his hand draws closer to my pussy, smoothing down my torso to between my thighs.

“Sure, I do. You’re my Little Stalker.”

I growl.

“I didn’t stalk you.”

He starts rubbing slow, deliberate circles over my clit. All four fingers are meshed flat and firm over the swollen bud through my costume. I try to bring my legs up, to alleviate the discomfort, but he stops me, his harsh grip on my thighs, ensuring they remain open and exposed to him.

“Yeah, we’re going to have to work on that. Don’t follow dangerous people, Sydney.” He circles harder and my back pushes against his hold to arch. My legs spread wider. “You never know, unassuming prey can easily become the predator.”

My lust-filled eyes still manage to glare at him.

“I didn’t prey on you. I only wanted to see you,” I moan, heat spreading up my middle as his fingers massage my clit.

There’s simultaneously too much separation and not enough as the two ridiculously thin scraps of fabric between my pussy and his hand sweep over my pulsing core with agonizing vigor.