Page 36 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

fourteen

T he knob turns, and the door gives way. I move to close the space between us, ready to wrap her up and steal her breath, but then . . . her phone rings.

Sydney’s pupils widen, and before I know it, she’s turning her back to me, answering it before the first ring is even finished. It’s a move that suggests she was expecting the call, but leaves me feeling somewhat rejected all the same.

“Hey, Dad. Yeah, I just walked in the door,” she says.

She peeks over her shoulder to me, ushering me in and gesturing for me to be quiet.

I shake my head, amused by her frantic shushing, but ultimately listen. This time. After all—if even briefly— she surrendered, and invited me in. Okay ‘invite’ might be a generous word but I’m inside and that’s all that matters right now.

Quickly adjusting my hard-on I scout my surroundings, looking around the lavish apartment.

The shined parquet flooring and floor-to-ceiling windows are immediately some of my favorite features.

The ten-foot ceilings are impressive, and the gourmet kitchen is huge.

A bit overkill for one person, but she did say she was a Sinclair, so I suppose it shouldn’t be too surprising.

“Well, there was a hockey game tonight, so it was a lot more crowded than usual,” I hear Sydney say as she toes off her shoes and disappears down the hallway. I do the same, pulling my shoes off and leaving them at the entrance with her bags.

“Well, you know I had to walk,” she says into the phone.

My ears perk at the sound of her lying again, but I do my best to ignore it. I don’t follow the Sinclairs closely, but I’m aware of the wealth and notoriety they’ve acquired in recent years, though none of it is any good. They’re worse than the Andersons, if rumors are true.

“I also had to carry my bags,” she argues.

I note the magnitude of everything she has, from the massive bookshelf to the large sectional and gigantic island.

“It’s a little over a mile’s walk uphill, Dad.” Her voice raises a bit to make the point.

Her apartment is grand and spacious, but there’s also a coziness to it. I can feel her presence everywhere, see the little personal touches that give me more insight into who she really is.

“Yeah, no, yes, I understand. Okay, I’ll be ready.” Sydney continues scuffling about as she finishes up her call, attempting to stress clean by the looks of it. Leaning against the kitchen island, I watch her.

“I promise,” she states.

“I love—” Her words cut short and her eyes close for a few seconds longer than a blink.

She lets out a defeated sigh. “Sorry about that,” she says, finally addressing me.

“You changing apartments?” I ask, motioning a finger to the wall of moving boxes. The only thing unsightly among all the grandeur.

Her tiny neck bobs as she swallows. “Um, yeah. That’s why I didn’t want you coming up. It’s a mess in here.” She looks away, trying to shuffle some paper together on the island.

“You think I care about a little mess?” I tease. Her eyes roll when they cut to me, but she totally picks up on the double meaning.

I rest my back against the counter top, waiting for her to call me out on the joke but she doesn’t.

Instead she wrings her fingers, her discomfort evident with the fact that I’m here.

In her private space. It’s a bit ironic, but I won’t bother dwelling on it.

Soon I’ll have her in all the private places, maybe the public ones too.

My new toy seriously fucked up the day she decided to stalk someone like me.

But it’s like they say, good things come to those who wait.

And I’ve waited a long time for a playmate like her.

No longer able to take the awkward standoff between us, she points to my folded arms. “You should let me take a look at that.”

I look to where she’s pointing and note that I never did wrap my knuckles from the altercation earlier.

I was so busy marking her, it hadn’t occurred to me again to wrap them.

The skin around my knuckles is even more bludgeoned now that I’d been in another fight less than two hours after the first one.

That might be a new record. I typically avoid damaging my hands so much because of hockey, but since I was facing suspension, letting off more steam than I’m typically afforded seemed more than worth it. That’d come back to bite me for sure, but it was the least of my concerns now.

As it stands, my concerns lie solely in how quickly I can get my little stalker to take her clothes off. She’s seen me stripped of all my protections and now it's my turn to have her just as exposed. I want to see the real Sydney Sinclair. Up close and in high definition.

I hold my hand out and flex it, proving to her I’m fine, but she shakes her head, turning away to reach above in her kitchen cabinet.

She’s a little taller than most other girls I’ve met, but she’s still shorter than me and unable to easily reach the top shelf.

When she arches to her tiptoes, I get a full view of her calves flexing.

It takes everything in me not to jump over the island and bend her over.

I never thought calves would be what did it for me, but I’ve never been so aroused.

I clench the edge of the marble top, forcing myself to wait it out.

It’ll be so much better once she’s begging me to fuck her.

“I don’t have anything as fancy as gauze or medical tape, but I can at least clean it for you,” she says sheepishly, holding a bottle of antiseptic and a bag of cotton balls in her hand.

She’s already admitted I still scare her, and her request seems genuine, not a flagrant order like she made when she’d told me to stay in the car.

So, I relent and step closer into the kitchen, purposely standing too close while I hold out my hand.

She takes it shakily, blowing out controlled breaths as she rests my palm in hers.

She avoids eye contact, choosing instead to fixate on our hands.

“You should be more careful. You could have hurt yourself,” she admonishes.

Her warm hands are gentle when she swipes the wet cotton ball against my skin.

“They started it,” I retort, relishing in the sting and yearning for more of her touch already. Even if it burns. Even if it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

“Didn’t mean you had to finish it,” she grumbles. “You could have scared them off.”

My brows furrow, confused by her outlandish suggestion.

“You’d rather I let them go?” I grit.

The question is more accusing than I intended. Her thumb swipes over my hand in the briefest caress, though her focus remains trained on her task.

“I’d rather we kept kissing,” she says softly, dabbing at a particularly bloody cut. She clears her throat, attempting to cover her slip up. “A few of these are going to scar.”

The antiseptic burns, but I don’t move a muscle, lest I risk her moving.

“They insulted you,” I tell her, refusing to let her brush this off.

I can see her brows raise before she sighs, “It doesn’t matter.”

Her tone is somber, quiet. I half-expect her to finish that ridiculous sentiment with something stupid like ‘violence is never the answer,’ which is in stark contrast to everything she’d said in her messages.

I balk.

“Like hell it doesn’t. They deserved what they got,” I argue.

The tight corner of her lips curve into a smile, but she lets it fall away.

It wrecks me, dawning on me too late this might be a really bad idea.

The things I have planned for her might be too much, and whatever persona @BladeSpinner was, is a figment of my imagination.

But then she’s laughing again, stopping abruptly, then starting up again like a weird stuttering engine that can’t decide if it wants to turn on or not.

“What’s so funny?” I ask, not entirely sure what’s happening right now.

“Nothing,” she says, suppressing another giggle before she even gets the word out. “It’s just, this is really fucked. I mean right? This is . . . this is so fucked.”

Her laughter is uncontrollable now that she’s done cleaning my knuckles.

“What is?”

“This .” She points between us. “You’re in my house!” The last hour must finally be catching up to her.

“Uhh, yes?”

A bit of a delayed reaction, but okay.

She shakes her head, her laughter subsiding as she blows out a breath. “This is not how I saw my evening going.”

“Really? And how did you think it would go?” I cant my head to the side.

Those soft lips of hers part. “I just mean, by all accounts, you should be furious with me,” she admits, all sense of humor gone as she eyes me curiously.

I take a step closer.

“Who says I’m not?” She drops my hand, and I nudge her back toward the counter until her hips hit the edge.

“Who says I’m not. Who says I didn’t lure you here on purpose and force you to let me in just so I can have my way with you and see how you like to have your privacy violated?

” I taunt, palming the countertop so she can’t get away.

Her beautiful neck rolls with a slow, deep swallow.

“I’m—”

I place a finger to her lips.

“There’ll be plenty of time to show me how sorry you are later,” I say. “You’ll earn my forgiveness like the good girl you are. Won’t you, Princess?”

I give her a wink and lean back, allowing my words to sink in.

I can tell the moment they register because her mouth instantly goes dry as she frantically licks at her lips.

She turns toward the fridge, reaches over my arm, and practically rips the door from its hinges, before guzzling a bottle of Voss water.

The bottle shakes in her hands, her restless energy giving her away. I see Little Stalker for exactly who she is. That’s not fear. No, that’s adrenaline coursing through those veins.

She’s excited.