Page 38 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

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I wonder if it’ll happen now. Will he fuck me?

It might be good to let him fuck me now.

I’m sure there’ll be blood, and if we do it in the shower we won’t make such a mess.

I’d honestly thought he was just going to shove himself inside right there in the living .

Part of me hoped he would so I could be spared the embarrassing confession that I’ve never had sex before.

Boys were distractions from my goal and whatever sexual tension I typically had I used as fuel to make me a better athlete.

I didn’t feel this way about anyone else.

None of my father’s prospects for me came close to eliciting this reaction.

Teenage fingers did little to break my hymen in the past and the few times it’d happened with Bradford had been so lackluster I’d barely come.

It felt nothing like it had in the living room, and once again I’m reminded Lucien has hardly even touched me.

A palm to the head and a smack to the ass and I was coming harder than I ever have in my entire life.

A small part of me screams to quit while I’m ahead. Turn the fuck back.

Letting him fuck me will just imprint him further into my mind. It will tie our souls in a way I’ll never be able to untangle. Who in their right mind would bear that torment knowing it would all be in vain? I’d never be allowed to be with him.

Even if I wasn’t leaving, my dad would never accept someone like Lucien.

In all fairness, I don’t know any sane parent who would accept him, but even if by some miracle my dad did, what chance would we ever have?

He’s a champion hockey player bound to go to the NHL and I’m a disgraced figure skater lined up to work for my dad’s business as his legacy until the day I marry and produce my own heir.

Lucien would be expected to bow and kiss the ring if he ever wanted to be a part of my family.

But after everything I’ve seen, I know one thing for sure, Lucien bows to no one.

Our futures are all but written in stone.

So I should stop this before it goes too far, right?

But then again . . .

A Sinclair doesn’t quit.

The water is warm when I step a shaky foot onto the tile and then the other. I sense his presence the whole time, like a ghost I only know exists because I can hear the soft thud of his clothes falling to the floor, but I don’t turn around. I wait. I’m shivering even as the water grows warmer.

It’s like he said, the feel of his eyes on me is a physical thing and Lucien’s gaze is like razors slicing into my skin. He wants me to know how he felt all that time I followed him, but I can’t bring myself to be regretful as his stare licks across my body.

After what feels like light years of imperceptible time, I hear the soft cadence of the water break, its trajectory obstructed. I take a deep breath, knowing what I’ll see when I turn around, but also too cowardly to gaze upon it.

Lucien is next-level hot with his clothes on , a wet dream for those of us with the particular penchant for dangerous men, but without the barrier of clothing, well, he might just be too dangerous for consumption.

Come on, Sydney, there’s no such thing as obstacles for a Sinclair. You want him to fuck you? Then you have to be able to stare at this man’s naked body . . . preferably without passing out.

Pep talk completed, I suck in another lungful of air and spin around. Except the movement is too sudden and I practically slip and die on the floor of my shower before ever getting to marvel at his masterpiece of a cock. I just know it’s as beautiful as the rest of him.

Quick hands whip out to catch me, and before I know it, an eyeful is the least of my worries. Our naked bodies are slick against one another as he smashes my wet body against his.

Oh, my God .

His cock rises between my thighs, hard and prodding.

His abs flex against my torso and ribs. And I can feel his heart beating the strangest staccato rhythm against my breast, like it’s just as insane as the rest of him.

I should move. Bar myself from his hold.

But my eyes can’t stop taking in . . . all of him.

Tattoos adorn the front of his body, fewer than on his back, but still masterful.

The script catches my eyes more than the images this time.

They’re like mosaic secrets to who he is written for those with the honor to see him bare–and an honor it is.

One line in the center of his breastbone catches my eye.

Death is unrivaled, thus so am I .

My fingers brush over the lettering before I even give it conscious thought and his cock jumps up, tapping my pussy in response.

I’m not sure that was with conscious thought either.

I finally peek below his hips. That felt .

. . strange. And not in the ‘first time a dick has been near my vagina’ strange.

It felt foreign. Something metal and cold.

My eyes are deadlocked with the offensive appendage as I stare at his cock, mouth agape.

Sure enough, there are three silver bars speared through his dick.

I whip my gaze to his.

“You-How- Why ?” I stutter.

I look down at it again, horrified.

“Doesn’t that hurt?!” I screech, eying his dick with renewed curiosity.

I know boys are distractions, but I’m not some stuck-up prude who doesn’t know what a dick looks like or that sex—when done right—is supposed to feel good.

I’ve gathered that much in my years of abstinence.

What I don’t get is how putting his robo-dick inside me with all of that going on is supposed to feel good for either of us.

His laugh is stomach-clenching and full, a fact I know because I can see his abs ripple the harder he giggles.

“No, it doesn’t hurt.” His hand wraps around my throat as he drags me closer.

“But when I got the first one, it was so painful.” He rolls his forehead against mine.

“ Fuck, you have no idea. I’m hard just thinking about it.

I had to do it again and it felt just as good. So, I had to get it done a third time.”

“Let me guess, you want another one,” I rasp, because not even being choked will distract me from the fact that his dick has three silver rods pierced through it.

He shrugs.

“Someday, but right now I want something just as satisfying.” He squeezes tight enough to make my eyes bug.

On reflex, I grab his wrist, digging my nails in to abate his grasp.

He leans into me, groaning as he slams me against the shower wall, but I don’t push back.

He holds me there while his eyes take their sweet time roaming every square inch of my exposed skin.

My heart beats faster and my teeth sink into my lower lip.

It was one thing when I couldn’t see him staring at me but now . . .

Lucien shakes his head, releasing some of the pressure from my neck.

“What?” I ask, craving the pressure again. It was grounding. Without it, I’m faced with how bare I am, and for the first time tonight, under Lucien’s gaze, I feel the complete opposite of excessive, I feel inadequate.

“Don’t do that,” he whispers, his words almost lost to the sounds of the running shower.

“Do what?” I ask, though I can guess what he’s thinking.

I figured as much. He doesn’t like what he sees in me as much as I like what I see in him.

These past few months I’ve been a figure in the background of his life, a ghost over his shoulder.

This up close and personal look is bound to come with some disappointments.

I built up the mystique too much and fell short of expectations.

He gives me a pointed look, a crease forming between his thick brows, but he says nothing for a while.

I move to push him off.

“I know what we’re going to play next.” He grins, gripping me again. Shit, did I make him mad?

I try to suck in air, but his grip is so tight, it’s impossible to get enough.

Adrenaline pumps in my veins and the whooshing sound of blood floods my ears.

All the while, my pussy throbs, begging for the attention my throat’s getting.

I squirm in his hold, but it’s not to get free—it’s to create friction.

He recognizes what I’m doing and shoves me back to force me still.

“Nuh uh uh . . . No getting off just yet. We have to finish the game first,” he says.

I groan and he releases the pressure enough for me to speak.

“Okay, fine. What’s next?” I ask with a huff.

“You’ll like this one. It’s called Seven Minutes in Heaven. You remember that, right?”

I nod, confused, but excited.

“Good girl.” He lets my throat go and I suck in air—and water—causing me to cough. My head is loopy and fogged, but my body has never been more relaxed. The thrumming in my pussy grows stronger and I moan a muffled plea in response. I could grow addicted to his praise alone.

Grasping my hand, he wraps my fingers around his throat, granting me permission to squeeze in return. I’m shocked he’d give me this kind of control. Or at least the illusion of it.

My hand squeezes and he grins.

“You have seven minutes to explore my body in whatever way you want,” he says.

I stroke my thumb up and down his Adam’s apple.

“Why only seven minutes?” I ask, though I’m already stealing time, my fingers trailing his nape.

“Because that’s the name of the game.”

Of course, now he’s being practical. I know he knows what I mean. He has to, right?

“I know that, but won’t you . . . you know . . . need more time?”

I’m hoping he doesn’t last only seven minutes. I want to really experience him, not just have some quick fuck in the shower. Seven minutes can’t possibly be enough time for sex, can it?

A dark chuckle vibrates against my fingertips. “Oh, Princess, I’m not going to fuck you.”

I drop my hand, side stepping him to glare at his entirely too beautiful face.

“What?” Jesus, I sound petulant, but his declaration surprises me. “You said—”