Page 40 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

seventeen

I would have loved to sit and explain all my needs to her, have her fulfill my every wish and command, but that right there is part of the problem.

I can get that anywhere, it’s half the reason puck bunnies exist. That’s not what makes my Little Stalker Princess special.

The thing is I don’t want her to simply fulfill a wish.

I want her to crave it, to need it as desperately and fervently as I do, and so far she’s done more than prove that she does.

I’m convinced we found each other for a reason.

I just need to toughen her up a bit, that’s all.

Increase her endurance maybe.

Test her willingness if you will.

I’d like to know she won’t pass out when I stuff my cock so far down her throat, she chokes on it. I need to know she won’t freak out when I slice open her skin and watch her bleed. I’d prefer it if she didn’t struggle so much to escape when she inevitably does try to run from me.

I’d hate to have to drag her back kicking and screaming.

A grin spreads across my face.

I’m kidding.

Of course I want her kicking and screaming.

Her precious giggles pull me from my thoughts of ruination.

“Are you going to walk around here naked the whole time?” She teases as we walk out of the bathroom and into her bedroom.

“Are you going to remain covered the whole time?” I retort, yanking her towel away.

She gasps, slapping an arm over her tits as she glowers at me. “Give. It. Back!” she growls. I dangle the towel just out of her reach above her head.

“Why? It’s not like I didn’t just spend the last fifteen minutes in the shower with you naked ,” I tease.

Her cheeks burn the prettiest shade as she holds up her full chest and stares down at her baby blue rug. I love that it’s blue like her eyes.

“I mean, yeah, I get that, but . . .” Her shoulder lifts in a half-ass shrug, “it’s different.”

I hum, tearing her arm away from her chest before licking my lips.

“Different how?” I ask.

“Because . . .” she tries to cover them again and even one-handed, I manage to block her. “I don’t know. I feel exposed .”

She looks around for something else to use as cover, her nipples pebbled from the cold. She’s still damp, unable to fully dry herself without the towel in my hand.

I drop her towel, and she eagerly bends to pick it up, her eyes rolling in defiance as she does.

I take the opportunity and lunge for her, picking her up with her bare pussy pressed against my abdomen.

Her legs automatically wrap around me. She’s feather-light but her toned thighs grip me with the strength of an anaconda. I bet her pussy would too.

“I like you exposed, and I’m going to keep peeling back those layers of yours until I reach that ooey, gooey, center,” I tell her.

Her nose scrunches up, the wrinkles along her bridge fucking adorable.

“Oh my God, please don’t refer to my pussy as ‘ ooey gooey ,’” she whines.

“I was referring to your heart, but, yeah, sure, let’s go with your pussy.” I laugh, her body bouncing in my hold as I do, and she joins me.

“Yeah right, you’re totally messing with me,” she giggles as I turn to walk us past the bed toward her seating area.

We came through the hallway entrance of the bathroom earlier, so I hadn’t seen her room before now.

It’s a massive space for one girl with pops of blue and a monochromatic cream bedspread that screams luxury.

But that’s not what catches my attention.

It’s what’s on the bed. Perched on the fluffy duvet sits a towel folded in the shape of an elephant. I laugh so hard she jostles.

Her arms tighten around my neck and it only drives me to laugh harder.

“Do you seriously think I’m going to drop you?” I ask.

Her laughter wanes and her expression grows more solemn. The shift in demeanor twists at my insides and I don’t like the look in her eyes. I bump her chin up with my knuckle, urging her to look at me. And when she does, I’m gutted.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she murmurs.

My arms wrap tighter around her, a little nervous of what will happen if I let her go.

I sit us down in the large reading chair stationed in the corner of her room. Doing my best to shield my dick, I adjust it out of the way.

“Talk to me,” I say.

She snorts derisively, brushing off my attempt at a real conversation.

“Is this a part of the game?” she jeers.

I draw her closer to me, her knees caging me in.

“Name one game where people don’t talk to each other,” I challenge.

She meets my challenge, easily rattling off a name.

“Seven-up.”

Okay, was not expecting that.

“Name two games where people don’t talk to each other.”

She doesn’t miss a beat.

“Charades and . . .” her finger taps at her cupid’s bow, “Red Light/Green Light.”

“Doesn’t count. People talk in Red Light/Green Light,” I retort.

“ One person talks,” she explains, holding up a finger.

“But there’s no rule that explicitly states you can’t talk,” I argue.

“Fine,” she relents. “Four Corners.” She smirks, knowing she’s beaten me.

Note to self: don’t play trivia games against Sydney.

I’m tempted to poke further holes in her logic, but I settle with letting her win this round.

I swat her ass for being a smart aleck and she’s a fit of giggles, squirming against me to get off my lap.

“You bring that pretty ass back here,” I growl, playfully holding her to me. Her sounds of laughter are just as sweet as her sounds of pleasure.

I tilt her chin toward me, forcing eye contact again. “Sydney, I want to talk to you. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m a great conversationalist. So just open up,” I spread her legs wider, drawing her closer to me. “And let. Me. In.”

She shoots me a droll expression for the double entendre, and I withhold my grin.

My thumbs rub soft circles into her hips, my palms still cupping her ass. At first, I worry I’m distracting her, but she calms, settling deeper into my lap.

Sighing, she looks away from me, her face cast down, tracing the outline of the tattoo on my ribs before finally taking another deep breath and revealing her ooey gooey center to me.

“I’ve wanted nothing more than to talk to you since the first day I saw you,” she admits.

“So why didn’t you?”

She shrugs, muttering, “You were busy, so I had to find the right time.”

I nod, urging her to continue because there’s no way she’s just leaving it at that.

“I memorized your practice schedule so I could determine when you would typically do your private practice drills, but then I figured that doesn’t really solve the problem of you being busy, so I had to catch you outside the arena. But that required learning your class schedule.”

“Naturally,” I deadpan, and she throws me a knowing glare.

“As you’re well aware by now, we don’t share any classes together.

So, I had to determine what you did between classes.

Then, I realized even if I could catch you, what would we even talk about?

Outside of the fact we both skate on manufactured sheets of ice, we wouldn’t have anything in common.

So . . . I had to learn what you liked. What you didn’t like.

But then . . .” she pauses, taking a moment so long I think she’s going to remain quiet.

“But then, what?” I push, loving every word of how her little obsession grew so out of control.

Her eyes flit back down to my tattoos before scrunching her brows in that adorable way when she’s thinking too hard.

I want to rake my tongue over the bundled skin and lick it smooth, but I refrain.

I do want to talk to her, and putting my tongue on her again would surely distract from our conversation.

“But then I couldn’t stop . I couldn’t stop learning more. I couldn’t stop following you. I couldn’t stop watching you. I couldn’t stop . . . wanting you,” she admits.

“And the messages?” I ask.

She winces and shifts her weight. “I swear I was going to tell you who I was, but it became kinda fun watching you squirm. I liked the anonymity, it felt like I could be anybody. Somebody with control over her life, but more importantly . . . it felt like I could be myself.” Her gaze leaves my chest to rest on my lips then finally my eyes.

“Telling you would have ruined that. You’d have taken one look at me and seen another fake copy of a pretty girl. ”

She’s not entirely wrong, it’s possible I’ve walked right past her on campus and didn’t give her a second glance.

“Mm hmm. And the gifts?” I raise a brow, knowing she doesn’t really have a great excuse for that one.

“It’s my love language?” she offers with a half-hearted shrug, her voice an octave higher than usual.

I huff a laugh. “So, you’re in love with me?”

“No,” she snaps, eyes panicked. “I didn’t say that.

I’m just saying it’s all I really know in terms of showcasing affection.

I . . . I don’t know any other way.” She looks away bashfully.

Oh she’s totally in love with me. “As for the nature of the gifts . . .” she clears her throat, nervously tapping her index fingers together, “ some people like shiny things, some people like things with a common theme, like collectibles and such. I like . . . ugly things.”

“Ugly things?” I repeat.

“Little, creepy, handmade things. It’s a bit hard to explain.” She huffs, pressing her fingers to her forehead.

“Try,” I push, amused that she’s somehow managing to justify the headless gingerbread man she made me that one time.

“It’s exhausting trying to be perfect all of the time and I’m a shit artist but I like doing it and gifting them to you was I guess my own special way of showing you the ugly parts of myself, the parts I don’t show anyone else.”

Her words are more meaningful than she realizes as we quite literally sit before each other naked and bare.

“And still, you didn’t reveal yourself to me,” I state because it’s not a fucking question. She still hid from me. I’d spank her ass all fifty shades of pink if I had any faith she’d survive the lashings.