Page 47 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

Where is the air in here? It’s all gone, sucked from the atmosphere, my lungs, everywhere.

I struggle to breathe. He can’t say stuff like that to me in public.

I swear I can feel a full body blush coming on as a dangerous thought formulates in the back of my mind, bred in the secret chambers of my heart.

Then will you love me? The intrusive thought comes out of nowhere.

A deep, hidden desire I wasn’t sure I even wanted.

Unfortunately, the thing I blurt out is just as intrusive.

“I-I’m . . .” I’m panting in earnest now, my blood pressure skyrocketing. Just spit it out. “ I’m a virgin!”

The waitress chooses that exact moment to arrive with two of the most creatively overdone milkshakes I’ve ever seen. To her credit, she doesn’t drop them at my outburst.

I stare at her, mortified. Though from the corner of my eye, I can see Lucien grinning from ear to fucking ear.

She clears her throat. “Um. Here are your drinks.” She sets them down gingerly, a strawberry confectionery for me and Oreo chocolate for Lucien.

“I’m so—” I start.

She shakes her hands in front of her. “All good.” She turns to walk away but changes her mind at the last second.

“Look, I know it’s not my business, but just remember that safe sex is the best sex.

You seem like a smart girl, but I’m barely forty and I’m a grandmother, so you know .

. .” She looks over at Lucien. “Strap up and no means no, handsome. Always.”

His grin only widens. “ Of course .”

The way he says it sends a thrill straight down to my core. I feel his dick harden as his grip on my hips grows tighter.

“Thanks for the milkshakes . . . Millie,” he says, reading her name tag.

The barely forty-year-old woman blushes at the smooth way he says her name. It’s a small comfort to know even she can be affected by his unique charm.

“You kids have fun.” She throws us a wink over her shoulder as she walks away to tend to the other tables.

That was humiliating but my pussy doesn’t stop throbbing as Lucien leans forward, the heat of his body against my back making my skin sizzle when he says, “You think I should have told her you already offered to let me fuck you raw?”

I almost choke on my sip of milkshake.

“What?! No!”

My mouth was so dry from embarrassment I took a sip without even thinking about the amount of sugar that’s probably in this thing.

Lucien pats my back as I sputter, his hand drumming against my spine as I hack up a lung.

“Aww, don’t be embarrassed. I’d already guessed you were a virgin,” he muses as though it was so fucking obvious.

I hate that he’s right, that it’s probably noticeable to everyone .

I’m so used to playing the innocent card, I fear it’s become my whole personality.

My father’s business associates love it when I play the purity role.

They’re so distracted by the idea of taking advantage of me, they don’t realize my father is the one taking advantage of them .

“Is that so?” I rasp, wiping the cream from my corner lip with a finger before licking it away.

I’m relieved he knows about the virginity part. One less secret between us.

“You’re not the only one who watches people, Sydney,” he responds, a sexy grin on his lips that tells me if the roles were reversed, I’d be no match for him. He’d stalk me to the ends of the earth.

If only this weren’t a game, I’d relish the chase.

“Plus . . .”—his eyes narrow—“A girl like you has particular taste.”

A girl like me . I replay his word choice in my head. I hate that phrasing. I hated it earlier tonight when Asshat from the game insinuated I was no one special. I hate when my dad uses it to remind me of my place, to remind me that girls in my position must act a certain way.

But it turns out, I hate it most coming from Lucien. I plop the milkshake back on the table.

“A girl like me ? What’s that supposed to mean?

” I spit, a little more than ticked off that he’s using it against me now too.

‘A girl like me’ didn’t used to be a bad thing.

Hell, back home it’s a great fucking thing.

Girls like me are the cream of the crop, the social elite who pull the strings of weak-hearted men.

But here, at Belle U, it’s starting to feel like a disease I’m only now discovering I’m afflicted with.

Lucien chuckles.

“It means a fancy hotel and bed of roses after prom was never going to cut it for you, Princess. You wanted something more.” His head tilts adoringly and his beautiful black hair sways from his eyes as he pierces me with another longing look. “You need something more, don’t you?”

I swallow roughly, unable to disentangle myself from his gaze.

He’s got me there. If I wasn’t sure before, tonight only proved it.

I’m so much more messed up than I thought.

Even now, I’m wet, thinking of all the threats and pain he’s inflicted.

I want more. I need more. His eyes promise so much of it, but I resort to old habits to stave the reminder that even if he means it, they’re promises I can’t allow him to keep.

“How do you know I didn’t take matters into my own hands?” I retort.

“Because . . . the game’s no fun if you cheat. And you appreciate the challenge.”

Three months ago, he would have been right. But sometimes the game isn’t all about fun, and not all games are played fair.

Lucien pays my attitude no mind, rather he draws tiny circles in my back with the pads of his fingers, provoking those dark desires.

My body screams he’s the one at his touch.

The one that will rid my body of this increasingly unbearable tension.

Like the feeling of thirst when faced with fresh water.

Or hunger when hit with the smell of freshly baked bread. He triggers me.

“And you know, it wouldn’t change the fact that you’ve never been fucked, Sydney.

” My name rolls off his tongue like another threat.

His shallow breaths waft over my skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Not by me”—he presses a kiss to my shoulder—“Not by anyone.”—he breathes in the scent of my hair with carnal inhales—“And I can’t wait to change that,” he groans.

What have I gotten myself into?

I shift in his lap, pressing my legs together.

“With that said, we’re going to play another little game,” he says, sliding a hand over my leg to spread them back open, the steak knife present once again.

I shake my head. Of course he wants to play right now. My thighs might be quivering, my heart drumming and my clit aching—all signs that I’m enjoying this—but I don’t want to know what game he has in mind that requires this knife between my legs at our local dine and dash for a date.

“But you’ll like this game,” he sing-songs in a creepy way that suggests I very much won’t like this game.

I groan.

“It’s so easy though, Princess. Here, watch. I spy with my little eye something white.”

I huff a laugh because of course it is never so easy with him. This is a trap.

The knife glides higher and the tip pokes at my clit. I freeze. Flooded with fear that he’s going to cut my most sensitive area. I feel lightheaded. What happens if I lose this game? There’s no telling what the punishment is for that.

I want to move, to readjust so his aim is off, but without even trying, he already knows where my clit is. If that isn’t a good sign, I don’t know what is.

Focus, Sydney. It’s not a good thing if he stabs it!

“Th-the table,” I shake out.

“Nope. Try again.”

Oh fuck, oh fuck. I search around the dining room for items, watching as people eat their food and chat. They’re oblivious to what’s going on over here, or more likely, ignoring us altogether to avoid any more scenes or disruptions.

“The, um, tiles. On the floor,” I guess again, staring at the checkered floors like they’ll save me.

“Ehh,” he makes a buzzer sound in my ear that makes me flinch. “One last guess.”

My eyes dart everywhere, but it’s a fucking diner. There’s a lot of white. White countertops, white plates, white napkins. I try to think. He said there was a point to these games. That playing with him would prove something.

“Tick, tick, tick,” he whispers into my ear. My body is rigid as I white-knuckle the table so hard my hands shake. I stare at them. My knuckles, completely devoid of color.

“Is it . . .” I pause, second-guessing my line of thinking. Could this really be the right answer? “Is it, my knuckles?”

He pulls the knife away.

“Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! We have ourselves a winner!”

I empty my lungs. Only when I’m sure I’m in the clear do I relax a fraction, the color returning to my face and hands with a sudden rush. What would have happened if I had been wrong?

“I spy . . .” he starts again.

My heart drops at the thought of another round of that .

“Wait, don’t I get a turn?” I blurt. The least he could do is give me a chance at retaliation.

“No. I spy . . .” he continues.

I roll my eyes. That’s not fair.

“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” he asks.

“Of course not,” I lie.

The next thing I know, he’s moving the knife again, turning it horizontally and settling it between my thighs.

Great. Now, I’m being punished for lying.

The new position makes it so if I try to close my legs again, I’ll do a hell of a lot more than cut myself, I’ll skewer my thighs together.

I’m panting harder than before, trying to regulate my breathing, but relishing the soft breaths blowing from his lips with every uttered breath.

“I spy with my little eye something . . . pink,” he says.

My thighs shake, nervous energy sleuthing through my veins as I strain to keep spread.

“Um, m-my milkshake,” I guess.

He thumbs my clit through the thin fabric of my panties with his left hand, startling me.

“Everything alright with the milkshakes?” asks our Millie.

I snap my head up. When did she get here? Can she see what’s happening beneath the table?

“Everything’s great, Millie,” answers Lucien, his thumb rolling deep circles over the hyper-sensitive bud between my legs.

I’m panting hard, the sounds fast and sharp as I try my darndest to think my way out of this horrific situation. If I come in front of this lady, I’ll die.

“Oh, sweetie, are you okay? You look flushed,” says Millie.

I shake my head. “It’s fine.” Not.

She narrows her eyes at me.

“Brain freeze,” Lucien offers. “She sucked it down too fast.”

I nod my head in agreement, though I know he’s being funny.

He worded it that way on purpose. Still, now it’s my whole body that’s shaking.

Lucien thumbs my clit again and I release a soft whimper.

I try to sit up, but his arms have me locked in place and Millie isn’t batting an eye at the fact that I’m still sitting in his lap.

“Oh,” says Millie. “Well, fun little trick I teach my grandkids: press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. Does the trick every time.” She gives a thumbs-up.

“Thanks, Millie, we’ll try that.” Lucien turns toward me, his face nuzzling against my cheek. “Go on,” he goads, “give it a try. See if it helps.”

He pinches my clit and my legs almost slam close.

I cut my eyes to glare at him but ultimately do as he says.

More pressure is applied to my clit, and I almost come on the spot.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth for no other reason than it’s all I can do.

I’m inclined to believe it’s working. Between the knife, the attention, the danger, the pressure, I’m going to fucking explode, but I manage to keep it at bay.

More importantly, I manage to keep my thighs from closing.

“Yeah, like that,” says Millie. I can hear in her tone that she’s proud of herself, but neither of us are paying her any attention.

My eyes are back on Lucien, who looks like he’s having the time of his fucking life.

I don’t think I’ve seen such light in his eyes before.

He looks happy. And my poor, dumb heart squeezes at the notion that I did that. I brought forth that light.

Millie must walk away after noticing our lack of response because Lucien repeats, “I spy something pink.”

“My cunt?”

“Good try, but no. I’m touching your cunt but I can’t see it. Tell me what I see, baby.”

I’m reminded of how he stared at my pussy from behind, how I wasn’t allowed to look back, how wet it made me to bare myself for him. I close my eyes, settling into the feeling of him watching me.

I’m warm all over, my skin feeling on fire with his hands on me. Even the handle of the blade gently caressing the seam of my thigh as he brushes it against me is setting me aflame.

My eyes pop open.

“My skin,” I pant.

“Yes,” he croons, “now you’re getting it.”

I beam with pride. But then he starts strumming my clit with renewed vigor, and I have to brace myself against my impending doom.

“I. Spy. Something. Beautiful.”

I squeeze my eyes closed; my head bowed forward as my core clenches. My whole body brims with tension as tingles crawl up my spine.

“Shitshitshit. I’m coming.” I try to whisper, but I’m not sure how quiet I’m being.

I groan when my legs push in, and I feel the burn of being cut, but I only come harder. And he doesn’t remove the knife.

“Fuck,” I strain, gripping the table’s edge for dear life as I try to control the wash of feelings.

“That’s it, baby. Come for me. Bleed for me. Call out my goddamn name,” he growls against my ear.

“Lucien,” I say on a breath. “Fuck, oh my God, Lucien.”

When I finally come down, I’m panting, flushed and most definitely bleeding.

“Now, tell me what I spy.”

I’m still catching my breath, but I don’t hesitate to answer because for the first time I think I actually believe it.

“Me.”