Page 91 of Cracked Ice (The F*cked Up Players #1)

forty-two

W e fuck three more times, or at least I think it was three.

I lost count around orgasm number five and continued ravaging Sydney’s body until it started to feel like my dick would literally fall off if I dared get hard again.

The sun peeks over the horizon and through the trees.

The sky’s a pretty coral pink: the color of Sydney’s pussy right now.

Though, I suppose it’s more like a reddish pink at this point . . . and a little swollen.

“No more,” she groans, “or you really will murder her.”

I chuckle. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of my work before. I knew we would have a fun night and that she’d sate all my dark urges and desires, but I didn’t expect to feel like this: settled and calm.

Even after baring our souls and confessing secrets, I don’t feel raw inside like I typically do, I feel soothed.

It’s so rare for me to meet not only someone I can relate to sexually, but someone I can relate to at all .

Hell, we do more than relate, it’s like we were born having already met and are just picking up where we left off.

I stretch out over the bed, arms splayed as I lie on my back, tracking the dirt that clings to her ceiling fan. I’m so relaxed it doesn’t even bother me.

“Don’t worry, Cock Killer. I think I could use a break too,” I mumble, yawning as sleep seeks me out.

Her laugh is light, though I can tell it would be more humorous if she weren’t falling asleep in my arms. “Aha, Cock Killer . . . that’s .

. . funny,” she trails off before small, even breaths brush over my chest. Wrapping an arm around her, I bring her in closer, holding her as drool leaks from her lips.

I’ve never had a girl sleep on me before. Not one I was having sex with, anyway.

Though it feels like a lifetime ago now, my sister used to fall asleep on me.

My free hand rests on my chest and I rub at the burn of the empty cavern that used to possess my heart.

I haven’t thought about my sister in years.

Don’t get me wrong, I think of how she and my parents died all the time.

I think of them in my nightmares when they’re sitting there bleeding out, dead.

But I don’t think of our life together often.

It’s a testament to our relationship that I was able to open up to Sydney about them, but it’s been a long time since I’ve acknowledged the Lucien from before.

The Lucien that had a little sister who used to hog the blankets any time we sat and watched movies, yet somehow inevitably moved to share it—only to fall asleep right in my arms. No, I don’t think about that Lucien at all.

But . . . maybe, with Sydney, I can afford to think of them a little more.

Maybe I can let her see behind the curtain of my soul where all the truly dangerous shit lies.

Never in my life have I ever been so enamored by someone who I’d even consider this.

Especially someone I’ve known one fucking day!

Talk about crazy. But that’s what she does to me.

The sun has fully risen, but judging by the quiet streets and soft bird chirping, I’d say it’s still kind of early.

I only managed to sleep a few hours before hunger awoke me, violently at that, but what else is new?

At least the nightmares have stopped . Meanwhile, Sydney is sound asleep like the beautiful princess she is.

Even with her hair tangled and eye boogers crusting her thick lashes, she’s only more perfect to me.

Light shines into the room, illuminating every mark, scar, and bruise that decorates her body.

I peruse every inch, proud of the masterpiece I’ve created.

She’ll be feeling my presence for days to come.

Possibly even more than that because we’re doing it all over again tonight.

Hell, probably right after we have breakfast.

My stomach growls angrily at the thought of food and I force myself to tear my eyes and arm away to make us something to eat.

For a rich girl, I thought she’d have something more than milk, an almost empty carton of eggs, and a half-eaten BLT in her fridge.

Outside of the cases of Voss water, there’s only condiments and a small container of shredded cheese.

I’ll have to get her some groceries today if I expect us to be refueled for another marathon of fucking.

There’s still so much I want to do with her.

I’m in the middle of chopping the ingredients from the remnants of her sandwich when there’s an unexpected knock on the door.

Knife still poised in my hand; I walk over to answer it. “Can I help you?”

Three guys dressed in matching jumpsuits stand in the doorway, but I direct my focus to the one holding the clipboard.

“Hi. Uh, we’re here to pack and load the truck for a .

. . Miss Sydney Sinclair. This is . . . apartment 3C, right?

” He leans back to peek his head to the side, ensuring he’s at the right place before his eyes catch sight of the knife still resting at my side.

“I’m, uh, Samson and we’re with Sam & Sons Moving Company.

” His throat bobs and the two guys with him shift closer.

I have no intention of fucking up a great morning, so I don’t let the tension sit long before I put the guy out of his misery and let him know he’s at the right place.

“Yeah, you have the right door. She’s still asleep right now, but you can come on in and get started.” I smile and give a welcoming gesture to usher them in. Absolutely nothing could ruin my good mood today.

“Thank you, sir, we appreciate that.” Samson visibly relaxes, settling his mouth into a proud customer service smile. “Alright, boys, let’s get to it! We have a long drive, and I want us on the road before noon.”

The two other guys are young and strapping, and I assume they are Sam’s actual sons if the resemblance and company name are to be believed. Either way, they follow their orders as given, starting with the couch we didn’t get around to fucking on.

I finish up the omelets while they work on packing the rest of the living room furniture. Walking back to the bedroom, I deliver the omelet to Sydney.

When I get into the bedroom, I set a glass of water and our plates on the mahogany side table next to her bed. She’s still sleeping soundly, so I shut the bedroom door to keep the room quiet. I admire her for a second more before nudging her awake so she can eat her food while it’s still hot.

Her nose crinkles adorably as her senses wake before the rest of her does. She drags in a lungful of air, smelling the food. One blue eye pops open, and then the other. Stretching wide and yawning, she keens.

“Morning,” Sydney says with a bright smile. Her breasts jiggle as she lifts herself up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

Good morning, Sydney’s tits .

My grin is wide when I ignore my dick’s greeting and respond in kind. “Good morning, Princess.”

She looks around dazed before she asks, “Did you go out and buy breakfast?”

“No.” I shake my head, amused at her question as I push my hair out of my eyes. It’s heavy and oily. We’re both going to need another shower.

Sydney’s brows crease when she turns her head and locates the source of the smell.

“You cooked ?” she asks as she picks up the plate and inspects the food.

“You look surprised,” I note, though I actually love how easy she is to surprise.

“No one’s ever cooked for me.”

I quirk a brow. “No one?”

“Well, no one normal .”

My mouth twists. “Not sure I fit that criteria either.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.

” She slaps my knee. “The only person who’s ever cooked for me is our chef back home.

Not even my dad has cooked for me. I don’t even know how to cook for myself.

” She laughs, but there’s no real humor to it.

It sounds pitiful, like she feels sorry for herself for not knowing a basic skill like cooking.

I’d imagine, for someone like Sydney, who strives to excel at everything, to her it is pitiful.

I rest a hand against her thigh.

She takes a bite, and her sad smile brightens.

“This is delicious ,” she moans. “Where did you get the ingredients to make this?”

“I just used your leftover sandwich and repurposed it into the omelet,” I shrug. I never did like the idea of wasted food. Even as a kid, I always finished my meal and if I couldn’t finish, I liked eating leftovers, remaking them or reshaping them to my liking to make them good again.

“No way. This is even better than our chef’s back home.”

Pain etches her features when she sits up further, wincing again as she struggles to get comfortable. Now that the adrenaline and sexed-up hormones have subsided, I’m sure she’s even more sore. I thought the pain meds would help, but it seems I was rougher than I thought.

“How’s your ass? Better?”

She glares at me as she slides a bite of egg through her teeth, wrestling back a grin.

“A little,” she draws out.

I trace my tongue along my lower lip. “Good.”

My hands cradle her feet as I inspect them. They’re a little scratched up from our romping through the woods, but when I press my thumbs into the bottom of her soles, she moans around another bite of her food.

“Nuh uh, nope. You can’t serve me great food and give great foot massages. It’s not allowed.”

I ignore her feeble attempt to deter me. I may be brutal with my toys, but I always know how to take care of them. Her foot kicks out, but I only grip her tighter until she’s squealing for me to stop.

I don’t.

“Okay, okay, you win,” she surrenders.

I smirk. “Damn right, I win.”

She shoots me a cute little stink eye before muttering under her breath, “Cocky fucker.”

I take my time massaging her feet, working my way up her whole leg while I’m at it. I’m careful of her skinned knees and am moving up to her thighs when she finishes her food. Good thing too. Any closer and we’d be enjoying round six, I think? Whatever, she’d be getting fucked again.