Page 16 of Phantom Faceoff (Daddies of the League #5)

With a quick salute, I round the front of the building to the alley, dimly lit by the sky overhead but drowned in the shadows cast between the buildings.

Malachi sits with his back to the brick wall, knees pulled up, scrolling on his phone with headphones in. A pretty clear indicator he doesn’t want to be bothered.

However, I’m a master at ignoring Do Not Disturb signs.

The broken concrete crackles beneath my sneakers, and I come to a stop directly in front of him.

There’s no immediate reaction, so I tap my shoe on the side of his. He doesn’t bother to look up, simply copies me and continues on his phone.

Thirty seconds pass, and I cross my arms. Tap his foot again.

This time his eyes find mine, his brows raise, and the smallest of smiles forms on his lips.

That’s all of the attention he gives me, and when he looks away this time, I feel something gross and ugly churn in my stomach.

I crouch down and yank on one of his earbuds, satisfied as it pops out and seems to garner an instant reaction. He frowns, snapping his gaze on me.

“Wildfire.” The word is harsh like an accusation.

“Blanchard.”

His face is unreadable, and it ticks something off in my brain.

“I’ve got ten minutes left. Can it wait?”

Could I pop a squat and kill ten minutes easy enough until he’s ready to socialize? Yes.

Am I going to?

I shove his knees apart with my hands and fit myself between them. My hands smack into the brick beside Malachi’s head.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’.” He shuts off his phone and puts it in his pocket, straightening his legs and hooking a finger in the elastic of my shorts. “Come here.”

It’s like a game of Tetris, positioning my legs on either side of his thighs, his hands putting pressure on my waist until I lower my weight to his lap.

The position is almost comforting; Malachi’s warmth seeps through where his hands and thighs touch. But the flurry in my chest isn’t quite settled.

I squirm, and Malachi tightens his grip on my waist. “What do you need?”

“What makes you think I need anything?”

He hums, then takes a hand off my waist to pinch my chin between his fingers.

“Wildfire.” This time it’s a command.

I hate that I respond so readily to it. “I failed the stupid test.”

Malachi’s eyes widen in surprise, then soften in understanding. I hate that even more.

“You get a pass from dealing with me,” I mutter, but Malachi’s hand still clenching my face forces my eyes on his. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m trying to decide if you’re asking for a spanking, a kiss, or an obituary on the school website.”

The dry humor actually gets me, cracks a little of the chaos weighing me down, but I’m still acutely aware of what he’s asking me. The answer is, I don’t fucking know.

“I need sex,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think of to fix the crossed wires short circuiting inside me.

“Won’t be getting that from me.” He’s so matter of fact it makes my actual blood boil. “I bet Jules would let you fuck him if you asked.”

Anger pulses through the rising tide of frustration. “I’m not doing that anymore.”

He brings a hand to the back of my neck and clamps down. “Why not?”

“Because you asked me to stop.”

He applies the slightest bit of pressure, and I cave like a wet paper towel, my forehead colliding with his.

“Why do you care what I want?”

I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him.

I don’t need sex … I just need him to kiss me.

“Because I want you.” My throat feels raw and mangled. “Because that’s how I can have you.”

Silence. Anxiety-inducing, nauseating silence.

I squirm. He holds me in place.

After a few seconds, he adjusts me in his lap, and I let him. He pushes my face into his neck, looping an arm around my waist and holding me tightly.

“I’m sorry about your class,” he says, running his fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry you feel like you need to get physical and shut down your feelings.”

Is that what’s happening? Is that what I’m doing?

Maybe. Why would I want to feel this way? Why would anyone?

Of course I want to shut it off.

“I won’t have sex with you,” he says softly into my ear. “Having a bad day doesn’t give you the right to have a bad attitude. It doesn’t give you the right to use me.”

My chest feels heavy, and my lungs feel wet, but when I try to push off his chest, he only tightens his arms around me.

“I said it doesn’t give you the right to use me, not that I won’t let you.”

He loosens his touch just enough that I can pull back to look at his face. To see the raw honesty that makes tears well up in my eyes.

There are no words for how his mouth feels when it collides with mine. How sweet it is. How every time I push to deepen it, he softens us right back up. Over and over until I give up the control and let him choose the pace.

I don’t know when the tears start to fall, just that I can taste them on our lips, which means Malachi can too. Neither of us acknowledge it.

When a sob sneaks out mid-kiss, he pulls me closer, strokes a hand along my back. Comforting. Encouraging.

Eventually, I can’t hold it together anymore and have to break away, but he pulls me into his neck again where I soak his skin, his work shirt. I’m sure he’s supposed to be back by now, but he’s not pushing me away. He’s not rushing me to bottle it up because he has somewhere to be.

“It’s okay to be disappointed in yourself,” he whispers into my ear. “A bad mark doesn’t make you any less of the arrogant superstar that you are.”

A broken laugh makes its way through the tears. “Fuck you.”

“I’m right.”

He is, and I’m too exhausted to be mad about it.

When the tears run out, I’m left panting into his shoulder, my body feeling like it’s been wrung dry and muscles screaming their discontent.

I finally peel myself back, and Malachi lets his hands fall, freeing me.

We stare at each other, words stuck somewhere behind the heavy need to just exist . To share space.

I should leave.

But my body pretends to be lead.

“You’re so good, Wildfire,” he says, tucking my hair behind my ear in a gesture that should feel condescending but just feels nice. Especially when he cradles my cheek in his palm after. “I don’t scare easy.”

I do.

The way he holds me, calms me, handles me —it’s terrifying.

I don’t want him to stop.

As the seconds tick on, my body grows heavy, and when I collapse against him, tucking myself into him like a child on a mattress, his arms come back around me like a cocoon.

He doesn’t speak, but my throat burns, and I say the words that have been taking up the space of my labored breaths.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

And there isn’t a single sexual or ironic intention to them.

Just pure gratitude.

What is he doing to me? And why do I sort of like it?