Page 53 of Twisted Play

“I—”

Why couldn’t I move away from the man who’d forced me to drop to my fucking knees and blow him?

Cole tilted his head and considered me, his eyes sweeping from my head to my toes. Then, he bent his knees, swept me off my feet, and carried me princess style out of the locker room and to the ladies’ bathroom.

“Cole!” I clutched my arms around his neck, terrified he’d drop me like every other boyfriend who’d ever tried to lift me had done. “Put me down. I’m too heavy.”

Cole stopped and adjusted me, pulling me closer against his chest as he chuckled softly. “We’ve had this conversation before. I promise, you’re not.”

“I—”

“Enough,” he snapped. “What about any of our interactions has led you to believe I will do a damn thing I don’t want to do when it comes to you?”

“Nothing,” I whispered, embarrassed I’d been embarrassed, hating the whiplash of my emotions.

“That’s right. Absolutely fucking nothing. Now, let me carry my fucktoy down the hall in peace.” He deposited me outside the restroom. “Go clean up.”

The bathroom mirror showed a stranger—lips swollen and red, mascara streaked down flushed cheeks, thoroughly used, eyes wild with emotions I didn’t understand. My hands shook as I cleaned my face, and every movement reminded me of how he’d touched me, how he’d forced me to my knees, how I was so turned on, it ached.

It took me longer than it should have to clean off my makeup, but when I finally emerged, fresh faced and calm, Cole leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, bored as he played on his phone.

His blue eyes lit up when they saw me, and I forced myself to temper the answering warmth in my chest.

I was a toy.

Stress relief.

I couldn’t allow myself to believe I could be anything more.

“C’mon, slut,” he said, his expression cheerful.

I stopped in front of him, going toe to toe. I didn’t have anything left to lose, so I had to draw the line while I still had the courage to do so.

“You’re not going to tell anyone about any of this.”

He raised an eyebrow then slid a hand up my side to cup my breast, not caring that we were in the middle of the hallway. The heat of his hand over my nipple was too much, toostimulating, and I couldn’t keep my breath steady as he caressed me.

“Right?” I asked him, as frustrated by my body’s response to him as I was that he didn’t answer.

“As long as you let me do whatever the fuck I want to you, I’ll keep your secrets,” he agreed. “And you won’t send a goddamned piece of information about the team to your mysterious blackmailer without allowing me to vet it first.”

He bent his head to nibble on my nipple through my shirt. When I arched my back subconsciously, he grinned. “Filthy girl.”

“I’m not,” I protested, weakly.

“You are,” he answered. “And you’ll beg for me to fuck you again by the time I’m done.”

22

ALEKSANDR

The crisp glideof skates on ice echoed through my empty office as I reviewed game footage. Shadows lengthened across the floor, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the screen. Tristan’s form was good—better than good—but there was a hesitation in his movements that hadn’t been there last season. He was so fucking close to being the player we needed—a star comparable to Cole or Massi—if only he would loosen up and trust his instincts.

I shoved down the thought that I wanted more from Tristan than just performance on the ice, as if fucking around with Eva had opened the floodgates for other filthy, inappropriate thoughts I neither needed nor wanted.

My phone buzzed against the polished wood of my desk.

Cedric Baptiste