Page 8 of Twisted Play

I pushed back from my desk, my hands on my thighs, my legs spread even wider. Waiting. The silence between us stretched into discomfort.

“I have the job?” she asked, her eyes on mine. A tremor ran through her body, so slight, I almost missed it.

“If—”

She rolled her eyes at me, and the bratty gesture sent heat straight to my groin. “Yeah, I heard you. You’ll hire me if I give you a blow job. I want you to say it so there’s no confusion after I debase myself.”

The crude words from those sweet lips nearly undid me, and my hands itched to turn her over my knee and punish her for her insolence.

Her hands trembled as she stepped toward me. She warred with herself—her desperation against her dignity, her need against her pride.

I didn’t tell her the blow job today was just the beginning. God, if the club knew what I was doing, they’d kick me out in a heartbeat, ban me for fucking life. And they’d be right to do it.

BDSM was about consent.

And I didn’t intend to allow Eva to refuse.

3

EVA

The tight fabricof my polyester suit scratched against my skin as I walked toward Coach. The last time I’d worn it was when I went to beg Jedediah Carter to spare my father a week ago.

I dragged my fingers along the desk, desperate for the texture to ground me, to stop me from doing exactly as he asked. My fingernails caught on a groove in the wood, and I focused on the sharp pain rather than the throbbing between my legs that started the moment he’d told me what he wanted.

I needed this job.

Jedediah Carter had made sure of that.

A million dollars.My breath caught in my chest once again, aghast at how my father had managed to double our debt—mydebt. The weight of it crushed me, making it impossible to walk away from Coach’s bargain.

He watched me with eyes so dark they were almost black, sharply angular, over high cheekbones, his jawline covered with a neatly trimmed beard. Coach breathed deeply, and his muscles stretched the expensive fabric of hisbutton-down shirt, reminding me of how fucking large he was—a solid wall of strength that, until a few moments ago, I’d admired with all my heart.

I rounded the final corner, and he rotated in his office chair, legs splayed wide, his thick thighs tense, a casual display of dominance that took my breath away, even as my mind screamed for me to flee.

Coach’s eyes tracked my movements, burning a fiery path over my skin as he took in my flushed cheeks, how my suit didn’t quite fit, the tight curve of my skirt over my hips down to my calves, then the cheap flats I’d had to repair once again before my interview this morning.

Once I stood between his knees, I paused, looking down at the man who’d just tumbled from the pedestal as the greatest college hockey coach alive to a filthy old man who asked students for blow jobs in exchange for employment.

The worst part? How much a secret, dark, twisted part of me wasn’t nearly as disgusted by the thought of taking his cock in my mouth as I should have been.

He didn’t feel filthy, not quite—not the way he licked his lips as his gaze fell on mine, not the way my skin felt too tight, and definitely not the way my heart pounded in my chest, terrified and nauseous and also a little bit curious. A lot curious. Desperate to know what other commands he’d give and what other ways he’d force me to debase myself.

“The job is mine,” I affirmed one last time, hating that my voice sounded breathy and eager rather than calm and unbothered.What a fucking cliché.

He lifted a hand to my hip, burning me where his fingers dug into me through my cheap clothes. A fleeting want for him to press harder, to leave bruises I could touch later to remind myself of this moment, flickered through my mind then disappeared in a puff of disgust.

“It will be.” Coach’s voice was raspy and dark, a promise and a threat wrapped into one.

Slowly, as if moving through molasses, I dropped to my knees, wincing as they hit the hard tile of his office floor. I wobbled—my skirt was too tight to get comfortable—and grabbed his thigh for balance. His skin burned under mine, and the hard muscle of his thigh contracted beneath my touch. From this angle, he was massive, his broad shoulders blocking out the fluorescent light above us. I felt small, exposed, as he bulldozed through my iron control.

The knowledge that he could see me like this—vulnerable, desperate, my composure faltering as I vacillated between disgust and curiosity—made me want to scream. And yet, here I was, on my knees, my mask slipping further with every movement, unraveling under his impassive gaze.

Why was he doing this? Coach was hot and successful and wealthy, and he could have anyone. Why was he resorting to blackmailing students for blow jobs? Whyme?

He reached for my face, and I flinched. He froze, then continued his movement, slow and steady, as if he knew I was afraid of the violence coiled tight within him. A calloused finger tucked an errant curl behind my ear. The gentle gesture violated me more than if he’d grabbed at me—the false tenderness stripping another layer of my defenses, making me want to lean into his touch.

My hands trembled as I reached for his belt. I was going to do this. I was going to suck the hockey coach’s cock for a job—suck the hockey coach’s cock so I could spy on the team and report back to Jed Carter.