Page 4 of Yes, Coach (Bratton Hollow #1)

Murphy

T he hours between Taryn's morning visit and three-thirty feel like a fucking eternity.

I try to focus on game film, but all I can see is the way she traced her finger around my coffee mug. Try to review practice schedules, but my brain keeps replaying the sound she made when she tasted my coffee. Try to eat lunch, but all I want to do is eat her fucking pussy.

Christ. I'm losing my goddamn mind.

By the time the final bell rings, I've jerked off twice more—once in my office bathroom during lunch, once in my truck in the faculty parking lot like some desperate teenager. Neither time helped. If anything, it made the ache worse.

I'm standing behind my desk when she appears in my doorway at exactly 3:35 PM, and the sight of her nearly brings me to my knees.

She's taken off her cardigan, leaving just that too-small button-down that pulls across her chest. Her skirt has somehow gotten shorter since this morning, or maybe she's rolled the waistband.

I see a little birthmark on her inner thigh I never noticed before.

Perfect, dark little spot I want to trace with my tongue. Leave a bite mark around it like it and everything attached to it belongs to me.

She’s let her hair down. It’s loose around her shoulders and I imagine what it would look like spread over my pillow with me looking down while I put my dick inside her, or paint her fucking toenails or read her a story.

She looks like every forbidden fantasy I've ever had, standing there with that innocent smile that doesn't match the come fuck me or come save me look in her eyes.

Both of which I want to do with my whole fucking soul.

"You came," I say, and immediately regret how rough my voice sounds and my choice of words, because now I can barely fucking breathe thinking of how she would sound doing just that.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" She steps inside and closes the door behind her with deliberate care. The click of the lock echoes like a gunshot. "I always keep my promises, Coach."

The way she uses my title makes me wince. Like it's a game. Like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

"Sit down." I gesture to the chair across from my desk, but she doesn't move.

"I've been sitting all day." She moves closer, her hips swaying in that way that makes my teeth clench. "I'm tired of sitting."

"Taryn." Her name comes out like a warning, but she doesn't stop. Doesn't back off like she should.

"You know what I kept thinking about during calculus?" She's close enough now that I can smell her perfume. Something sweet and young that makes my fucking mouth water. "About you telling me I could come to you when I didn't want to be strong."

"That's not what this is about."

"Isn't it?" She reaches for Tom Brady, my fucking plant, and runs one finger along a leaf. The gesture is innocent, but the way she does it makes it feel dirty. "Because I've been thinking, Coach. About what it would feel like to let someone else make all the decisions for once."

My hands grip the edge of my desk, but I keep my voice level. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Then show me."

The words hang between us like a lit fuse. I can see the exact moment she realizes what she's said, the way her eyes widen slightly. But she doesn't take it back. Doesn't apologize or laugh it off.

She means it.

And that's when something inside me snaps.

"Alright." My voice goes deadly quiet, the same tone I used to use before I leveled quarterbacks. "You want me to show you?"

I move around the desk in three quick strides, and as I come closer she backs up. Back and back and back until there’s nowhere to go, and suddenly she's trapped between me and the wall. My hands slam against the concrete on either side of her head, and I lean down until our faces are inches apart.

"You want to know what it feels like to let someone else be in charge?" My voice is rough, dangerous. "You sure about that, baby girl?"

The endearment slips out without permission, but the way her breath catches tells me she likes it. Her pupils are blown wide, and I can see her pulse racing in her throat.

"Yes." The word is barely audible, but it might as well be a shout.

"Then you're going to listen to me very carefully." I let my voice drop to that tone I used to use on the field—pure authority, no room for argument. "And you're going to do exactly what I tell you to do. Understand?"

She nods, wide eyes shining as she gazes up at me.

"Use your words, Taryn."

"Yes, Coach." The breathless way she says it makes my cock twitch.

"Good girl." I watch her eyes flutter at the praise. "Now, are you going to be a good girl for me?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

She swallows hard, and I watch the movement of her throat. "Yes, Coach."

"Better." I push back slightly, giving her room to breathe but not escape. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to sit in that chair like I told you to. And you're going to keep your hands in your lap and your mouth shut unless I ask you a direct question. Can you do that for me?"

She nods again, then catches herself. "Yes, Coach."

"Prove it."

She moves to the chair on unsteady legs, and I can see how affected she is. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing shallow, her fingertips are shaking. She sits down carefully, smoothing her skirt, then places her hands in her lap like I instructed.

"Good girl." I lean against the front of my desk, arms crossed, studying her. "Now, let's talk about what you think you want."

"I know what I want."

"Do you?" I tilt my head. "Because what I think you want is for someone to take care of you. Someone to make the hard decisions so you don't have to. Someone to tell you you're a good girl when you do what you're told. Someone to put your needs first and tell you no when it’s hard but it’s what’s best for you. Someone that will put up with your bullshit and know it’s just a front for the things you are afraid of and don’t want anyone to know. "

Her breath hitches, and I know I've hit the mark.

"But here's the thing, sweetheart." I push off from the desk and move closer, watching her try not to squirm.

"You think you know what you're asking for, but you don't. Not really.

You want someone to take care of you? That's adorable.

But taking care of you means I own your choices.

When I tell you to do something, you do it.

Period. No negotiations, no second-guessing, no taking it back when you realize you're in over your pretty little head. "

"I'm not scared."

"No?" I reach out and trace one finger along her jaw, feeling her shiver. "Your pulse says otherwise."

"I'm not scared of you ."

"You should be." My thumb finds the hollow of her throat, pressing lightly against her racing pulse. "Because once we cross this line, there's no going back. Once you're mine, you're mine. Do you understand what that means?"

"Tell me."

"It means I decide when you eat, when you sleep, when you come." Her eyes go wide at that last one, and I smile darkly. "It means your pleasure belongs to me. Your body belongs to me. Your trust belongs to me. Your hopes and your dreams and your problems. Mine. All fucking mine."

"And what do I get in return?"

"Everything." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "You get to stop being strong all the time. You get to let someone else worry about taking care of you. You get to be my good girl, and I promise you, baby, I will take such good fucking care of you."

She's breathing hard now, her hands clutching the arms of the chair. "Coach..."

"That's not what you’re going to call me when we're alone if this is what you want."

She blinks up at me, confused.

"Think about it." I lean down until my mouth is next to her ear. "What do good girls call the man who takes care of them? The man that wants the best for them in life, no matter what?"

I hear the exact moment she understands, the sharp intake of breath.

"Daddy." The word is barely a whisper, but it hits me like a physical blow.

"That's right." I pull back to look at her, and the trust in her eyes nearly brings me to my knees. "Say it again."

"Daddy." Stronger this time, more sure.

"Fuck, yes." I cup her face in both hands, my thumbs stroking her cheeks. "You're going to be so perfect for me, aren't you, baby girl?"

"I want to be."

"You will be." I lean down until our foreheads touch. "But first, I need to know you're sure. Once I kiss you, there's no pretending this is just a conversation between a coach and his student. Once I touch you, you're mine. Are you absolutely certain this is what you want?"

"Yes, Daddy." The words come out strong and clear, no hesitation.

"You're about to be kissed by a man. Not any man, either. Your fucking Daddy."

And then I'm kissing her.

It's nothing gentle or sweet. It's pure possession, all tongue and teeth and saliva and crushing lips. She melts into me immediately, her small hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. She tastes like mint and innocence and something that makes me want to devour her whole.

When I finally break away, we're both breathing hard.

"Stand up," I order, my voice rough, feeling more like myself than I have in as far back as I can remember.

She complies immediately, and I can see how much the submission soothes her tired soul. Her eyes are glazed, her lips swollen from my kiss, nipples pressing out on that white fabric, and I bet what I can’t see is that her panties are fucking soaked.

"Come here."

She takes a step forward, then another, until she's close enough to touch.

"Closer."

She moves until she's standing between my legs, her body heat radiating against me.

"Put your hands on my shoulders."

She does, her touch tentative but trusting.

"Good girl." I run my hands up her sides, feeling her shiver. "Now, I'm going to touch you, and you're going to stay very still for me. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Daddy."