Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (6 page)

Marcus brings his hands up to my hips, rubbing slow circles around them, then gripping the sides of my thighs. Inching my leather pencil skirt upward. I break the kiss and press my forehead to his.

“No,” I whisper. “Not yet.”

He whimpers like a scolded puppy, but nods. Putting my weight onto my right hand, I take my left and guide one of his hands away from my thighs. Curl it tenderly around my breast. Then drop my hand back down to support myself over him.

Marcus moans as he cups his hand around my breast, and I moan with him. I can feel my nipples straining at the inside of my bra. We kiss again, faster now, and I have to nip at his lower lip to catch my breath. His back arches and he strains upward, shivering with delight at the bite.

I lean back from him, upright on my knees, and try to unbutton the front of my blouse, but my hands are trembling. Eyes locked on mine, Marcus reaches up to help me. His fingers move deftly, but slow, each button like a delicate torture. When he finally reaches the last button, he slides my blouse off of my shoulders and lets it fall to the floor behind us.

I snatch his hand away before he can reach for my bra clasp and pin it above his head, leaning back over him to kiss him again.

“Please?” Marcus asks, his voice thin and strained. “I want to taste you. Suck those incredible tits.”

My thighs clench. I’m not used to guys wanting to talk during foreplay, or—or whatever this is. But I’m definitely becoming a fan. “And why should I let you?” I tease.

“Because I want to make you come for me. Right fucking now.” Marcus grins. “And since you’ve got my hands pinned, I’ll have to resort to other means.”

I swallow, hard, as a fire builds beneath my belly. “You think you can make me come, right now, like this?” I grab his other hand and pin it down with the first. “Prove it.”

“With pleasure.”

His lips move to my ear, and he sucks at my earlobe, teeth grazing the edge. Oh, shit. If I wasn’t wet before, I definitely am now. But he’s got a long way to go.

“It would be much easier,” Marcus whispers, “if I could use my fingers. Squeeze at that swollen clit of yours. Slip my fingers into that tight, gorgeous pussy. I bet you feel like velvet.”

I clench my jaw to stifle a moan.

Marcus bends one knee, bringing his thigh up to rest between my legs. His jeans scrape, rough, against my tender flesh. The friction is glorious, radiating through me. Not enough to bring me to climax, but he’s getting damn close.

“Like that, right?” he murmurs. “Now imagine if I could use my fingers. Or even my mouth. Wouldn’t you like my tongue flicking across that naughty cunt? Sucking you down?”

God dammit. I slowly ease my grip on his left wrist. “Fine. I’ll let you use one hand. But I win.”

Marcus smirks. “I’m pretty sure I just won.”

I give him a playful swat on one cheek.

His expression turns hard; for a minute, I think I’ve offended. But then his grin spreads wide. “You should do that again.”

“What? Slap you?” I ask. Certainly there have been times I’ve wanted to slap him in the past twenty-four hours, but this isn’t really one of them.

“I think you’re going to find,” he murmurs, “that I’m very difficult to keep in line.”

With one hand, he reaches behind me, and eases the zipper down on my pencil skirt. I help him shove it down off of my hips, and he tugs at the lacy straps of my panties. Yes, I wore lacy panties. Because a small part of me was hoping for exactly this:

Marcus Wright. Pinned before me.

Obeying my every command.

And loving it.

“You see?” He slips two fingers through the thigh hole of he panties, and grazes his nail right against the edge of my clit. “This is so much better.”

“Fuck,” I breathe. There’s no arguing that. But I’m not quite ready to let him win just yet. I swat his hand away and slide my own fingers between my folds, teasing. My back arches; I shudder with a gasp.

“Dammit.” Marcus shifts beneath me. “Please. I want to feel it when you come.”

“There’ll be time for that.”

He bites hard into his lower lip. He looks so petulant, so mischievous. It’s so goddamned hot. I press my fingers hard inside me, and the world spins as the cold washes through me. Maybe I cry out—I can’t quite be sure. For a few moments, everything fades away.

“Please,” Marcus begs. “I want to make you come, too.”

I silence him by slipping the same fingers I just used to please myself into his mouth.

He gladly licks my fingers, sucks at them, grinning like I’ve given him an incredible gift. It’s a look I could get used to.

Once he’s done, I back down, still on fours over him, and work his belt buckle and fly open. “Oh, god,” Marcus cries, as I ease his jeans and boxer briefs down his hips.

Oh, god is right.

His shaft is at full attention, thick and firm. I wrap my hand around it and grin up at him from between his legs.

“Please,” Marcus begs. “I’ll do anything. I’ll be your slut all you want. Please, just let me see that vicious tongue of yours in action.”

“You’ll be my slut?” I arch my eyebrow at him. “What exactly does that entail?”

“Whatever you want it to entail.” He rocks his hips toward me. “Eating out that gorgeous pussy. Fucking you every which way you please. Your wish is my command.”

“Mm.” I give his shaft a quick pump and he groans. “Tell me more what you’d like to do for me.”

And then I wrap my lips around his cock.

“Oh, fuck. Well—first, I’d let you ride me—” He shudders and twitches as I suck him, hard. “Thrust up into you and make you scream.”

“Mm.” I lift my lips from him. “Keep going.”

“Then I’d bend you over my kitchen counter so I could really appreciate that gorgeous, peach-ripe ass.”

I groan, unable to stop myself from imagining the feel of him slamming into me from behind. Especially these strong, powerful hips . . . these well-muscled thighs of onyx . . . I want it all. I take him into my mouth again and move my lips up and down, relishing the way it makes him tense and moan.

“I’m going to fuck you,” I tell him, backing away. “I’m going to ride you, just like you said. But it’s going to be on my terms. Is that okay with you?”

His mouth rounds into a gentle O. He’s looking at me like I just called down the moon for him. God, it’s intoxicating, the way Marcus makes me feel. I want to make him feel that way, too.

“Please,” he whispers. “Yes. Please.”

I stand up and peel off my panties. The only clothing I have left on is my bra, and if I’m going to be on top of him, I’d prefer the support. Slowly, as slow as I can, I shimmy my way back down to my knees, straddling him, and position myself over his erection.

“You’re mine now,” I tell him. Then, remembering what he said earlier—“Slut.”

He laughs darkly to himself as he slides inside of me. God damn, he feels incredible, pressing tight against my walls. I run my hands along the gorgeous dark brown row of muscled abdomen before me and cup my palms around his shoulders.

“You feel heavenly.” Marcus grips my hips and thrusts up into me. My head spins, delirious, as pleasure rocks through me at his thrust.

“So do you.”

“I want to feel you come.” His gaze bores into mine as he grips me harder—hard enough to leave a bruise. But I don’t mind. It only adds to the pleasure, lacing it with a sweet sting.

“So make me,” I tease.

He smirks, tightens his hold, and thrusts up into me like a goddamned piston.

Oh, my god. He finds just the right spot to drive me wild, slamming into it again and again. I gasp, trying to catch my breath, but my climax rises like a tidal wave to swallow me up.

I cry out, arching forward, hands going slack on his shoulders. His thrusts continue until he’s taut as a bowstring beneath me. Marcus grits his teeth and groans right in my ear as I slump forward on his chest. Then peppers kisses against my ear.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, slinging both arms around my waist. “Absolutely stunning.”

I start to stand, but he holds me tighter. It’s a weird and wonderful feeling. Most guys are practically shoving me out of bed the minute they get what they want. But Marcus nestles his nose against my throat, tender and sweet.

It’s a little wonderful.

And a little scary.

“I—I’m sorry. I really can’t stay . . .”

“You’re sure?” His lashes flutter against my cheek. “I’ve got a really comfy bed. Way better than this rug.”

I laugh, but already my stomach is wringing itself out. He can sweet talk me all he likes, but I know the end result will be the same. By morning, he’ll have forgotten my name. Forgotten how much he claimed he liked to be underneath me.

It never changes. I’m a novelty. Not a girlfriend. No guy can withstand my forcefulness for long.

“Maybe some other time,” I say, though I taste the bitterness in the words. I know they won’t come true. “Early class tomorrow.”

He sighs, and his arms go slack. “Okay. I understand.”

Reluctantly, I stand up, and excuse myself to the restroom. After I’ve cleaned myself up, I return to the living room. Marcus holds out my skirt toward me, and watches with a smirk as I shimmy back into it.

“If you’re free tomorrow,” he says, “I can leave some tickets for you at the box office. You can bring a friend if you want.”

I pause, fingers hovering over the buttons to my shirt. He can’t be serious. He’s just being nice. I force myself to smile. “Thanks. I’d like that.”

But I know what’ll happen. I’ll get a free hockey game, and no phone call. Nothing more.

I slip out of his condo as quickly as I can, trying to ride this high, but thinking all too much about the coming crash.

I’m practically skipping out the door as I chug my protein shake and slide into my hired car. Fiona Callahan. Fiona of the acid tongue and ferocious tits and hips that won’t quit and crafty, crafty mind. My god, she was incredible—just what I was hoping she would be. A little timid, a little uncertain in her role on top, but she more than made up for it with her enthusiasm.

I can still hear her delightful little gasp, ringing through my skull. Perfection. I need more.

Okay, so maybe the sex was a little more vanilla than I’d hoped. Not a problem. Everyone’s got to start somewhere. She has all the makings of a top-notch domme. She’s a natural, after all—always eager to put me in my place and hold me back, so we’d do things on her terms. Her timetable.

And the look in her eyes when she pinned my wrists back and told me—
Not yet
.

It’s nearly enough to get me hard again just thinking about it.

I watch the early-morning streets of Washington drift by in a frosty haze. Too early for the bundled-up lawyers and lobbyists of the West End to be out. Everything is a gorgeous sun-kissed gray, with empty sidewalks and unspoiled buildings. It feels like a new dawn. For the first time in—well, in I can’t remember—the tension is gone from the base of my skull. I am at peace with this world. Not a hunted man.

A free one.

The itch from under my skin is gone. I’m not choking on the need to visit Brimstone to atone. My god, it’s an incredible feeling. Almost as incredible as Fiona felt, slamming down onto my cock.

I grin slyly to myself. I’m pretty sure I can arrange for that to happen again real soon.

A memory of Rajani wafts toward me, lips pursed as she pretended to be stern.
It’s not just about the sex, Marcus
. And she was right.

It’s true here, too. Fiona is that rare spirit, one I’ve been yet to find in the endless stream of puck bunnies and gold-diggers who seem to be the only sorts of women willing to get within a mile of a guy like me. She’s her own woman. Opinionated, determined, unfiltered, unfettered.

And it’s intoxicating.

But I can tell she’s not fully at ease with it. Probably some asshole or two told her off for it—told her it wasn’t her womanly place to take charge. I wonder if that’s why she got so skittish there at the end. If she was expecting to hear the same thing from me.

Well, I’m sure I can show her otherwise. That I can appreciate all her angles. (And, god, all her curves . . .) Because I’m hooked.

I catch sight of my reflection in the tinted window. The huge grin. Yeah. I’m hooked.

And I’m screwed. In the best possible way.

The car drops me off in the back of the Eagles Arena in Chinatown. This morning, we have an optional skate, but for a guy in my position, there’s nothing optional about it. I need to have a chat with my shooting coach and some of the other coaching assistants besides—see what I can do about shoring up these “fundamentals” that have Coach Isaacs so concerned.

I head into the locker room to change and lace up my skates. There’s a mental ritual I like to follow when I’m lacing. It’s a little bit ADHD Coping Mechanism, and a little bit Life of a Submissive. Which, I guess, are one and the same for me. But with each tightening of crossed laces, I imagine my focus getting a little sharper. I imagine my body inviting in whatever pleasure and pain is going to come next. I’m putting on my armor, suiting up for battle. I can survive whatever comes next.

Survive, and thrive.

As I finish tying the knots in my second skate, the smattering of other Eagles players milling around suddenly snap to attention. Everyone starts clapping and cheering.

“Thank you, thank you, everyone. You are so much kindness.”

Drakonov’s back.

He flashes a gap-toothed grin at everyone as he struts into the locker room. He’s looking well-rested, but there’s more to it than that. Sergei’s positively glowing, looking on the outside the way Fiona made me feel inside. I share a knowing smile with him and grip his forearm for a brotherly shake.

“Good to have you back, man.”

“Is good to be back, my brother.” He steps back and looks me over. “I did not know you would be on the skates this morning.”

I toss a nervous glance over my shoulders, but the other players who turned up are chatting amongst themselves. Probably taking bets on how Drakonov’s going to perform tonight. Whether Coach will even put him in, or if he’ll just want him to stay limber and ease back into the game. I lean in toward Sergei and pitch my voice low.

“I can’t afford not to. Coach is really riding my ass.” I swallow. “Says I need to show more consistency—you know. Keep playing at a high level.”

Sergei pauses for a moment, processing the English, then nods. “I need you to be on the ice with me,” he says. “We play together well. When I give you the puck, you play it.”

“Well, Coach doesn’t seem to think so.”

Sergei runs his tongue against the edge of his teeth, like he’s plotting something. “Let us hit the ice together. We’ll see what we can do. Yes?”

“I’d really appreciate it, man. Thank you.”

He laughs to himself, eyes sparkling mischievously. “Don’t be thanking me yet.”

All too quickly, I find out just what he means.

Sergei Drakonov is brutal. He runs me through dozens of drills, enlisting Erik Magnussen, Tommy Banks, and a few other of our Defense guys to run screens while Sergei tries to snake the puck to me. Most of the time, I’m able to position myself just right to catch his pass and fend off the D-mens’ attacks.

But not every time.

It’s not Sergei’s fault. The guy’s a fucking demon, slipping the puck around all kinds of ungodly configurations. I can’t blame him a bit. I’m just not able to read every pass correctly, and predict right where the puck’s going to land.

“You watch the puck too much,” Sergei tells me, sliding up to me for a chat. “You do not watch me.”

I arch one eyebrow at that. “But I’d have to take my eye off the puck to do that.”

“No. You can do both. See? Like so.” His expression softens, almost unfocused, but I don’t doubt that he isn’t missing a thing. “Is not . . . what is phrase?” He beckons one of the team translators over, and they shoot some Russian back and forth, rapidfire.

“He says that you’re treating it like a zero-sum game,” the translator offers. “That this ain’t the goddamn Cold War, and you have to stay open to all possibilities.”

I start laughing. Of fucking course.

Here I’d accused Fiona of thinking everything is either-or, and now I’m doing the same damn thing.

“All right. I got it.” I roll my shoulders back and loosen up. “Let’s try it again.”