Page 118 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

She shudders.

My fingers drag down her arm, light enough to tickle. She has goosebumps. Down her arm, armpit, side. Along the outer edge of her breast, the bumps of her ribcage. Her breathing comes fast and shallow when I reach her waist, then her hip. I press, and she gives with the pressure. She rolls on her stomach, burying her face in her arm.

Carter is cut into her skin. It’s scabbed over, but the lines all look smooth cut and shallow. It might scar, but it was done with a sharp blade. One that didn’t rip and pull at her skin as he dragged it across.

I clench my jaw. When we discussed competition, she never mentioned Carter.

She mentioned me.

So it is the three of us, then?

There’s writing in marker on her other cheek, but it’s smudged to shit. I can only make out ass virginity. Judging by the plug, it’s now gone.

My fingers continue their exploration. I tap the top of the plug, and she groans. Her thighs are pressed so tightly together, her legs shake with the effort.

I move from her bruised ass back to her hip, to the outside of her thigh. Knee. Calf. Ankle. Foot.

She jerks away when I skim the sole of her foot.

I can see her tied up in my ropes. The special ones that I don’t think she discovered when she broke into my house. But there’s time for that later. If there is a next time.

Now, I want to open her up.

My trek north comes along the inside of her leg. She lets out a breath and rolls onto her back, her legs falling open.

Her cunt is wet and red. I’ve never seen one so flushed and swollen, her clit looking like it’s been teased mercilessly until now. When I get to her inner thigh, higher and higher, the noise starts. A little whine that she can’t seem to stop—maybe she can’t hear it. She digs her heels into the bed again, her hips jerking.

Chasing pleasure no one has given her.

But there’s Carter. Penn. Maybe someone else?

Not exclusive. That’s what she said.

So do I throw my hat in the ring or do I walk away?

“Oliver,” she whimpers. “Please keep touching me.”

I go still.

She knows it’s me.

Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?

“Oliver.” Her voice is stronger. “Oliver.”

She says it like a chanting prayer.

I glance around the room, noting the desk along the far wall, a chair tucked under it. Clothes in her hamper and not on the floor. She’s tidy. Everything with its place. Although there isn’t much here in terms of personality. The walls are white. There’s no artwork, no personal touches besides the rug and colorful blanket.

My house was always such a riot of colors growing up, this feels clinical.

I palm my dick. It stiffened the moment I walked into the room, but now it’s hard as steel. Her saying my name…

I drop my pants, kick them off with my shoes. I shed my shirt, needing to be skin-to-skin with her.

What I don’t want to do is torture her.

I put a knee on the bed, and she freezes. Her legs fall apart without shame, and I use both hands to run up the insides of her thighs. I drag her body in my direction, keeping hold of her legs. Keeping her ankles together and on one shoulder.