Page 136 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I still can’t look at the mask. I don’t know where his attention is, but he makes little noises every time he slides into me. His movements get jerkier the closer he gets to climax. He picks up speed and suddenly stops. His hips move slower, his body tensing.

After a long moment, he sits back on his heels. His hands go to his thighs, and the lack of touch allows me to breathe again.

I rise on my elbows and look at the damage to my leggings. There’s no fucking way I’m walking out of here like this. The hole is the size of a fucking dinner plate, and my panties—without the tampon, there’s nothing stopping the blood from spotting the thin strip of fabric. Soon enough, it’ll soak through.

The roller coaster of emotions that I just went through fucks with my head. I drop back down and cover my face with my hands. I will the heels of my palms to catch the sudden flood of tears. They don’t.

He’s still wearing the mask, and I… I go back to that numb place.

He runs a finger from my entrance up to my clit.

I ignore it. Him. My voice is still absent. I don’t trust myself to speak, because I’m barely holding on as it is. I can’t tell him to stop with my words.

Aren’t my actions enough?

The way he’s kneeling, my legs are still pinned open. The breath I draw in is shaky, as is the one I blow out. Everything inside me is quaking, my axis shifting and trying to orient with a new truth.

Not Bear.

Oliver.

He dips his fingers in me and then goes back to my clit, over and over until he finally stays where I would need it. If I was going to come, which I’m not.

I’m not turned on, I’m not going to orgasm.

I can’t even fucking look at him. Or anything. I won’t remove my hands until it’s safe, and there’s no safety here.

The hardest pill to swallow is that it’s my fault. I told Carter what had happened, yeah, but I also told him Oliver was to blame. Do I blame Oliver? To a degree. Do I think he told Andi to do it? Not so much. But Carter doesn’t see shades of gray—he sees right and wrong.

And that was wrong.

He’s still touching me.

It needs to stop.

I shift, trying to escape his fingers, but his other hand presses down on my abdomen. He doesn’t let me escape until I’m squirming for another reason.

“Don’t.” I thought my voice had abandoned me for good, but it comes out as a rasp now. “Just stop…”

He doesn’t.

Listening doesn’t seem to be his fucking strong suit today.

He drags it out of me slowly, the pulse of pleasure ugly as it winds through me. My back arches, trying to escape his touch, but he keeps me still. A finger goes inside me, and my muscles clench at it.

Everything hurts. I let out a low whine through my teeth.

The orgasm finally releases me, and I sag to the floor. He inches backward.

I lower my hands from my face.

Oliver’s mask is pushed up, revealing his face. His fucking blank expression. My anger is a simple flutter in my chest. I can’t summon more than a whisper of it.

Disbelief, maybe.

Horror that he’s so… he doesn’t care.

When he shifts back farther, allowing me to close my legs, I lash out. My foot slams into his chest, knocking him away.