Page 138 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
“O-one of their t-teammates tried to rape me,” I say in a rush. “They stopped it, but they were wearing masks. H-he was wearing a clown mask.”
Carter’s fingers tighten on me. “Keep going.”
I sit up and sniff, shifting on his lap. “I need to change. I’m going to bleed?—”
“Get comfortable,” he says. “I don’t give a shit about a little blood.”
He grips my hips and adjusts me so I straddle him. Our faces are at an even height like this. His hands slide to my thighs, his palms sinking heat into my chilled skin through the thin leggings.
“Oliver told me to stay and watch their practice, then wait for them. He…” My gaze drops to Carter’s chest. “He came after me wearing that same mask, pretty much dressed exactly as…”
“The teammate.” His jaw tics.
“I ran for my life,” I whisper. “I tried to escape and then I tried to fight, and neither were good enough.”
If you asked me six months ago how well I’d fair against an attacker, I would’ve said something like, I’m quick, so probably decently. Now, my opinion has changed. I’m fucking easy prey, no good at saving myself whatsoever.
I’m the girl who goes into the basement when she hears a creepy noise in the middle of the night.
I’m the girl who runs upstairs when there’s an intruder in the house instead of going out.
I’m the one who tries to outrun the train instead of moving aside.
The first one to die in a horror movie.
Stupid.
Fucking.
Idiot.
“I’ll teach you,” Carter promises. “Okay?”
He wipes away my tears. Uses his sleeve to dab under my nose. Truly heroic behavior. If I didn’t know how dark he runs under the surface, I’d call him a white knight.
He clears his throat, then slowly reaches between my legs. I don’t stop him, but my chin wobbles when he runs his finger down and back up, coming away with Oliver’s cum and streaks of dark blood. It looks… erotic. And a little horrifying.
“He fucked you,” Carter says.
“He had me pinned. He told me who he was, but he didn’t take off the mask.”
His eyes darken—his pupils dilate. He drags me closer and leans in, planting a kiss on my throat. Right at the center, over my windpipe.
“You’re going to bruise there,” he says softly. His tongue flicks out, tasting my skin.
I lift my chin.
“Let me erase the memory of what he did to you.”
I huff. “How?”
“How, indeed…”
He puts me on my feet in front of him and drags my destroyed leggings and panties down. He helps me kick them off, then pushes my coat off my arms. It falls to the floor behind me. My shirt is next, and I strip out of it on my own.
“I’m on my period.”
His blue eyes meet mine, searching for what I’m not saying. When he finds whatever he’s looking for, he smiles. “I like a little blood, dream girl, remember? I don’t care if it’s fucked up, I just want to erase what they did to you.”