Page 139 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

I need that, too. It doesn’t matter that it might be considered wrong. I need to feel something other than the skin-crawling sensations Oliver left me with.

He motions for me to turn around. The couch creaks slightly with his movement, and something wet touches my ass cheek.

His tongue. He runs his fingers along the scabbing letters. They’re still covered in a smattering of healing bruises.

“Hands on the coffee table.”

I bend over, my nerves taking over. He nudges my legs wider and pulls at my hips. I open my mouth to question him when his mouth lands on my pussy.

“Oh, shit,” I groan. “You shouldn’t?—”

He laps at my clit just enough to tease me, then moves to my entrance. His tongue plunges into me, and I almost jump forward. This is so twisted, but his hands on my hips keep me against him. He groans, too. His teeth nip at my flesh, followed by his tongue. He goes back to my clit, playing with it. Flicking the tip of his tongue. He pushes two fingers into me.

“Fuck.”

He pulls away slightly, kissing the crease where my ass and thigh meet.

“All gone.” He smacks my ass. “Now come sit on my cock.”

I rise, glancing back at him. He runs his thumb across his lower lip, catching a spot of blood there, and then he reaches up and undoes my bra with nimble fingers. I let the straps fall down my arms and turn back around. His jeans are open, his cock hard against his stomach. After a moment, he shifts and slides them completely down.

He smirks when I straddle him again. I fist his cock between us, stroking slowly. Around and up, twisting and squeezing. He leans in and sucks my nipple into his mouth. The one that Oliver bruised. He leaves his own mark on me, while his fingers wander up my back, to the top of my spine.

Something slips down my chest, between my breasts.

The necklace.

I touch my throat with my free hand, trying to catch it, but he’s faster. He tosses it onto the coffee table and meets my eyes with a smug look of his own.

“You’re mine. No doubt about it, babe.”

His hand covers mine, slowing my strokes. I rise on my knees, and he helps line himself up. When I drop, I keep my attention on his eyes. My lips part at the stretch, the way it feels good and sore at the same time.

“Does this do it for you?” I say, stilling when he’s fully seated inside me. “If there’s no adrenaline?”

He chuckles. His response is to grab my face with both hands, slamming his lips to mine. His hips move under me, and the micromovements almost undo me. I hold on to both wrists, willing him to keep his hands on my face.

It’s grounding.

I was sinking in the arena, I’m spiraling now.

Carter catches me.

He pulls away just enough to speak. “Just because I sometimes need that doesn’t mean I don’t also enjoy this.”

I lick my lips. “But the knife?”

“Pocket.”

I release one wrist and drop my hand to the waistband of his jeans, following a wandering path until I find it. It’s a silver folded knife. He takes it from me and opens it, then offers me the handle.

I take it. The weight of it… I think if Carter cut all the clothes from my body, I’d be more than turned on for every cut.

But Oliver took the excitement out, leaving only fear. Even if he was turned on by it, I wasn’t. My body was not on board. Even realizing it was him. Even though he made me come.

That’s confusing, too.

I press my thumb to the point. It cuts immediately, sinking into the pad without resistance. A drop of blood wells up, and I bring it to my mouth. There’s something in his eyes, though…