Page 164 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“Am I a bad person for wanting this?”

They both shake their heads. They both seem… excited? Nah. That’s got to be my imagination.

Once they’re out of sight, I shed my coat and toss it on the other bed. Neither have been slept in, although they didn’t even give Oliver pillows. He lies spread-eagle on the stripped bed, naked except for his boxers. Each wrist and ankle are tied separately. There’s a black fabric bag over his head, and a thick pair of headphones on his ears over it.

I pick up the riding crop, running my finger over the folded leather tip.

He’s been completely still. I don’t know if he knows what’s coming, if he’s put together this much, or if he’s unconscious. Or maybe he doesn’t know that anyone has joined him in the room, and he’s still waiting.

I use the crop on his stomach.

His abdomen ripples, and his whole body reacts to the pain. He makes a muffled noise, somewhere between a curse and a groan.

I aim lower this time, just at the edge of his boxer’s waistband. The smack is satisfying, but his reaction is better. I’m taken back to Penn and me in the woods, and my cheeks heat. I move up the bed and run the tip of the crop along his skin. From his abdomen up his chest, to his hidden throat. Over his mouth, nose, eyes, forehead, then back down to his shoulder. Along his arm, to the fingers that are curled into fists.

I set it aside and go back to the bathroom. Penn and Carter are leaning on opposite sides, but both straighten when I appear in the doorway.

“Do you have your knife?” I ask Carter.

He pulls it from his pocket without hesitation.

I return to Oliver and cut away his boxers. I nick the skin at his hip purposefully, wanting him to know exactly what’s happening. He swears in Spanish, struggling worse against the ties.

He doesn’t want to be taken by a stranger either.

But physiology is basic. As soon as the scraps of fabric are gone, I lean over and touch his flaccid dick. I stroke it with one finger, up and down like I’m tickling him. It twitches and lifts a little. I spit in my hand and wrap my fingers around it.

I jerk him to hardness, and then I roll the cock ring down his shaft. His hips buck. He growls at his own response, I think.

“It doesn’t feel so good when someone knows how to turn you on, does it?”

My question is met with silence.

His cock is still twitching. The ring looks tight, but it seems to just be making things, well, more strained.

Before I toss the knife, I carve my initials into his hip. He swears again. I think.

With the knife safely on the other bed, I take a deep breath and pull off my leggings. I put my knee on the mattress and swing my other leg over his hips. I straddle him, his cock right in front of me, and settle on his thighs. Slowly, I lean forward. I grip the bottom of the hood and loosen the strap. I push the hem up to his nose and rip off the tape.

I want him to talk his way out of this.

The hood comes back down, and I cinch it tight enough to dig lightly into his throat. He can still fucking breathe—that’s the important part.

“Get the fuck off of me,” he growls. He slips into Spanish. Then back to English. “You fucking psychopath. This is?—”

I grip his cock, and his words die. I stroke him slowly, from the ring at his base to the tip and back. Precum leaks onto my fingers.

When I lean forward again, his dick is pressed between my abdomen and his.

I rip the headphones off, then resume stroking him.

As soon as I speak, he’ll know it’s me.

“Please don’t,” he finally breathes. “Don’t touch me.”

Something in me cracks open. I crawl up his chest and undo the hood, shoving it up past his eyes. Eyes that blink and squint, adjusting to the light, before coming to me.

He understands a little.