Page 48 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

Oliver’s hands dip lower, nudging aside the hem of my panties. He reaches my core and swipes a single finger down to my slit, pressing into me.

I groan.

“Likes it,” Penn says. “Make her groan again.”

Oliver remains silent, but he finger-fucks me lazily, giving me the bare minimum. I clench around him, but every time I do, Penn takes my breath away.

It isn’t long before the mess of sensations has the tears running down my cheeks.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, and that’s my only indication that he’s going to come. He spills down my throat, and I choke on it. I try not to swallow, but it’s impossible. I fall forward to my hands as soon as he withdraws.

Before I can expel it, he drops to his knees and pries open my mouth.

He spits.

I jerk again, but he clams a hand over my mouth.

“Swallow it,” he orders, his green eyes boring into mine.

I can’t look away.

Cold air touches my ass. Penn doesn’t release my face, and then something large is sliding between my cheeks. Down lower, to my core. Bigger than a finger.

Oliver strokes his cock through my arousal, then lines up?—

I stare at Penn as Oliver thrusts into me. The goalie’s hand on my face keeps me from flying forward, and his lip ticks up in a shadow of a smile. Oliver’s fingers dig into my hips. All I can think is—what the fuck am I doing?

But I’m too lost in it. Staring at Penn while his teammate drills into me is doing some weird things to my arousal.

Like increasing it by a thousand.

Penn moves to my side, keeping his hand on my face, and he reaches between my legs. His fingers skate over my clit, and I groan again.

This is dirty. We’re on the floor of my father’s office—their coach’s office—and yet, none of us stop. Penn’s fingers rub me into a frenzy, and Oliver matches his pace.

I cry out. It’s muffled by his palm, but it seems to echo in the small space nonetheless. The orgasm that hits me is rough. It wrecks me, my limbs turning to jelly, and it takes me a minute to realize Oliver has finished, too.

He pulls off the condom I didn’t notice him put on, wadding it in a tissue and dropping it in the otherwise empty trash.

“Guess we win the bet,” he says to Penn.

The latter slowly peels his fingers off my face, tipping his head to watch me.

I finally swallow. With intention.

“Good pet.”

I rock back on my heels. The regret is immediate, but the horror of my actions take longer to sink in. It isn’t until the door closes, the snick making me raise my head, that I realize I zoned out while they packed up and left.

And my shirt is gone.

fourteen

sydney

Convincing myself that walking out in a bra and jeans is a fashion statement, I leave the office with my head held… not high, really. But not afraid.

I stick to the far wall and hurry to the stairwell, taking the steps a few at a time in my hurry to get down to the exit. I can’t risk going to the main level, where they sell t-shirts and jerseys. One, because I’m fucking poor. And two, because I’m pretty sure the doors have already opened.