Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (11 page)

“I’ll be frank with you, Marcus.”

Not exactly the words I wanted to hear. Especially from Coach Isaacs. I mean—it’s not that I don’t want him to be frank. It’s just that I don’t want him to feel like he has to be.

But that’s where we are. I look around his office, all those pictures and trophies and strategies taped up everywhere. And I feel like I’m locked inside a cage. I’ve been busting my ass on the road, but I know I wasn’t where he wanted me to be. My fundamentals are getting better. But they’re not there yet.

“I’m really happy with the improvements I’m seeing,” Coach Isaacs says. “But . . .”

“But it’s not going to be enough for the rest of the team,” I finish. “Is that what you were going to say?”

“It’s not enough for a lot of people, yes.” Coach Isaacs sighs. “It’s the inconsistency. Take Magnussen, for example. He doesn’t have nearly the points you’ve gotten in this season. You’re neck and neck for Drakonov in the points department, honestly. But he also hasn’t cost us as many plays as you have.”

I nod. There’s nothing more I can say to that.

“He’s consistent. He does what we need to do, he does it adequately enough, and he’s dependable. Like a machine cog. You, on the other hand, are a hot shot. You shoot hot, and then you go cold while you recharge. It’s not reliable.”

“You need to be able to depend on me.”

“Exactly.” Coach Isaacs rubs his jaw. “You’re getting there, Marcus. You really are. A few more weeks of improvement, and I think I can make the case that I need to make to the GM and all the rest. But it’s just not there yet.”

“I’ve been working with Drakonov,” I offer. Even though it sounds pathetic and whiny to my ears—I can only imagine how it sounds to Coach’s.

“That’s good. Your work with him has improved. But there are other fundamentals you need. Work with one of our defense guys. Get with Osbourne—find out what they need from you. There’s more to fundamentals than just racking up the assists and goals. You have to be well-rounded. It might even serve you well to chat with the team’s sports shrink.”

My stomach clenches at the thought of that. Not gonna happen.

“Shore it up, Marcus. Please. Can you do that for me?”

God, I hate when they phrase it that way. Like I’m failing Coach personally and not just professionally. Whatever happened to the separation? Does he really need to shock me with the double-pronged guilt?

He doesn’t even know. I’ve got more guilt than a Catholic convention.

I offer Coach Isaacs a thin smile and stand. “I’ll do my best.”

“The usual?” Carmilla asks, pulling a glass down from behind the Club Brimstone bar.

“Please. And a session with Victoria.”

Carmilla’s lips press together into a thin line. “Mm. Yeah. Just a second. I’ll need to go check on that.”

She finishes pouring my drink and disappears to the back office. What the hell does that mean, she’ll have to
check
on it? I give Victoria two grand and she kicks me around and makes me feel like shit for half an hour. I never lay a finger on her. Never do a single thing to disrupt our sessions. I’m their model customer.

For a switch, I’m the best-behaved submissive there is.

Victoria appears with the on-duty manager in tow behind her. My first clue something’s wrong is that Victoria isn’t in her usual outfit. She’s wearing yoga pants and an American University t-shirt, and her hair’s in an unwashed bun. Yoga pants, Vicky?
Et tu
? But it’s the expression on her face, like she’s the one who’s about to get lashed to shreds, that gives me pause.

“Listen, Marcus . . . I don’t think I should be your domme anymore.” She glances at the manager, and she gives Vicky a comforting nod.

“I—did I break some club rule I didn’t know about?” My drink feels lodged in my throat. “What’s the matter? Listen, if I pushed you too hard in our last session . . .”

“It’s not just that. I mean, you always want to hurt yourself way more than is really safe, but . . .”

Vicky sighs and steps toward me. The manager tries to pull her back, but Vicky shrugs her off, and rests a hand on my shoulder.

“Here’s the thing, Marcus. I don’t think I can give you what you really want.”

Absolution.
The word comes to me, unbidden. That’s what I want. To be absolved. But I shake my head. “Of course you can. Listen, if I need to sign an additional waver, or pay you more . . .”

“No, Marcus. It isn’t going to fix anything for you.”

I snort. “Who says I want to be fixed?”

“I’m gonna tell you this as a friend, Marcus, and I hope you take it to heart. I—I think you need a therapist.”

“Ex-
cuse
me?” I draw back as if she slapped me. “Okay, look, I thought here, of all places, you might be understanding of people and their kinks . . .”

“I know you have a kink. And that’s fine. If it were just a kink, I’d be happy to service you, no problem.” She smiles sadly. “But you need something more. Something that a flogger can’t fix.”

Something a flogger can’t fix.
No. But she’s wrong. She has to be wrong. She can fix this.
I
can fix this.

“See a therapist. Trust me.” Vicky smiles. “It helps.”

But she’s lying.

I shove a fifty-dollar bill on the bartop for Carmilla and storm away.

I step into Marcus’s living room to find him naked, curled into a tight ball before me. Faint scars web across his back, the pale damaged tissue stark against his dark flesh. Curiosity spikes through me, but now isn’t the time for questions.

Now I am in control. I am giving the orders.

“Look at you. Quivering and naked before me. So fragile. So breakable.”

My god, there’s such incredible power in saying these words out loud. In letting my inner dominatrix free. My new leather boots make a satisfying creaking sound as I pace around Marcus, and I savor the sensation. I am his goddess. His beginning and his end.

Five seconds into our first in-person scene and I’m already drunk on the sensation.

I reach down and trail one gloved finger against the ridge of his spine. He’s so warm, so perfectly sculpted. Marcus is a work of art, but an unfinished one, and now it’s my turn to mold him.

“Look at me. Look up at your mistress.”

Marcus tilts his chin up and locks that warm, deep eyes on me. It warms me deep in my belly, and tightens the space between my hips. I may be in control, but he still holds a great deal of power. He still makes me want him—completely, utterly.

God, it’s going to be hard to stick to my plan, when all I want is to climb on him right now.

He must sense what I’m thinking, because a slow grin spreads across his lips. “Why are you smiling?” I ask him, harshly as I can.

“N-nothing, Mistress.” But his eyes say otherwise.

I kneel before him and grip his face between my gloved hands. “Tell me. Now.”

He drops his gaze, abashed. “I was thinking how much I wanted to lick you. Slide my tongue under that lacy underwear you’re wearing. How easily I could rip it off of you.”

“And you thought of doing all of this, without your mistress’s permission?” I ask.

“Oh, yes.” The grin returns. “All that, and much, much more.”

I clench my thighs together. A fire’s building between them, but I have to take my time. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Thinking of defying your mistress.”

“Oh, I am. I ought to be punished for those thoughts.”

“Don’t worry.” I stand up and peel off one glove, letting it crack loudly throughout the cavernous living room. “I have just the punishment in mind.”

Marcus shivers.

“Stand up,” I bark. “Hands behind your back.”

Marcus rises to his feet. His erection bobs, thick and obtrusive, in front of him, and I smirk. God, I’d love to wrap my lips around that. But not now. I have a plan.

Fiona Callahan. Queen of making a plan and seeing it through.

I jerk Marcus’s wrists together, way rougher than necessary, and he gasps, pleased. The soft leather cuffs we purchased together in Adam’s Morgan earlier today fit perfectly around his wrists. I yank the fastenings tightly shut and swat Marcus on that perfect granite ass of his.

Her twitches with another delighted moan. “Yes, Mistress,” he purrs. “Please punish me.”

I seize him by one forearm and jerk him over toward the kitchen island. It’s just the right height for me to bend him over it at the waist. I press one hand to the back of his neck, forcing his face down onto the cold stone countertop, and take it the luscious view. My god, he’s so fit. I can make out every one of the muscles of his legs, his glutes, his back like he were a goddamned anatomical chart. It’s all mine for the taking. Every inch of his perfect body is mine to command.

“Five spankings,” I tell him. “And then I’ll decide your fight.”

He chuckles throatily to himself. “Yes, Mistress.”

Crack.
I try an open-palmed spank, though it doesn’t hit perfectly. I’ve done my research, but watching an instructional video on a BDSM site and actually doing it for myself is something else entirely.

Marcus’s response, though—the way his cheeks clench up, then ease again with a deep moan—oh, that makes it worth it.

Two. Three. A darkened imprint of my hand is starting to form on his right cheek. I reposition myself so I’m hitting his left for the next two. His gasps are nearly ecstatic now—unrestrained and delighted. Music to my ears.

Four.

Five.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he gasps. Enraptured. “Thank you so much.”

“I’m not finished with you yet.”

I reach into the bag from our sex shop and pull out a tube of lubricant, then work it onto the beginner’s dildo we bought. Marcus can’t see what I’m doing now; all he can hear is the cool sound of the lubricant as I work it in. He tries to squirm around to look, but I’m not going to give him the chance.

“Open wide.” I grin.

Marcus gasps as the cool tip of the dildo rests against his perfectly chiseled ass cheeks. I spread him wide with my fingers, then gently guide the tip into him. “Oh, god,” he cries. Good boy. Now, to see if I can find the spot, like the videos said . . .

Marcus heaves out his breath and his whole body goes rigid before me. Yep. That’d be the spot. I work the dildo in and out for a few strokes, as Marcus’s moans intensify.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he wheezes. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“I want you to show your appreciation.”

“Yes. Anything. Please. What does my mistress ask of me?”

I ease the dildo out of him and set it aside for later cleaning.

“I want you to come inside of me.”

I unbuckle his bindings and let him up from the counter. Turn him around to face me. He wraps me in a tight embrace, and sinks his lips against mine. Hungry, unfettered—we kiss like we’ve been starving for days. He tastes of honey and dark chocolate, and pulls me into his tide.

“As my mistress commands,” he whispers into my ear, and flicks his tongue against my earlobe. I groan and arch my back into him.

His lips drop down to suckle at the rise of my breasts, and he slips one tongue into my lacy bra cup and swirls it around my nipple. Oh,
fuck
, he feels so incredible. My nipple’s instantly hard between his teeth as he teases it out of my bra, and kneads my breast in one hand.

Then he lowers his other hand hand to my underwear and balls it into his fist.

He was right.

He tears it right off of me.

“So perfectly wet,” he murmurs against my breast, and slips two fingers into me. I stagger back against the countertop with a groan. “Please, Mistress. Let me thrust into you.”

“I expect nothing less.”

Marcus hoists me into the air. I lock my ankles around his waist, and he backs me up against the wall. Rage and frustration and desperation pulses between us as he pins me there and slides inside of me in one long, firm thrust. I groan, feeling every inch of him, tensing around him. I’ve waited so long to feel this again, and it’s heavenly.

“Fuck me,” I snarl, and wrap my arms around his back. Dig my nails into his skin. “Fuck me harder.”

His nicely spanked ass tightens and relaxes as he pumps into me against the wall. Each thrust is like an explosion between my thighs. I have to find purchase somehow, have to release this incredible tension inside of me. I bite into his shoulder, and he hisses with pleasure at the pain.

“Mistress,” Marcus whispers, between the soft grunts that accompany his thrusts. “I want you to do something for me.”

“Yes?” I ask. I’m barely hearing him, riding the edge of my own orgasm. “No—wait—”

The climax tears me apart, and my head is spinning, caught in the torrent of this bliss. I wail into the night. But Marcus doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting into me. It feels like it lasts an eternity. I want it to. I want nothing more than this. I drop my forehead to rest against his shoulder and shudder with release.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs. His lips feather against my scalp. “Permission to come, Mistress?”

I laugh against his shoulder. “Permission granted.”

“Mistress, would you do me the honor . . .”

I straighten up; pull him into me, clenching around him. “Yes?”

“Put your hands around my throat. Please.” He looks right through me. “And squeeze.”

I swallow, hard. All the sites I read said to be careful with breathplay. That it’s one of the most dangerous things you can do, and if you don’t know what you’re doing . . . “You’ll let me know, right, if I need to stop?”

“I promise,” Marcus says.

Well, I plan to be extra careful anyway. I’m not going to let him pass out. Just give him a little squeeze, until I feel his release . . .

My hands wrap around his throat, and I press, gently at first, then firmer, as his thrusts intensify. “Yes,” he whispers, eyes rolling back. “Yes. Harder.”

I press a little harder, but still, from what I can tell, nowhere near enough to cut off his breathing entirely.

“Harder,” he whispers. Almost like a mantra to himself. “Harder—”

And then I feel him pumping into me, his teeth gritting, his breath hissing through his lips. His face is beautiful in that moment—flushed with exertion and sweet and bitter all at the same time. It is a gift to behold.

Slowly, he eases out of me, and carries us both to his bedroom. We slump onto the sheets and curl up together.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” I ask. “I’m sorry, I’m not really comfortable with—the choking, I mean, I don’t really know what I’m doing—”

“No. You were great.” He kisses the tip of my nose and runs his hands along my arms. “Stellar. You’re a natural at this.”

I flush red. “Thanks. So are you.”

He laughs and pulls me deeper into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus says. “I shouldn’t have asked that. Not without clearing it by you beforehand. It won’t happen again.”

“It’s okay. Really.” I run my fingertip along the ridge of his stomach. “You were incredible.”

“How’d everything else feel? Did you like it?”

“It was unreal.” I exhale a deep, contented sigh. “I—I like this. I like it a lot.”

“I like you a lot,” Marcus says.

I blush again and look down. No one’s ever said that to me before. Certainly not
after
sleeping with me. I don’t really know how to respond.

“Seriously. You’re smart and clever and funny and sexy, and—did I mention sexy—and just so damned determined. It’s inspiring.” He kisses the top of my head again. “Look, Fiona, I’m not really sure what you want from me . . .”

“I like the way I feel when I’m with you,” I admit. “But I don’t know what you’d want from me.”

And, deep inside my head:
I don’t know if you’d still like me if you knew what I was researching.
But it’s who I am. I can’t, I won’t change that for any man.

“Well, let me make it a little clearer.” Marcus traces a slow circle around my arm. “Christmas is coming up . . .”

I laugh and bury my face in his chest. “Oh? And?”

“And if you don’t have any other plans . . . Well, my mom is having me and some of the guys from the team over, y’know, the ones who can’t really go home for the holidays . . .”

Oh, my god. A guy actually wants me to meet his family? I’ve never been that girl. I’ve always been the dark secret. The late-night booty call. Never the Christmas guest. A tiny thread of guilt works its way inside of me, but I shove it away.