I take a deep breath.
I’m the coach. I need to set the tone. I straighten up. “Fletcher—”
He’s kissing my neck, his fingers trailing over the zipper on my vest.
“Fletcher, we can’t—”
“We can’t?” He hums, the vibrations sending tremors through my teeth. “What?”
“This.” I try to push him away, but even without the protective hockey gear, he’s solid granite.
“I’m your coach,” I gasp. “It’s against the rules.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the rules, Candy Cane.”
I scuttle backward, away from him. My office is small. I hit the whiteboard on the wall.
His palms slam on either side of me.
“I can’t sleep with a player. I can’t be that girl.”
“Guess what, Candy Cane,” he whispers, the words harsh against my mouth. “You already are that girl. I bet your pussy is so fucking wet right now. Bet it was ever since I kissed you this morning. Swollen and hot and begging for a cock. I’ve seen you on the ice in those leggings. Ass like that deserves to get eaten.”
“Don’t tell me”—his hands are warm as they slide under my shirt—“that you got into hockey because you like the game. Or did you do it because you—”
I try to dart around him. He’s right. I am a little horny.
He picks me up by the back of the vest easily, like I weigh nothing, and drops me in my chair. “Oof.”
His large hands land on the back of my neck. “If I can’t fuck you, then I at least want to see you come. You want me to win you another game?”
“You’re so full of yourself. I have Zayne and the Finn.”
“Fuck him.” He kisses me roughly, possessively. “Fuck all of them.”
He wrestles the vest off of me and unbuttons my plaid shirt. His mouth is hot on my tits. He sucks the nipple raw, teeth scraping it.
I should have worn pants with buttons, but it’s the holidays, and his hand slips easy under the elastic waistband. Hockey player grip strength is unreal, and his fingers practically feel like a cock as they stroke me hard. His mouth swallows my cries.
Anyone who walks past can see my face, sweaty and red. Thank god everyone was fired.
“I’m not going to—” I gasp.
One big hand claps over my mouth then moves to my throat, the other between my legs, squeezing as his knuckle is hard against my clit.
“Come on, fuck yourself on my fingers.” He’s behind me now. “I feel how wet and hot your cunt is. Fuck, you’re a little slut.” I whine as my hips buck against the chair. “You’d let every fuckhead on the Rhode Islanders fuck your pussy right now, wouldn’t you?” The hand squeezes harder on my throat.
“Guess what—you let any of them touch you, especially that fucking Finn, I’m gonna cut their fucking throat. Then I’m going to drag you into the locker room and fuck you till you can’t walk.”
Gosh, why does that sound like a fantastic way to spend the afternoon?
His index and middle finger slide into the tight opening of my cunt. I try to escape his fingers in my pussy, but my back presses against the hard back of the chair.
“We can’t, we can’t,” I chant as his fingers pull out with a slick sound.
But I want it.
“No,” he whispers harsh in my ear, “you just won’t bend over the table, show me your wet, greedy little cunt, and let me fill you up.”
