“You think I’m doing all this because I’m confused?” he asks. “You think I bust my ass on that ice for the sticker or the prize bag?”
He moves toward me slowly, deliberately. I back into the desk. His skate guards click faintly on the floor like a warning.
“You should leave,” I whisper.
“Tell me to. Order me to.” His teeth graze my neck.
My lips part. But no sound comes out.
“You’re the coach. You own me. So tell me not to bend you over and fuck you.” Fletcher leans in, one hand braced on the desk beside me, the other cupping the back of my neck like he did earlier—possessive. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, voice low. “Unless you order me not to.”
I don’t. I can’t.
And when his mouth crushes mine, hot and hungry and devastating, I realize I’m already gone.
“What drill do you want to run, Coach? Hmm?” His head dips down, helmet bumping my jaw as he pulls my tits out of the lacy red bra.
He pulls his plastic mouthguard out, tosses it on my desk, then attacks my tits, working the nipples with his teeth, his tongue sucking them raw as the heavy gloves force my legs apart.
I pant as the raised logo slides against my clit—the best kind of friction.
The red lingerie has a secret surprise that makes for precarious sitting. Wearing the fabric of the gloves, it takes him a minute. He stares down at the wetness on his gloves.
“It’s a good thing you won.” I look up at him, chest heaving.
“You got your cunt all nice and pretty for me, didn’t you, Candy Cane?”
“I just wanted a win.”
“Nah, you wanted to get fucked.”
“No.” I grab the chin strap of his helmet. “If you lost, I would have made you sit there and sweat and watch me get myself off.”
He growls low in his throat. “I won, so your pussy is mine.” He gives me another bruising kiss. “You ever been fucked by an NHL star?”
“No,” I whimper.
“No, your daddy didn’t let you fuck any of his NHL buddies. You didn’t spread your pussy for any of them?”
“I’m not a virgin,” I choke out.
He uses the handle of his hockey stick to tease my pussy. The taped handle nudges at my opening. I groan as it slides in.
His rough glove is on my neck. He pushes up the short white skirt and falls to his knees, the heavy padding clicking and shifting under the jersey as he goes down on me.
I clutch at the smooth helmet, the clear visor bumping against my hip as his tongue forces its way between my pussy lips, lapping at me as my cunt soaks the thin scraps of my crotchless lace panties.
“Does the NHL know how much of a puck-bunny cum slut their newest coach is?”
I moan as his tongue twists on my clit. Then I screech as he stands up abruptly, my head almost crashing into the ceiling tiles.
He thuds me against the whiteboard; the markers clatter to the floor. “You’re hell on my knees.”
“We’ll have to do more leg strength training. I have some drills.” I breathe then moan as he gives me a punishing lick. I know what he can do. I’ve seen him on the ice.
I wrap my legs around his neck and ride his tongue, ride the fingers until I’m coming all over his face and helmet.
“You gonna actually score, or you just going to play around on the ice?” I pant then groan as he continues to lick my pussy clean.
