Page 128 of Uncoachable

He doesn’t wait for permission. He catches my wrist, his grip firm and searing, and drags my hand down. He pins my palm flat against the hard throb of his cock through his suit pants.

I gasp, a sharp, broken sound catching in my throat.

“Don’t pretend you’re surprised,” he whispers, breath unsteady. “You’ve been pushing me to this edge all damn season.”

He slides the key into the lock. The click echoes in the hallway like a gavel.

He stalls for half a second—a final, silent heartbeat for me to walk away.

If I say his name now, he’ll stop. He’ll let me go and we’ll go back to being the Captain and the Coach, two ghosts haunting the same ice. But I stay silent. My fingers curl instinctively into his shirt, bunching the fabric until my knuckles go white.

The door clicks open.

The apartment is dim, washed in the amber glow of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Callahan doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He simply watches me, his gaze peeling back every layer of defense I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting.

“You look…” His voice is a low, roughened rasp. “…insane.”

I smirk, even as my knees feel like water. “Insane? That’s a compliment, right?”

He doesn’t smile. Instead, he closes the distance in two heavy strides.

His hands find my waist and haul me forward until my chest is crushed against his, the air leaving my lungs in a startled huff. My hands fly up to his shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard muscle there.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand three feet away from you and not be allowed to touch you? To watch you move and have to pretend I’m not dying to put my hands on you?”

His hand tangles deep into my hair, his fingers threading through the strands at the base of my skull. He tilts my head back, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a reverence that makes my eyes flutter shut.

“You spend all day telling men where to stand,” he whispers against my ear, his breath warm on my skin. “But in here? I’m going to show you exactly how much you’re worth. I’m going to worship every inch of you until you finally believe it.”

He lets out a low, guttural sound and his mouth crashes onto mine.

His tongue slides against mine, and I meet him with a ferocity that shocks me. The control I’ve clung to for years vanishes. I’m clawing at him, pulling him closer, my tongue tangling with his as I taste the bourbon and the desperation.

He spins me, my tits pressing into the cool wall while he grinds his heavy, aching dick against my backside. He finds the zipper at the back of my dress. The metal teeth part with a sharp, hushing sound. The fabric falls away, pooling at my feet, leaving me in nothing but black lace.

I can hear his breath, ragged and ruined, right against my ear.

“You have no idea,” he says, his hands sliding down to bunch the lace of my panties. “I’ve hallucinated this. I’ve woken up in hotel rooms with my sheets soaked because I was dreaming about the way you’d look spread out like this.”

He turns me toward him and lifts me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, my heels digging into his lower back. He carries me toward the bedroom and lays me back against the sheets, hovering over me like I’m the only prize that matters.

He strips with an impatient, violent energy and then he’s back, skin on skin.

I reach out, my fingers trembling as I trace a jagged scar over his ribs. He winces, a sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth.

“Does that hurt?”

“Everything hurts right now,” he groans, leaning down to press his face into the hollow of my neck. “But this… this is the only thing that makes it stop.”

He moves lower, his lips trailing a path of liquid fire along my collarbone, his stubble grazing my skin with a delicious, stinging friction.

When he hooks his calloused fingers into the silk waistband of my lace panties, he pauses, the tension in the room thickening until it feels like a physical weight. His knuckles dig into the prominent jut of my hip bones with a possessive, bruising force that makes my breath hitch in my throat.

He drags the lace down slowly, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that feels more intimate than the nakedness he’s exposing. As the fabric hits the floor, he sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed.

When he reaches out to nudge my legs apart, his hands are trembling. He stares at me and lets out a sound that’s half groan, half sob.

“Look at this,” he mutters, his voice a gravelly wreck. He uses his thumbs to pull me open, his fingers parting my pussy to expose my clit, already glistening for him. “You’re fucking dripping for me. My sophisticated, brilliant coach is a total mess.”