Page 129 of Uncoachable

He nudges my legs further apart, his gaze raking over me with an unvarnished hunger that makes my blood hum.

His hand slides up, his palm cupping me fully. I hear the wet, slick sound of his fingers sliding against my pussy, and I let out a sharp, broken gasp.

“Fuck,” he whispers, watching the way my hips hitch upward into his hand. “You’re making a fucking mess of my hand, Ivy.”

He doesn’t stop. He works his thumb in slow, agonizing circles against my swollen clit, while two of his long fingers curl and slide deep inside me. He finds exactly where I’m most sensitive, hooking them upward, stretching me until I’m forced to realize just how much I’ve been craving this.

I arch off the bed, my spine curving like a bow, a broken, jagged sob escaping me as the composed Ice Queen melts into a desperate woman who just wants to be consumed.

“Tell me what you need, Ivy,” he commands gently, his fingers beginning a devastating, rhythmic pump inside me that mimics the act I’m craving. He watches the way my face twists with pleasure, his thumb never ceasing its relentless friction. “I want to hear it. Don’t go silent on me now.”

“You,” I gasp. My fingers tangle desperately in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, trying to pull his face toward mine, but he resists, staying anchored between my thighs. “I need you, Cal. All of you. Please, I’m begging.”

“What a good girl,” he murmurs against my thighs, and the praise hits me harder than any physical touch, sending a fresh wave of moisture between my thighs.

He settles between my knees, his chest heaving, and uses his tongue to trace a slow, agonizingly wet line from the inside of my thigh up to the very edge of my pussy. I try to close my eyes, to lose myself in the sensation, but his hand suddenly clamps firmly over my jaw, forcing my head up.

“Eyes on me, Iveline,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I want you to watch exactly what I’m about to do to you.”

I’m paralyzed, my breath hitching in a series of broken gasps as he stares me down. He leans in, his tongue slowly licking a stray drop of moisture off my skin, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Sit still for me,” he breathes against my damp skin, his thumb pinning my clit with just enough pressure to make me whine. “Don’t you move a muscle until I tell you to.”

He begins to lick me then—long, slow, predatory strokes that are rhythmic and demanding. Every time I try to arch away or hide my face in the pillow, his grip on my thigh tightens.

“I said watch,” he commands, pausing just long enough to look up at me. My mouth is hanging open, my dignity long gone, and my face is a mask of pure, helpless wanting.

A slow, devastatingly sly smirk spreads across his lips, slick with the evidence of how much I want him. He looks at my trembling lips, then back at the wreck he’s made of me.

“What’s the matter, Ivy?” he taunts, his head tilting slowly to the side as his gaze lingers on my flushed skin, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “Cat got your tongue? Or did you finally run out of clever things to say to your Captain?”

I can’t answer. I can only sob his name as he dives back in, his mouth devouring me with a ferocity that finally breaks the last of my silence.

His teeth graze me lightly, just enough to sharpen the pleasure into something bordering on pain, until I’m sobbing his name and my hips are bucking frantically against his mouth.

I’m unraveling, my hands clutching at the pillows as he drinks me in, refusing to let me go until I’m shaking with a violent, messy release.

He pulls back just enough to see the aftermath, his face slick and set in a look of raw hunger. Then he’s over me, crawling up the bed until he’s pinning my hands to the pillows with an easy, bruising strength.

“I want to hear you break,” he whispers, his lips hovering an inch from mine. “I want to hear that voice you use to command the world turn into nothing but my name.”

He shifts, the broad, pulsing head of his dick probing at my entrance, teasing the opening until I am whimpering for him.

He pauses, his breath hitching as he reaches blindly for the nightstand. His fingers fumble with a small square packet, the foil snapping open with a sharp, clinical sound that feels incredibly loud in the heavy silence of the room.

I watch, my chest heaving, as he rolls the latex down with a trembling urgency. The sight of him—so focused, so protective even in his desperation—makes a fresh ache bloom deep in my belly.

When he finally moves into me, it is a slow, agonizing slide as he forces his way in, stretching me so wide I have to gasp just to keep air in my lungs.

I watch his face, the way his jaw tightens and his veins cord in his neck as he pushes past my resistance, burying himself inch by painstaking inch.

My breath hitches, then breaks into a stifled cry that echoes off the walls, my body stretching to take all of him. He fills me so completely that there is no room left for thought.

He doesn’t move at first, simply staying buried deep within me, his forehead pressed against mine as he waits for my muscles to stop their twitching.

“That’s it, Ivy,” he pants, his chest heaving against my breasts. “Just like that. You’re being so fucking good for me.”

He begins to withdraw, pulling back slowly until he is almost entirely gone, the absence of his weight a cold, sharp ache that makes me whimper. I instinctively tilt my hips up, my heels digging into the mattress in a desperate search for his return.