Page 144 of Uncoachable

The words settle into me like heat spreading through frozen limbs.

I’ve imagined this a hundred different ways, usually in the quiet dark of a hotel room on the road, but none of those fantasies came close to the sheer, grounding weight of her looking at me like I’m her home.

I don’t even remember moving.

My hands frame her face, my fingers tangling deep in the hair she usually keeps pinned in such a tight, perfect knot. I’m kissing her with a hunger that is less about lust and more about a lifetime of searching for a place to land.

She kisses me back just as hard, her hands sliding into my hair and tugging, pulling me closer until our teeth clash in a frantic, messy rhythm. The sound of her laughter is muffled against my lips—a wild, breathless sound that tells me the Ice Queen has melted.

“Oh,” she breathes, breaking away just enough to press her forehead to mine. Her chest heaves against my own, her skin already radiating a feverish warmth. “That felt… overdue.”

“You have no idea,” I mutter.

I trail my mouth along her jawline, pressing my lips to the sensitive, pulsing cord of her neck. My stubble grazes her skin, and she lets out a low, shaky moan that vibrates through my bones.

“I’ve been restraining myself like a damn saint, Iveline. You have been driving me out of my mind since you arrived.”

She lets out a husky laugh, her fingers tracing the line of my shoulders. “You? A saint? I’ve seen your penalty minute totals, Callahan. You’re a lot of things, but a saint isn’t one of them.”

“Well, you make it impossible to keep my head in the game,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend, my hands sliding down to her waist. “Standing there in those suits, looking so composed while all I can think about is what you’d look like with your hair down and your back against my headboard.”

“Good,” she says, her voice dropping into that dark, velvety register. “I’d hate to make anything easy for you.”

That’s the spark to the fuse.

I lift her, her legs snapping around my waist. Her heels dig into my back, pulling me into her as if she’s trying to merge our heartbeats. I carry her toward the bedroom, my mouth never leaving hers.

I try to pull her down, to bring that friction flush against me, but Ivy plants her palms against my collarbones. She forces me back until the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the mattress and I’m anchored there, captive to her sudden shift in momentum.

“My turn,” she whispers.

I watch, mesmerized, as the woman who commands the sidelines with a terrifying, brilliant iron will sinks slowly to her knees between my legs.

The sight of the Coach of the Reign—the woman who never bows, who never yields—kneeling in front of me makes my pulse thrum a heavy rhythm against my ribs.

She doesn’t rush.

She treats the denim like an obstacle she intends to enjoy dismantling. Her eyes remain locked on mine, dark and predatory through the sweep of her lashes, as she slowly eases the heavy fabric down my hips.

The first touch of her lips is a revelation of silk and heat, a searing contrast to the cool air of the room. When she finally takes me into her mouth, the world outside the four corners of this bed ceases to exist, dissolving into a hazy blur of sensation.

I lose the ability to form a coherent thought, let alone speak, as her throat begins to work on me with a rhythmic, agonizingly slow slide.

She keeps her gaze locked on mine, making sure I see the absolute devotion in every deliberate stroke. Her tongue swirls around the sensitive head. She uses her hand to wrap firmly around the base, anchoring me to her as she draws me deeper, the suction creating a heat that makes my vision go dark at the edges.

Every time she slides back down, the slick glide of her saliva and the heat of her breath against my inner thighs send fresh jolts of electricity straight to my spine.

“Fuck, Ivy,” I hiss, my hips stuttering upward, seeking the feel of her mouth.

She looks up at me, her eyes hooded and dark with a predatory satisfaction.

She reaches up, her thumb tracing the vein along my dick before she takes me back in, deeper this time, her throat tightening around me until the air leaves my lungs in a sharp hiss.

My breath hitches, turning into a raw, guttural groan that vibrates through my entire frame and echoes off the quiet walls. My fingers instinctively tangle into the dark silk of her hair, my knuckles white as I grip the strands to keep my balance.

“Ivy—stop,” I choke out, the words breaking over a sharp, ragged exhale. “I’m not going to last…”

She pulls back just enough, the wet, glistening evidence of her work catching the low light and making her lips shine.