Page 41

He shifted his angle and nailed my prostate on the next thrust. Stars exploded behind my eyes.

“Ahhhnnn,” I cried out, hips jerking helplessly beneath him. He did it again, harder. The pleasure was almost too much on top of the lingering pain. I felt raw, split open, remade around the shape of him.

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes again, but they weren’t from shame this time. They were from the sheer intensity of being held down and fucked while every fractured piece of me was still exposed.

George’s hand tightened on my cock, finally stroking in time with his thrusts; rough, possessive pulls that had me sobbing with overstimulation.

“You’re mine now,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “Not just your body. All of it. The hate. The fear. The parts you hid from everyone else. I’m taking them too.”

“Uhmm.” I came with a shattered cry, clenching hard around his cock, spilling over his fist and the sheets in weak, shuddering pulses. George fucked me through it, relentless, chasing his own release. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, and then he slammed in deep one last time and came with a guttural groan, flooding me with heat.

He stayed inside me as he softened, collapsing carefully over my back, careful not to crush me. His lips brushed the nape of my neck, then my shoulder, pressing soft, almost reverent kisses over the worst of the welts he could reach.

I was shattered, aching, full of him and his cum, and strangely, impossibly safe.

George eventually eased out, murmuring praise as I whimpered at the loss. He rolled me onto my side and pulled me back against his chest, one thick thigh pushed between mine, keeping me open and leaking. His hand stroked down my spine in long, soothing passes.

“Still with me?” he asked quietly, lips against my hair.

I nodded, too raw to speak, and pressed my face into his chest. The storm inside my head was quieter now.

For the first time, I let myself believe George might actually carry some of my pain, my fear, my shame.

I didn’t argue when he told me I was staying the night. I was too exhausted. Too sore. Too emotionally stripped bare to fight him on it. And, God help me, I was far too relieved to be held by the man who used to be my living nightmare.

Chapter Fifteen

George

The rematch against Ridgeback was supposed to be a hostile takeover on our own turf, but by the third quarter, it felt more like a brutal street fight. The air wasn't frozen like it had been at Wexford North, but the tension in the stadium was thick enough to choke on.

Across the line of scrimmage, Pavel looked like a man possessed. He’d spent the last few weeks rewatching the tape of me destroying him on their home field, and that humiliation had curdled into pure, desperate malice. His eyes were completely bloodshot behind his visor, his chest heaving as he spat on the turf right at my cleats.

“You think you're untouchable, Brooks?” Pavel hissed, his voice raw and shaking with unhinged anger. “You're a fluke. A media project. I’m going to break you in front of your own fucking crowd.”

I didn't even blink. I just stood there, towering over his frame and adjusting the tape on my wrists with cold, detached confidence. “You're talking awfully loud for a guy who spent the last game staring at the sky from his backside, Pavel.”

“Blue sixty! Blue sixty!” Scott William barked from under center, his cadence cutting sharp through the roar of the crowd.

He’d switched the code. Across the line, the Ridgeback defenders blinked, their defensive shifts faltering—they thought they’d figured us out, but they were entirely blind.

“Hut... HUT!”

Sam snapped the ball, and the second it left his fingertips, Pavel launched himself low, aiming straight for my knees—a dirty, low submarine rush designed to shatter an offensive lineman's legs. It was an asshole move, born out of pure frustration because he knew he couldn't beat me up high.

But my instincts were faster. I anticipated the cheap shot, dropped my center of gravity instantly, and used my massive hands to press violently down on the back of his helmet, shoving his entire momentum straight into the dirt.

He face-planted into the turf, and I step-clamped my heavy frame over his torso, completely pinning him down while Scott William effortlessly fired a screen pass to the right for a fifteen-yard gain.

The whistle blew, and Pavel scrambled up, shoving a referee out of the way as he lunged straight into my face mask. "He fucking shoved my head down!"

"Get the fuck back, Ridgeback!" Sam Howard exploded, sprinting out of nowhere and stepping right between us. His captain’s mentality locked in as he slammed his palms hard into Pavel’s numbers. "Touch him again and you're leaving this field in an ambulance!"

"He's dirty, Howard! Your boy is dirty!" Pavel screamed, the veins bulging violently in his neck, completely losing his mind as his own teammates had to physically drag him back to their huddle.

I caught Sam’s eye and gave him a brief, appreciative nod. Then I looked back at Pavel, flashing him a slow, mocking smile. I had him exactly where I wanted him: completely unhinged.

By the final two minutes of the fourth quarter, we were protecting a slim three-point lead. It was third-and-long on our own eight-yard line. If we didn't convert here and secure a first down, we’d be forced to punt, giving Ridgeback the ball back with a chance to win. The crowd was on their feet, a deafening, vibrating wall of sound.