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He wasn’t sweet, but I didn’t want him to be, either. He fucked like an animal, and with every thrust, he drove me into the bed with no remorse. He screwed me as if he loathed me, and I took it like a champ. I loved every fucking second.
“Fuck,” I moaned, grasping the sheets. “You fucking bastard.”
He muttered something I couldn’t hear before he plastered himself against my back again. He buried his face in the crook of my neck and laid desperate kisses on my skin. His teeth nibbled, and then he bit down hard, and we both groaned.
The hickeys he left behind were a sign of his hate. He wasn’t kind in how he bit me, and I welcomed it. When we went to practice tomorrow, I wanted my neck to throb with pain as a reminder of what we’d done together.
I reached down under my body to grab my dick. Need hit me like a puck to the balls and it was exactly what I’d craved. I didn’t care if it was with him. I needed to get off andnow.
“Fuck.” I jerked off faster. My orgasm ripped through me, robbing me of breath and making me gasp. My dick throbbed as I unloaded, cum splattering his bed.
He wasn’t far behind me, and the only sounds he made were grunts. He stilled and gripped my hips harder, and I knew I would have bruises there tomorrow.
Finally, he pulled out, and I glanced around in time to see him dump a full condom he’d tied into the trash can beside his bed.
I chuckled. “Well, that was fun.”
“Get the fuck out.” He stood beside the mattress and pointed at the door. “Like I said, you’re only a hole. Out.”
I snorted and rolled off the bed. Shaking my head, I grabbed my underwear and slid them on before doing the same to my jeans. “You could’ve at least said thank you, Birdy, for giving me the best orgasm I’ve ever had.”
“You wish.” He glared. “I’ve had better.”
“I don’t believe you.” I winked at him. “Let me know if you want to do it again.”
Laughing, I left his room.
7
ATLAS
The weekafter I banged Wystan Finch, I was all over the fucking place about what I wanted to do—and murder wasn’t entirely off the table. One minute I was sure I wanted to pack up all his shit and toss him and his mother out of my house, regardless of what Dad would have to say about it, the next I thought maybe I just wanted to hide in my room and avoid him.
It didn’t help matters that he’d milked my cock like a pro, and I wanted more, which pissed me off.
Either way, I didn’t want to see his face, and I did a good job of skipping family meals and the “Sunday Funday” Elissa planned for everyone over the weekend. Let Dad and his girlfriend go off and pretend they had a happy family. Like fuck I was spending three goddamned hours with Wy and his mom. Seeing Dad and Elissa smiling at each other and kissy facing was annoying before, but now I wanted no part of it.
And Dad was worst of all.
I couldn’t stand the way he glared at me every time he caught sight of me. It made me want to put my fist through a wall—or his face. Somehow, even though I’d worked my ass off every time he’d asked me to do it, I was still the disappointment. Part of me wanted to scream at him and tell him to fuck off, and the rest of me just wished I could do better so he would be happy with me.
There probably wasn’t a height I could reach that he would consider the top of the mountain.
Practices sucked, and not because I didn’t love hockey or moving my body. I just felt like I’d been robbed every time Coach Hill told Wy to take the lead in drills or show someone how to push themselves to hit top speed on the ice.
Classes were the one thing that was fine. My major was Health Science and Administration, and as far as I knew, Wy was doing something with chemistry, which was just fine. I didn’t want to see him more than necessary. Having him sit in one of my classes smirking at me would’ve been the final straw. I might’ve gotten into my car and driven away—consequences be damned.
This afternoon’s practice promised to be just as much of a pain in the ass as every other one had been lately, and the second my blades hit the ice a heavy weight settled onto my chest. I’d come early on purpose to have a few minutes alone—it was always nice on Saturdays because the crew resurfaced the ice right before practice—but Boss was already hanging out, skating around in shorts and a T-shirt while slurping a king-sized iced coffee from Grounds and Gears. I groaned when I saw him half-assed practicing spins. Watching him drink while he twirled on his skates made my stomach ache in sympathy.
“What are you doing?” I called.
He stopped and wobbled for a second, grabbing hold of the board near him, then laughed. His drink rattled, and he slurped the last of the coffee from the bottom of the plastic cup. He’d probably been out last night and was battling a small hangover, and I’d stayed in. I hadn’t wanted to hang out with everyone on the team and hear how fucking great Wystan fucking Finch was all over again.
“Wy said that if you can do spins, it’ll help you be more agile on the ice and you can keep your balance better if you do get hit.” Boss shrugged and gave his cup a sad frown.
“Oh, he did?” I snarked and couldn’t have helped my tone, not even if someone standing at my elbow had a sack full of twenty dollar bills and all it would take to get it was a promise to be nice. I couldn’t be anything except pissed off about Wy.
Fuck.
