His slips spread into a teasing smile. “Then tell me how I should move now.”
His laugh is a low, throaty thing that vibrates through me, a private sound meant only for the silence of this hallway. His eyes, dark and hungry, don’t leave mine as his hands slide from my scarf to cradle my face. The cool metal of his wedding ring presses against my cheek.
My breath hitches. “However you want.”
That’s all the permission he needs.
He pulls me flush against him, his mouth crashing down on mine. Damien’s kisses have always been claiming, even when they’re pecks, but after a game the kisses are damn near punishing and I love it. A searing, open-mouthed clash of teeth and tongue that tastes of victory and cold Gatorade and pure, unadulteratedhim. My hands fly to his shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard, defined muscle there, clinging to the solid reality of him as the world tilts off its axis.
He walks me backward, never breaking the kiss, our bodies a single, stumbling unit. My back meets the cold, unforgiving surface of a metal locker door with a dull thud that echoes in the empty corridor. The shock of the cold through the thin fabric of his jersey makes me gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his tongue delving deeper.
His hands are everywhere at once. One tangles in the hair at the nape of my neck, tilting my head to deepen the angle of the kiss. The other slides down my side, over the number on the jersey, his palm scorching a path to my hip. He grips me there, fingers digging in, pulling my lower body flush against his. I can feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against his sweatpants, a stark, demanding pressure against my stomach.
I need more.
The thought is a scream in my head, a primal urge that overrides everything else. I arch into him, a silent plea. He breaks the kiss, both of us panting, our breath misting in the cool air between us. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes glazed with a heat that mirrors the inferno raging inside me.
“This fucking jersey,” he rasps, his gaze dropping to where it hangs on me. His hand slips underneath the hem, his warm, rough palm sliding up my bare thigh. My skin prickles with anticipation, every nerve ending straining toward his touch.“You have no idea what it does to me, knowing what’s underneath is all mine.”
His fingers find the edge of my lace panties, hooking into the delicate fabric. He doesn’t tear them. Not yet. He traces the line where lace meets skin, a torturous, slow caress that has me pushing my hips forward, seeking more friction, more pressure,more him.
“Damien,” I whisper, the word a broken thing.
He answers with a low growl, finally giving me what I crave. His fingers slide under the lace, delving into the wetheat between my legs. I cry out, my head falling back against the locker with a loud crack. The sound seems to spur him on. He finds my clit with unerring accuracy, his touch firm and knowing, circling the sensitive nub with a rhythm that has my knees buckling.
“Look at me, Willow,” he commands, his voice rough.
I force my eyes open, meeting his intense, dark stare. His fingers never stop their delicious, maddening work.“I want to see you come apart. I want to watch it happen.”
He pushes one finger, then two, inside me, and my eyes nearly roll back in my head. The stretch is perfect, filling me just right. He curls his fingers, stroking that exquisite spot deep inside that makes me see stars. The coarse fabric of his sweatpants grates against my sensitive inner thighs as he shifts, giving himself better leverage. The scent of his sweat, his skin, his sheermalenessis an intoxicating cloud around us.
His thumb continues its relentless circles on my clit while his fingers piston in and out of me, the wet, filthy sound of it echoing off the tiled walls. Pleasure, sharp and blinding, coils tight in my belly. I’m panting, begging, a string of incoherent pleas falling from my lips.
“That’s it, Trouble. Come for me. Come on my hand while you’re wearing my jersey. ” His growl rolls over the curve of my ear, and I shutter at the heat of him.
His words, filthy and perfect, are the final trigger. The coil snaps. A wave of pure, undiluted ecstasy crashes over me, violent and all-consuming. My body convulses around his fingers, a choked scream tearing from my throat as I shudder against the cold metal, held upright only by his strong arm around my waist and the relentless push of his hand.
He works me through it, his movements gentling but never stopping, until the last tremors subside and I’m a boneless, trembling mess against him. He slowly withdraws his fingers,bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean, his eyes locked on mine the entire time. The act is so primal, so possessive, a fresh jolt of desire sparks deep within my sated body.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear.“That was just the warm-up.”
Before I can even process his words, his hands are on my waist, spinning me around to face the locker. The cold metal bites through the jersey, a shocking contrast to the heat of my skin. He pushes me forward until I’m bent over, my hands splayed against the locker for support. I hear the rustle of fabric, the distinct sound of a drawstring being untied, and then the rip of tearing lace as he yanks my panties aside.
The broad, blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance, slick with my arousal. He teases me with it, rubbing the length of him through my slick folds, making me whimper with renewed need.
“You consent?” he breathes against the shell of my ear, his body a furnace at my back.
“God, yes,please.”
He drives into me in one deep, devastating thrust that steals the air from my lungs. I cry out, the sound swallowed by the metal. He fills me completely, stretching me, claiming me. He stills for a heartbeat, buried to the hilt, letting me feel every inch of him. I feel utterly possessed, impaled on his cock, my body stretched taut around him.
Then he pulls back almost all the way and slams home again. And again.
His rhythm is brutal, unforgiving, born of adrenaline and raw need. Each thrust jolts me forward, my palms squeaking against the locker door. The force of it, the sheer power in his hips, is overwhelming. I can hear his ragged breaths, the softgrunts he makes with every plunge, the wet slap of our bodies meeting.
One of his hands wraps in the fabric of the jersey at my back, pulling it taut, holding me in place for his thrusts. The other hand slides around my hip, his fingers finding my clit again, already swollen and oversensitive. The dual sensation is too much, not enough, everything. Pleasure builds again, hotter and faster this time, a pressure coiling deep inside, fed by each powerful stroke.
“Fuck, Willow,” he groans, his pace becoming more frantic, more desperate. “You feel…unbelievable.”
