She's still asleep, but her body knows what it wants. Her ass lifts higher, presenting herself to me like an offering. I slide my hands under her hips to support her weight as I continue my assault, my tongue circling her clit before plunging back into her heat.
“Coach,” she whimpers, face still buried in the pillow. “Need you.”
She's fucking herself on my tongue now, her movements becoming more desperate as she chases her pleasure. I grip her thighs tighter, holding her steady as I fuck her. She's close—I can feel it in the way her pussy flutters against my tongue, in the broken little sounds escaping her throat.
“That's it, princess,” I growl against her slick heat. “Give it to me.”
My beard is soaked with her arousal, my chin dripping as she floods my mouth with her sweetness.
Suddenly, her back arches sharply and she cries out, her pussy clenching violently.
Her release coats my face, hot and slick, as her hips jerk uncontrollably. I don't let up, working her through it, drinking down everything she gives me.
She's still trembling, little aftershocks running throughher body as she settles back onto the mattress with a soft sigh.
I stand up, my knees protesting after being pressed against the hard floor. My cock is straining painfully, demanding attention. I unbutton my pants and pull down the zipper, freeing my aching shaft. It springs out, rock hard and leaking at the tip.
The bed dips as I climb onto it, positioning myself behind her. I grip my cock, guiding it to her entrance where she's still dripping from her orgasm. The head of my dick slides through her folds, collecting her slickness.
“So fucking perfect,” I whisper, watching the way her body responds to me even in sleep. I press just the tip inside her, feeling her pussy grip me hungrily.
Instead of pushing all the way in, I pull back out, wrapping my fist around my shaft. I start to stroke myself, the head of my cock resting against her entrance, teasing us both. Each upstroke brings me closer to the edge.
My grip tightens as I feel the pressure building at the base of my spine. I'm so close, right on the edge.
The visual is obscene—my angry red cockhead stretching her pink flesh just enough to tease but not penetrate fully.
My balls tighten as my orgasm approaches. I keep the head of my cock pressed against her opening, my hand working furiously. When I finally tip over the edge, I push just slightly deeper, making sure every drop of my release shoots directly into her waiting cunt.
My cum floods her, some of it immediately leaking back out around my cock and onto the sheets. I milk myself with slow strokes, making sure she gets every last drop.
When I'm finally spent, I carefully pull out, watchingwith fascination as a thick stream of white follows. Her pussy is overflowing with my seed now, unable to contain it all.
I can't help myself. I push back in with three shallow thrusts, forcing my cum deeper into her. The thought of it traveling up into her womb, maybe even reaching her cervix and taking root there, makes my cock twitch despite just coming. Something primal and possessive roars through me at the image of her belly swollen with my child.
“Fuck,” I whisper, finally pulling out completely and resting my still-hard cock between the soft globes of her ass. My hands can't stop touching her, palming and kneading the supple flesh beneath my fingers.
She's perfect. Every fucking inch of her. I trace the dimples at the base of her spine with my thumbs, watching goosebumps rise on her skin.
I thought I was fucked before, when all I did was want her from a distance. But now? Now that I've had her, tasted her, filled her up? I'm completely fucking ruined.
I lean down and press a kiss to the small of her back, tasting the salt on her. “Mine,” I whisper against her flesh.
Getting up off the bed, I tuck myself away before I pull the covers up over her.
I need to go back to my room and get at least an hour of sleep before I go put my boys through hell.
Chapter 8
Beckham
The taste of Hennessy's cunt is still on my tongue at five in the morning when I push through the doors of the arena. I've had exactly one hour of sleep, but my body is humming with energy that has nothing to do with the three cups of black coffee I've already downed.
The scrape of blades and echo of pucks hitting the boards tells me my boys are already here—probably thinking they're being proactive by starting early.
The ice doesn't give a fuck about your excuses. Neither do I.
Maris and Johnson, my assistant coaches, stand off to the side with clipboards, looking like they got about as much sleep as I did. Which is to say, none at all.
