Page 93 of Playing Dirty
"I bought it specifically for you." She sinks back down against me, slow and deliberate, and rolls her hips. "I take it you approve?"
"I've never seen anything as perfect," I manage. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on.
"I felt like being a bit bold tonight." She braces her hands on my shoulders, her chin lifted in a challenge. "And I've decided that I'm the one in charge."
I arch a brow, even as the movement of her hips makes it impossible to think straight. "Oh? You think you can just take charge that easily? I had the impression you liked me throwing you around a bit."
Her fingers trail down my chest, feather-light, tracing the line of my collar. I reach for her, and she catches my wrist and firmly pins my hand back to the cushion.
"Behave yourself." A slow, wicked grin spreads across her face. "I do enjoy that, don't get me wrong. But tonight, I'm the one calling the shots."
She grinds down harder, and I can't stop my grip from tightening on her, my whole frame straining toward hers, and she feels it—the physical proof of how easily she's winning. She brings a hand up to cup my jaw, tilting my face to hers, and I surrender to it.
"I suspect," she murmurs, her lips brushing against mine, "that you're about to start begging. And I don't intend to show you much mercy."
I let out a low groan, the air in the small room feeling thick and electric, and I smile up at her with my breath hitching. "Is that so?" I ask, my voice dropping to a gravelly rasp.
"Mm." She sits back, cool as anything, and something in my expression must give me away, because her smile turns triumphant. "Now. Take your clothes off."
I hold her gaze and surrender without a fight. "As you wish."
God help me, I've never taken an order so gladly in my life.
Practice runs long, a hard session with the Final bearing down on us, and my body is aching by the time Whelan finally blows the whistle on us. It took six games to put Seattle away, every one of them a war, but the West is ours now, and Margotwatched us finish it from a secret suite above the ice, which might be my favorite thing of the entire round.
One series left in the season. The Stanley Cup Final, us against New York, opening on our home ice in four days. Best of seven, first team to four wins takes the Cup, and that simple, brutal math is all that's left between me and the thing I've chased since I was eight years old. New York means Brennan, of course. The universe wouldn't have it any other way.
Mam and Dad are already looking into flights to make sure they're in the stands if we clinch it, and I'm hoping my sisters can swing the time off work to join them. We're so fucking close I can taste it.
I'm more or less the last man left in the room, enjoying the rare stretch of quiet while the rest of the lads head out for food, when the door swings open. I look up to find Jonesy and Betts practically sprinting back inside, their expressions tight with concern.
"Cillian, have you checked your phone yet?" Jonesy asks, his voice laced with the kind of urgent concern that makes my stomach do a slow roll.
I frown, reaching for my laces. "No, why? I thought you two were halfway to the car."
They both look breathless, and Betts is the one who finally spits it out. "We ran back in because the story just broke. The media leaked that you're with Margot. They've got photos of the two of you together, Cillian. It's everywhere."
Something cold jolts down my spine. I lunge for my phone in the bottom of my bag, and it's already a war zone, notifications stacked halfway down the screen. The first headline I see is enough: CILLIAN O'ROURKE AND THE PUCK BUNNY, some breathless nonsense about the "ass-slap victim" and the disgraced golden boy, a secret romance, a scandalous affair.
There's a text from Derek in all caps telling me to call him immediately, and about forty more underneath it.
"Fuck," I mutter, thumbing through.
The photos are grainy but unmistakable. There's a shot of her in the passenger seat of my car as we were heading back to my flat after grabbing takeout last night. And then another, a clear view through the windscreen of us kissing at a red light on Van Ness, thinking we were safe in our own little bubble.
"For what it's worth," Jonesy says, dropping onto the bench beside me, "you look happy as hell in that one."
"Not helping, Jonesy."
"The comments are already a dumpster fire," Betts adds. "Half of them think it's romantic. The other half are, uh. Not kind. To either of you." He winces. "Don't read them."
Being a public figure means I'm no stranger to the spotlight, and I'm well-used to the relentless scrutiny from the fans and the media alike. Normally I'd just shrug it off and keep moving. It's just part of the job.
But Margot and I had a plan, a specific agreement to keep things discreet until the heat from the suspension died down. She was so desperate to avoid the circus, and I'd have done anything to protect her from this. And now it's all fucking blown up in our faces.
25
Margot
