Page 81 of Playing Dirty
"Good girl." Only then does he draw it out, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving my face while I pant beneath him, and he tosses it toward the wastebasket.
He kneels up between my legs and wraps his hand around his cock, stroking himself, coating his own skin in the mix of my desire and blood before he presses against me, dragging the head of him slow along my pussy, catching my clit on the upstroke until I shudder.
"Cillian," I whisper, my voice a broken thread as the intimacy of it unravels me.
"You're so fucking beautiful, Margot," he rasps, his cock pulsing against me as he prepares to claim me. "There is nothing about you I won't take. Nothing between us tonight. Just you, exactly like this."
Then he drives home with one deep, possessive thrust. I cry out, my body clenching so hard I nearly come right then, dizzy with the force of how good it feels to have him finally in me. He begins to move, his rhythm hard and unyielding as he hammers into me, and because I'm so sensitive, every stroke feels like a lick of fire, pushing me closer to the edge.
He drives harder and harder, and I have never in my life been so thoroughly, blissfully wrecked. I come apart beneath him with his name on my lips, and the feel of it pulls him right over the edge after me, his groan buried in my neck as he spills into me, both of us shuddering through it together.
Later, after a long, warm shower, we finally sink back into bed. The lamp is off, the house gone quiet around us, and I'mboneless and half-dreaming, drifting in and out as his hand gently massages the small of my back, working out the last of the ache there.
"I’m fairly certain you’ve unraveled me for good," I mumble against the sheets, my voice sounding heavy with a blissful sort of fatigue.
"Then that makes two of us, Ace." He laughs quietly against my temple. "You unravel me in the exact same way."
I smile and he hums something low and tuneless against my hair, an old song I don't recognize, and I let it carry me under. The last thing I'm aware of is the steady rise and fall of his chest against me, his arms closed around me, and how completely safe and adored I feel.
21
Cillian
Los Angeles, California.
The puck rims hard around the boards and I beat their defenseman to the spot, taking a forearm to the base of my skull for the trouble, but I move it before the second man can line me up. The whistle shrieks, and thousands of fans immediately begin booing me by name.
We're in Los Angeles tonight, playing our biggest rival, and this crowd is loving every minute of it. They beat us out for the division last year and they've been smug about it ever since, the fans, the team, the whole organization.
And the truth that still burns is that they earned the right. I handed it to them. I came back from my injury too early to play right, and down the stretch, with everything on the line, I gave them exactly what they needed. Stupid penalties. Forced plays. Snapped sticks over the crossbar like the equipment was the problem.
But tonight we're up three games to none, and if we take this one, the series is buried. Vegas is already gone. Bury LosAngeles tonight, and the only team left standing between us and the Final is Seattle. Get through them, and it's the Cup itself, against whichever team survives the East Coast.
Which, if the season so far means anything, will be New York. Brennan. And there is no fucking way I'm costing this team anything else.
For the last few weeks I've been playing the best hockey of my career. The game feels effortless again. LA's been desperate to rattle me tonight, but they haven't found a crack in the armor yet. Though Decker, their resident pest, has spent two periods chirping at me, which he appears ready to do again right now.
He glides past as the linesmen sort out the latest scrum. "Hey, O'Rourke, I've been meaning to say how fucking pathetic you look out here. You should've gotten a lifetime ban after that stunt you pulled in the stands. But hey, if the league won't put you in your place, I'll happily do it for them tonight. Free of charge."
I roll my eyes. He's been running his mouth for twenty minutes, but the man is such a loser he can't even get a rise out of me anymore. He hasn't even attempted much beyond some playground trash talk.
"Any time you're ready to stop talking and start playing, let me know," I say, skating off before his brain can even begin to process a retort. I'd be waiting a lifetime.
A year ago, I'd have let him under my skin. A year ago I'd have swung, taken the major penalty, and handed them the momentum. Tonight he's just background noise.
Nobody's even managed to score yet. It's that kind of game, tight and mean, a team with nothing left to lose throwing everything it possesses at a squad trying to finish a job. And during a TV timeout, I finally let myself look up. Just once.
Company seats, halfway up on the visitors' side. Carol and Elaine flew down for Elaine's gallery opening and figured they'd catch the game while they're here, support the brandambassador, call it work. And right there next to them, hiding inside her own boss's cover story, is Margot.
She's watching me, chin propped on her hands, and she's so fucking gorgeous it almost makes me forget to breathe. I've never wanted relationships in my life before her, but with Margot, none of it feels scary or restrictive. It just feels like I was inevitably waiting all along for her to appear, and there's no uncertainty in it.
I turn back to the ice, and the cold focus comes down over me cleaner than it has all night at the sight of her, like my own personal lighthouse calling me back to shore. I take one slow breath, in and out, the way she showed me in Galway, and lock back into the game.
The grind continues, and midway through the second period, their defenseman finally cracks. We've been hounding him all night, and when Jonesy closes in on him, the lad panics and throws the puck straight up the middle of the ice. Suddenly it's on my stick and I'm all alone, the whole rink rising to its feet.
Last year's version of me would have rushed this. I'd have gripped the stick too tight, fired it straight into the goalie's pad, and screamed at the rafters. I watched that man miss for months on end.
So I take my time as I approach, waiting for the tell. The goalie has to move first; that's the whole secret. His knees buckle for a fraction of a second, and I wait for the opening. Then I slide it cleanly under his arm.
