Page 65 of Ruthless Game

One.

Two.

On the third jerk, I came all over her naked back to the sound of her needy screams, painting it white with my cum—and my claim.

“Ah, fuck, that was good.”

I rubbed the cum into her back before lowering the jersey back over her, letting it absorb some of my cum.

“Hell yeah.” Had I ever been this satisfied? And it had barely been ten minutes.

I quickly uncuffed her from the spreader bar and wrists cuffs, picking up her trembling, distressed body and depositing her on my lap so I could rub any tingling out of her ankles and wrists.

“Lawson! Stop fucking your girl and get your ass out here!” Judah called.

“Shit,” I said, unbuckling the gag and pulling it slowly out of her throat and mouth.

“Asshole,” she croaked.

“Yeah, well, you can be mad at me later. No showering. I want you to smell like me when you’re in the stands. I want everyone to know.” Reaching for a glass of water on the nightstand, I held it to her lips. “Drink.”

She drank, shockingly not giving me any lip for my treatment of her. But then, I was learning that below all the good girl persona, Emma was kinky and hungry to try everything.

Lifting her off my lap, I steadied her on her feet, then stood.

“I’ve gotta head out, but I got you seats in the row behind the penalty box, okay? You met Tovah and Aviva yesterday; they’ll be there, too.” I kissed her, hard. “Be a good girl for me.”

And then, with a swagger in my step I hadn’t felt for ages, I left my girlfriend behind, in our room, ready to head off to the game and beat the shit out of the Tabb U Terrors—our rivals.

If this was what Coach, Asher, Levi, and Judah had meant by “get your damn head in the game,” then I was all on fucking board.

23

Emma

Afew hours later, I began to feel awful.

Not because, once again, Lawson had ruined my orgasm before I could even have it. My body was still buzzing from that, but not in a bad way. He was right, I liked when he edged me, the control he had over my body, the way I felt so free after. No, this wasn’t that. It wasn’t even his dried cum on my back, although I was a little worried people would be able to smell him on me.

No, it was because I was having what I worried was the beginning of a PCOS flare-up. I was beyond tired, and my brain felt foggy—and not from the orgasm denial. I was hangry and craving sugar. Oh, and I was bloated as hell. Cramping and severe “pelvic discomfort” (as my doctors had always called it) were what came after, and the last thing in the world I wanted was to be moaning in horrible pain at the hockey arena.

But what choice did I even have? It was clearly important to Lawson that I be there, and god knew what he would do if he didn’t see me in the stands. Jeffrey was on Tabb’s team, and was playing against him tonight, making it the perfect opportunity for Lawson to spill the beans about Jeffrey’s drug use.

Speaking of my brother, he’d texted, asking me to come home so we could “talk about stuff.” I didn’t want to see him, still too angry that he’d put me in such a fucking awful position, without seeming to feel any remorse. If anything, he’d seemed angry at me for getting tangled up with Lawson again. I loved my brother deeply. Owed him everything. But I was beginning to realize that Jeffrey was ten percent brotherly affection, ninety percent entitlement, and zero percent accountability.

When I got back to their house, my parents were gone. I wandered into the kitchen, feeling woozy and needing to eat something, but too nauseous to know what that was. They’d texted both of us yesterday that they’d be gone for an academic conference but would watch the game highlights later and were glad I’d be there to cheer Jeffrey on. As if I wouldn’t be sitting on the Kings’ side of the arena and cheering on my boyfriend instead.

Boyfriend. Holy shit. Things had moved with Lawson at such a rapid pace, and I was more afraid of my body’s easy acceptance of the progress of our relationship than the progress of our relationship itself. Shouldn’t I know better?

As I contemplated this, my brother appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at me. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and the heaviness of his presence made my hairs stand on end. I forced myself to relax. This was my brother, not a predator.

“You’ve been busy,” he noted.

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” I snapped.

I never snapped at him, but the headache and icky, achy feeling were suppressing my normal filter.

He put his hands up. “Whoa, whoa. I wasn’t accusing you of anything, just pointed out that I haven’t seen you. I missed you. How are you?”