Chapter 4 Say you wanted it

"Shut up." I said weakly.

Not ready for him to rub it in my face that I was one of his new conquests or treat me like a puck bunny.

He smirked, a crooked, arrogant thing that made my stomach flip.

"What? You don't remember?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, my voice trembling.

He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin just below my ear. He inhaled deeply, a slow, deliberate sound that made her knees weak.

"You do. You remember the night of your birthday. Two weeks ago."

I squeezed my eyes shut. Of course I remember. God, I remembered everything. The way he had looked at me across the bar, the way he had cornered me outside, the way my carefully constructed good-girl persona had crumbled under his hands. And now I'm stuck with something so life changing and I have to handle it alone because of how much of a jerk he is.

"You were so tight," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a dark, teasing growl.

"So nervous. But you took all of it like a good girl."

"Stop it," I breathed, but my hands came up to rest on his chest, not pushing him away, just gripping the fabric of his hoodie.

His hand left the wall and drifted down, skimming over my hip, his fingers tracing the waistband of my skirt.

"I’m wondering how all of this haven't been touch by anyone except me"

“Your worse enemy” he whispered,a dark tiny chuckle escaping his lips.

It made me feel dirty and so insignificant.

I hate him so much

"Get off me" I gasped, trying to get away from the monster. But my body was betraying me, heat pooling low in my belly, a desperate ache beginning to throb between my legs.

"You begged me to fuck you," he said, the words filthy and sharp in the quiet air between us.

"You scratched my back up so bad I bled. You loved it. You loved being ruined by the enemy."

He moved his thigh, pressing it forward, slotting it between my legs. I gasped, my head falling back against the wall as he ground his denim-clad leg against my core. The friction was sudden and electric, sending a jolt of pleasure straight up my spine.

"Look at you now," he taunted, his hand sliding up my side, his thumb grazing the underside of my breast through my shirt.

"All uptight, walking around like the perfect Queen Bee everyone thinks you are. But you’re wet right now, aren’t you? Just thinking about it."

I bit my lip, trying to stifle a moan. I could feel the dampness soaking my panties, could feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against my hip. He was right.

I hated him. He was arrogant, rude, and everything I stood against. But my body didn't care. My body remembered the way he had stretched me, filled me, broken me apart.

"I hate you," I whispered, the words lacking any real venom.

He laughed, a low, dark sound. He leaned down, his lips hovering just millimeters from mine, close enough that I could taste his breath.

"No, you don't. You hate that you want it again."

I hate how right he was,tears pricked my eyes and before I could process anything, His hand moved from my waist to the front of my shirt. He didn't unbutton it, he just palmed my breast, his fingers kneading the flesh roughly, pinching my nipple through the layers of cotton and lace.

I cried out shamelessly, my hips bucking against his thigh involuntarily, seeking more pressure.

"You were so loud that night," he murmured, his mouth grazing the pulse point in my throat, his teeth scraping the skin lightly.

"Screaming my name. Who knew the golden girl could be so dirty?"

"Say it," he commanded, his hand sliding under my skirt, his fingers tracing the damp fabric of my panties.

"Say you wanted it."

My breathing was ragged, my heart hammering against my ribs. I knew I should stop this. I should knee him in the groin and walk out. But the memory of that night was overwhelming, the scent of his cologne, the weight of his body, the way he had made me feel alive for the first time in my carefully curated life.

"I wanted it," I breathed, the confession tearing from my throat.

"Good girl," he mocked, his fingers hooking into the side of my panties and pulling them aside. The cool air hit my wet skin for a split second before his fingers were there, sliding through my folds, gathering my wetness.

"But we’re not done yet" he whispered, circling my clit with a maddeningly slow rhythm, making my legs shake.

The bass from the subwoofers isn't just a sound anymore; it’s a physical weight, vibrating through the drywall and straight into my spine.

But the rhythm throbbing between my legs is infinitely more dangerous. Hayes’ hand is shoved up my skirt, his fingers moving with a practiced, ruthless precision that makes my knees buckle. I bite down on my lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to stifle the whimper climbing up my throat. The scent of expensive liquor and his distinct, spicy cologne overwhelming my senses.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice a low rumble that cuts through the heavy bass. He curls his fingers inside me, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur.

“Soaking wet for the guy you were about to write up ten minutes ago. The Student Body President is a hypocritical little slut, isn’t she?”

I want to slap him. I want to shove him away and storm out of this humid, sweat-stinking place. But my body betrays me. My hips roll against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of that humiliating, exquisite pleasure. My nails dig into the shoulders of his black hoodie, anchoring me as the world tilts on its axis. The friction of his denim jeans against my inner thighs is rough, contrasting sharply with the slick, deliberate glide of his fingers.

“Shut up,” I gasp, but my voice is breathless, thin. It lacks the conviction I need. “Just… shut up.”

He chuckles, the vibration traveling through his chest and into mine. Clearly enjoying this. He pumps his fingers faster, the wet, lewd sounds of my arousal masked by the pounding music, but they roar like thunder in my ears.

He leans in closer, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he watches me come apart in his arms. I’m so close. The coil in my belly is tightening, winding up until I feel like I’m going to snap. My head falls back against the wall, thudding dully, exposing the column of my throat. I’m completely at his mercy, and he knows it.

Then, the vibration starts.

At first, it’s just a faint hum against my thigh, barely noticeable over the sensory overload. But then it comes again, a persistent, rhythmic buzzing that demands attention. My phone. It’s in the pocket of my skirt, trapped between the fabric and Hayes’ invading hand.

I freeze, the pleasure momentarily eclipsed by a spike of cold dread. The buzzing continues, sharp and insistent. I know that pattern. I set it myself. It's my Papa.

Cade feels it too. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers, but his eyes flick downward, a dark amusement spreading across his face. He slows his pace just enough to keep me on the razor's edge, denying me the climax I’m teetering on. He leans back, creating just enough space to look down at where his hand disappears under my skirt, then back up to my wide, panicked eyes.

His thumb brushing over my clit in a maddening circle. Threatening me to answer the call

I fumble for the pocket, my trembling fingers clumsy against the tight fabric. I manage to wrench the device free, the bright screen illuminating the dark corner of the room. The name flashing there makes my stomach drop to my shoes.

Papa

The fear and overwhelming emotions I was feeling before all comes rushing back,I remember the dipshit I'm in and feel so stupid to be here, being Hayes Ashford plaything when I have serious things to attend to.

The devil's smirk widens, stretching into something cruel when he sees the glare I shoot him. He doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he presses his palm flat against my mound, his fingers twitching inside me, a silent reminder of exactly where he is.

He leans in, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear, sending a fresh wave of shivers down my spine.

“Well, answer it,” he says, his voice dripping with false innocence.

“You wouldn’t want to keep your Papa waiting, would you?”

I stare at the screen, the relentless buzzing vibrating against my palm. If I answer, what will he hear? The music is loud, sure, but I’m pinned against a wall, panting, my voice wrecked.

But if I ignore it? If I let it go to voicemail? He’ll know I’m avoiding him. He’ll know I’m being distracted. The consequences for that could be just as severe. I’m trapped between a rock and a hard place, or in this case, between my Papa’s reprimand and the hockey captain’s fingers.