Chapter 7 I'm not a puck bunny
Tegan
The click of the door latch echoed like a gunshot in the sudden, cavernous silence. The air, previously thick with the scent of old coffee and nervous sweat, now felt charged, suffocating. It was just the two of us. Him, a monolith of cold intent in his chair. Me, standing on shaking legs, my body still vibrating with the brutal, secret violation.
My skin felt hypersensitive, the memory of his leather shoe grinding against me, into me, branded onto my flesh. The slickness between my thighs was a humiliating testament to a betrayal I couldn’t control. I could still feel the ghost of that relentless pressure, the way it had coiled a traitorous, shattering pleasure deep in my belly, right alongside the fury and shame.
He dosen't move. He just watched me, his ice-blue eyes tracking the rapid rise and fall of my chest beneath the ruined wool of my dress. His expression was utterly blank. No smirk. No triumph. Just… assessment. Like I was a piece of livestock whose reactions he was cataloging.
“You,” I managed, my voice a shredded, breathy thing. “You are… you’re…”
“Sit down, Tegan.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It was flat. Absolute. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was the resetting of a dislocated joint. Painful and non-negotiable.
My body obeyed before my mind could protest. I sank back into the chair, the wood cold through my thin dress. I felt exposed. The table was no longer a shield. It was a witness.
He leaned forward, just slightly, the movement predatory in its economy. He placed his hands, palms down, on the table. His hockey ring gleamed dully under the fluorescent lights.
He stood up,and with two long strides he was in front of me.
“Get your team to behave for a week” I replied, keeping my tone curt and pretending I wasn't unaffected by the lack of distance between us.
“Hmm…. making demands now?” His finger finds a stray lock of wavy hair he twirls with while boring his eyes into my soul.
An attempt to intimidate me but I won't bulge.
“Yes” I whisper. My heart pounding in my chest.
“You want the team in order for a week but I want you spreading your legs wide for me all week”
My breath hitched and I glare at him. He seriously isn't asking me to spread my legs for him all week like a good little slut.
“I'm not a puck bunny Hayes” I grit trying to sound angry.
“Hmm…then it's a shame I had the team arrange for the event to be indoors at the hockey house” his thumb brushes my lower lip softly, it tickles.
He what? If the party can happen indoors things will be a lot better because the number of people who’ll attend will be lesser which is a huge win for us.
“No…I'll do it” I blurt out.
“What was that?” the idiot asks with the corners of his lips twitching slightly.
“I'll do whatever you want” I seethe through my teeth.
I could feel the heat of him, the subtle shift in the air. I stared straight ahead, at the empty chairs, at the abandoned water glasses, at the reflection of my own wide, terrified eyes in the polished table.
His hands came to rest on my shoulders. They were heavy. Warm. I flinched, but he didn’t remove them. His thumbs began to move, slow, circular presses into the tight muscles. It was not a massage. It was a claiming.
“I'll get the boys to behave,” he said, his voice a low rumble just behind my ear. I could feel his breath stir the fine hairs at my temple.
“Rivalry Week will go smoothly. No police. No helicopters. No livestock incidents.” His thumbs dug in harder, a promise of pain.
His hands slid down from my shoulders, over the capped sleeves of my dress, tracing the line of my arms. They moved inward, skimming the sides of my breasts, and I stopped breathing. He didn’t cup them. He outlined them, a ghostly, possessive touch that made my nipples tighten painfully against the soft wool.
“You give me,” he continued, his voice dropping to a dark, intimate murmur.
“That sweet, slick pussy you were dripping for me under the table.”
A hot, shameful wave of arousal crashed through the fear. I squeezed my eyes shut.
His hands moved down, over my ribs, my waist, coming to rest on the tops of my thighs. His fingers splayed, his grip firm, almost bruising.
“These thick thighs,” he said, his tone devoid of anything but cold, stark desire.
“Wrapped around me. Or held apart. However I want them.”
He leaned down, his lips now brushing the shell of my ear. His next words were barely audible, a secret for the two of us and the hollow room.
“And these titties” he whispered.
“In my hands. In my mouth. Until they’re marked. Until you forget anyone else has ever touched you.”
He straightened then, removing his hands as suddenly as he’d placed them. The loss of his touch felt like being plunged into ice water.
I was trembling violently, my hands clenched in my lap. The images he’d painted, vulgar, explicit, degrading, were seared into my mind. They were a contract written in filth and desire.
“That’s my offer” he stated, walking back to his side of the table. He didn’t sit. He stood there, looking down at me.
“Their good behavior… for you. In my bed. On your knees. Wherever I decide. You ensure the week is flawless, and I get to finally see how deep that perfect-girl act goes. I get to break it.”
He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, shrugged it on with a single, smooth motion.
I couldn’t speak. I could only look at him, at this beautiful, monstrous boy who held my reputation, my future, and now, it seemed, my very body in his cold, capable hands.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He took my silence as the capitulation it was.
He walked to the door, paused with his hand on the handle, and glanced back at me over his shoulder. His expression was still empty, but his eyes held that dark, unwavering promise.
“I’ll be seeing you, Tegan.”
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
I sat there, alone in the ruins of my authority, the phantom ache of his touch on my skin, the vivid, horrifying promise of his words echoing in the silence, and the slick, undeniable evidence of my own treacherous body cooling between my thighs.
Like a wave of fresh air reality hits me hard.
Did I just agree to be Hayes' plaything for a week?
This is not happening,oh my god, another wave hit me but this time it's nausea. I don't fight it back like I do when people are around. I rush to the rest room and empty the contents of my bowel.
Out of frustration,I just stay there on the floor with no care of what has happened there before me.
Doctor Helena said my body might not be able to support the pregnancy but right now sitting here I've never been so sure I wanted something as much as I want to keep her.
Yes it's going to be a girl,I hope so. I'll have a mini me,the smile washes off my face as another wave of nausea hits me.
I stand up and walk to the sink ready to throw up but a voice from the boardroom stops me.
"OH.MY.GOD!”
