Power Play (Center Ice Book 2) (10 page)

“And then I’d slip a blindfold over your eyes.”

“Mmm.”

Nothing but her wonderful scent and the sounds of her moving around the room. My muscles loose and ready. Prepared for whatever glorious pleasure and pain she means to bring me.

“Then we’d have a little fun exploring. I could try out different sensations on you . . . Feathers across your skin, giving you goosebumps . . . An ice cube running along those luscious ridges of your stomach . . . Ohhh, and then my lips, trailing up your thigh, stopping just short of that well-hung cock . . .”

I groan as pressure builds between my legs.

“And then, if you’ve been a very good boy up to this point, I might ask you what you’d like me to do next.”

“Permission to speak, Mistress?”

She giggles—probably blushing again. God, I wish I could see it. “Granted.”

“I’d love nothing more than for you to straddle my face and let me devour that fucking sweet pussy of yours.”

Fiona sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m not untying your hands.”

“Don’t need you to.” I grin. “You bring that hot little cunt of yours to me. I will pry you open with my tongue and suck that swollen clit until you scream.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Fiona whimpers, and my grin deepens. I’m feeling pretty confident now that she’s set that laptop aside. But most of all, I’m imagining her straddling me, letting her sweet and sour juices coat my lips, as she arches her back and moans while I’m bound in place, helpless to do anything but please her, make her come . . .

“Did I please you, Mistress?” I purr. “Did you come for me?”

A muffled, nervous laugh. “Yes.”

“Mm. Bet you I can do it again.”

She laughs again. “You’re on.”

“Just bring those glorious hips right down on mine . . . and I’ll fuck you until you see stars.”

“I would love nothing more than to ease myself onto that long, hard dick and squeeze you ‘till you moan.”

Oh, shit. “Truly you honor me, Mistress.”

She laughs again. “I’d lift my hips up and slam them down onto you . . .” Her voice is getting aggressive, like she’s clenching her teeth. I’d like to make her clench a lot more. Watch her bite that plump lower lip, watch those perfect breasts bounce . . .

“And I’d rock up to greet you, each time. Imagining how beautiful you look. Knowing how beautiful you
feel
. And I’d hold on for you, Mistress, I’d hold on, until that moment I felt you lose control, and then I could lose it with you—”

“
Fuck
,” Fiona cries, her voice pixelating through the cell phone speakers. “Oh,
fuck.
”

Oh, fuck indeed.

“Good girl,” I whisper to her. “Good girl.”

She laughs back at me, still breathless. “Good boy. You were a
very
good boy.”

I swallow, hard, basking in the afterglow.

“Come back to DC,” Fiona says. “So we can try that in person.”

“Is that a promise?” I grin.

“You bet.”

And now I’m going to need a shower to rinse off.

What the flip is this boy doing to me?

Not boy, I scold myself. This incredibly strong, powerful, clever, and handsome man.  A shiver runs down my spine at the memory of our late-night phone calls. They become habit while he’s away with the Eagles—each night, he takes a hot bath and I walk us through one of the scenes I dug up in my research into BDSM.

Each night, I let my inner dominatrix a little further off the chain.

Each night, I feel more and more powerful.

And each night, he drives me fucking wild with that deep, dark voice of his and his quivering desperation to see me pleased.

God, it’s incredible.

I just wish the story lurking in his past would stop staring me down. From the shadows. From the long empty silence after we hang up the phone. From all the answers David Gresham wouldn’t give me in his interview.

I’m trying to let it go. I have to let it go. I can’t mess up the first real relationship I’ve had go right—the first time a man didn’t balk when I showed him my true self.

But I was born to dig for deeper truths. Sooner or later, I know I’ll get the itch.

Marcus is playing pretty damn hot and cold, from what I can tell, while they’re on the road. Mariko invites me over to her favorite sports bar to watch a few games, and I try to swill my martinis and understand what’s happening on the televisions screens while people scream and pound beers around me.

“What’s up with Wright?” I ask her, when he doesn’t show up on the ice for a long stretch. “Why hasn’t he played?”

“Isaacs keeps pulling him.” Mariko shrugs and chews on her thumbnail. “He’s having a weird streak. The District of Sports blog thinks he’s rattled about the whole farm team threat. But it’s weird, you know? He’s getting way stronger, when he’s on, but then it’s like—I dunno. It’s like he starts to remember that he’s supposed to be nervous, and then it throws him off.”

“But he’s playing better overall?” I ask. Probably a little too hopefully, judging by the raised eyebrow Mariko gives me.

“He’s racking up the assists. When Drakonov scores, it’s usually because Wright passed to him. But it’s hard to say.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s just not consistent. He gets—he gets rattled. I dunno.” She punches her shoulders up into the air. “Hopefully he’ll get there. All-Stars Game is in four weeks. A lot of people are pushing for the Eagles management to nominate him. But others won’t mind if he gets sent down to the farm.”

What’s got him so rattled? I shake my head, trying to puzzle it out. All I can think about is how evasive David Gresham was about this mystery ex-girlfriend of Marcus’s. His submissive. There’s still so much no one will tell me about what really happened at Jefferson & Adams. There has to be another piece to the puzzle I’m missing.

I can’t ask Marcus—not now that we’re in this . . . whatever it is that we’re in. Relationship? It’s too much for me to hope for. Whatever it is, it feels mighty fragile. I don’t want to ruin it.

But I also don’t want to ruin my shots at Astro News.

“Good morning, Fiona, darling.” Mum is radiant in late afternoon sunlight streaming into whatever bombed-out husk of a house she’s lurking in now. A shaft of sunlight gilds the side of her face with a saintly glow. “Howre you doing?”

“Pretty well, actually. You’re looking happy, too.”

She draws a tight smile. “We’ve had a break in our story. The rebel leader has agreed to an interview with me, and he’s going to allow me access to their training facility, provided I don’t release the story until after their next putsch.”

“That’s fantastic, Mum! Seriously. That’s huge.”

Mum bats her eyes, basking in the praise the way she always does. “Oh, it’s nothing, really. Just reaping the benefits of a sterling reputation for journalism.”

I manage to keep myself from rolling my eyes where Mum can see. “I’m very proud of you, Mum.”

“And how about you, Fifi dear? How is your story coming along? Gunther’s very eager to read it, you know.”

My heart sinks. “You told Gunther Bernhardt about my story?”

“Well, of course I did. He’s mighty impressed with it. Said it showed a great deal of maturity in thought and ambition, after all. Dismantling the mythos of the sports industrial complex . . . It’s brilliant, really, and Gunther thinks so as well.”

The pit yawning inside my stomach widens. I’m no longer sure I want to keep digging into Marcus’s past—at least, not in the way Mum thinks I’m trying to do. There’s another story, though, that I can see winking at me on the horizon. Something about BDSM culture, and the long-term effects it has on people. David left the scene, after all, after whatever it was that went down with their group of friends. What’s the real story there?

“So . . .” I draw out, and Mum’s eyebrows immediately furrow. “I’ve been kind of running against a dead end on the sports corruption story.”

“But Fiona. There’s endless other avenues to explore. We both know it’s an issue; it’s just a matter of finding the right lead.” She scowls. “No cold cases, only—”

“Only cold trails. Yes, Mum, I know.” I exhale loudly. “But I think there might be something more interesting I’ve stumbled on. A bit of a human interest exploration . . .”

“Human interest?” Mum snorts. “Human interest? Darling, what could be of more crucial interest than global corruption, warfare, strife, political upheaval?”

“But this isn’t warfare and upheaval. It’s just sports.”

“And it affects the global economy. It’s a massive industry, Fi, just waiting to be toppled. Imagine. You could be the straw to break its back.”

“But I don’t want to break anyone’s back.”

Mum stares at me hard through the screen. “Fiona, what’s gotten into you?”

I shake my head. Nope. Not having this conversation with my mother. Not now, not ever.

“God. You’re just like your bloody father, sometimes.”

I grit my teeth. “Don’t you dare—”

“Always chasing the fluffy stories, the nonsense that doesn’t matter. We’re making a real difference in the world over here. I’m putting my life on the line. Don’t you see the value in that?”

“Of course I do, Mum. You’re brave and determined, and it matters. It really does. But that doesn’t make other stories—it doesn’t make them less valuable.”

Like Marcus said. I swallow. The world isn’t zero-sum.

“Well, do whatever you need to get this foolishness out of your system.” Mum rolls her eyes. “But I expect you to have this
real
story finished by the new year. Gunther will be expecting it. Nothing could be more crucial for your career.”

My career. Great. As Brigid Callahan, 2.0. Not exactly everything I was hoping for.

“I’ll have it done, Mum. Gotta run—research calls. Good luck with your rebel leader!”

“Fiona—”

I end the call.

And flop back into my pillow with a stifled scream.

I should leave Marcus and his past well enough alone. Drop the sports corruption story entirely. But I know there’s story in here somewhere. Something worth telling. I could see it in David’s eyes. In every tremor of Marcus’s; in every moment that he looks like he’s living another life.

What the hell happened to him? What sort of story does it tell? Can it help someone else?

David said he was speaking on behalf of their whole circle of friends. But he’d also indicated that he and his old boyfriend from those days, his submissive, Andrew Frick, were no longer speaking. So it’s possible that Andrew is outside of David’s circle.

I run a few quick searches on “Andrew Frick DC” but nothing turns up. Drew Frick gives me a ramen chef in Adams Morgan who looks nothing like the pictures I saw. Hmm. He could have moved elsewhere. I try “Andy Frick,” for one last attempt.

Andy Frick is a coordinator at Sadie’s Hope, down in the Shenandoah Valley. A ranch and shelter for LGBT victims of domestic violence and abuse.

Sadie’s Hope offers new hope to those who’ve been damaged by partners, lovers, friends, strangers, and more. A new hope. A new day.

Damaged. The word works its way under my skin and sticks.

David had said something about BDSM, and that all too often, “abusive assholes” had used it as a cover for their own controlling behavior. Is that what Andy felt had happened to him? Is that how he really saw Marcus and this mystery girlfriend?

My stomach clenches, hard. I want to throw up at the thought.

But no. I can’t believe it. Marcus wouldn’t harm a soul—David had said so himself. And Marcus is so careful with me, always seeking my permission at every step, making sure I’m comfortable with what we’re doing. And, crucially, he lets
me
be the one in control. Beyond coaching me along the way, he lets me call all the shots. Hardly controlling.

But maybe it’s David who was the real danger. Maybe David hurt Andy in some way, and it shattered the entire group.

No matter what the case, there’s a story here. A story hidden deep in the depths of BDSM culture, a story that otherwise wouldn’t see the light. That might be able to help people in similar situations who can’t find their own way out.

I start writing an email to Andy Frick.