Page 51 of The Playmaker
“God? Is that one of the names you used to call me, Pretty BallerNina?” he asks, the horrible nickname pushing all my buttons. But I’m beginning to believe he likes teasing the hell out of me, because he likes it when I shoot my mouth off.
“Not even close.”
“Then tell me. When I pissed you off, what did you call me?”
“Mainly an ass.”
“I like ass,” he says, and cups my cheeks harder. “Tell me what else you called me. When you and Jess stayed up late at night whispering, what were all the nasty things you said about me?”
“I said you were a cocky bastard.”
“Cocky. Hmmm.” He presses his lips to my neck and says, “Yeah, that sounds about right.” His lips glide over my wet skin, and my stomach flutters. Jesus, he sure knows just how to touch me. “Did you ever call me a prick, Pretty Nina?”
He slides his hand around my waist and tugs, lifting my ass to him. His cock slips between my legs, and I cradle him with my thighs. Passion-drunk, I shift, move, anything to get him inside me, but he holds back, clearly wanting to play with me longer.
Bastard.
“Tell me,” he says. “It’s good to work out the anger.”
“Of course I did. I hated you. You were a total prick.”
“You weren’t the nicest girl around, either, you know”
“I know,” I say, and think about all the times I gave him the death glare. I’m pretty sure I flipped him off a few times, too. But I can’t think about that right now.
Jesus, touch me already. Put your fingers inside me
“When you called me that, were you thinking about my prick?” He pauses, and when he inches back and breaks the contact, I nearly cry at the loss.
I glance at him over my shoulder, about to beg, but my mouth hangs open when he takes his big cock into his hands. He strokes it with long, swift caresses that burn through me, taking my temperature from simmer to inferno. As heat and desire bombard me, my knees wobble. Who knew I’d like that so much?
“Like what you see?” he asks, his lips quirking at the corner.
No sense in lying, so I whisper, “Yes.”
Green eyes sweep over my body, linger on my spread legs. He slides a hand between my thighs, coming so close to my sex. “Yeah, me too. So, when you were calling me a prick, were you thinking about how good mine might feel sliding inside you?”
He strokes himself harder and I gulp, because yeah, I was thinking those things. But I can’t admit that. I just can’t.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll know as soon as I put my finger inside you,” he says, his voice full of determination and conviction. “I bet I’ll find you all wet and clenching as you remember those days.” When I go quiet, he says, “Don’t forget, we don’t like each other, so it’s fair game to say whatever we want to each other.”
At that quick reminder that this is some messed-up game we’re playing, I suck in a fueling breath and say, “Yes. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“Would you touch yourself when you slid between the sheets, Pretty Nina? Play with this hot little pussy while you thought about me filling it?”
OMFG. His dirty mouth is doing the most delicious things to me, and I swear the second he touches me, I’m going to come all over him. I begin to pant. Seriously. I’m panting. Like a goddamn St. Bernard left in a hot car, in Death Valley.
“Yes,” I manage to get out through gasps as my body quivers, aches to join with his.
“Yeah, thought so.” A sound catches in his throat, a half laugh, half moan. “Do you have any idea how much abuse my cock suffered because of you? Fuck, girl. I can’t even count up the amount of nights I fucked my palms until they were raw.”
My heart nearly stops at that revelation.
I twist, trying to see him, to gauge his seriousness. Is this a part of the game, or did he really masturbate at night, thinking of me? That can’t be right. It just can’t be. We loathed each other. Right?
While my brain is functioning enough to know it’s a lie, all part of this hate-fucking game, my goddamn heart isn’t getting the message. It wants to believe Cole lusted after me.
I shift again, trying to face him, but he puts his hand on my neck and holds me in place.