Her Filthy Coach - Page 6

I can’t help but chuckle at that. She’s right, I do want her. More than I have the words for. “Fine, little brat,” I concede, stepping closer to her after checking there’s no one else around to see. “Do you enjoy testing me?”

Her eyes shine again. “You’re right,” she teases. “I am a brat, and teasing you might be my new favorite hobby.”

I shake my head at her. Still, she must be hungry after practice, and the possessive part of me needs to take care of her, to ensure she has everything she wants and needs. As much as I want to fuck her until she’s screaming, I can’t do that if she hasn’t eaten. She’ll need the energy.

“Come on then, brat,” I murmur, nodding toward my car. “Let’s get dinner.”

I take her to the next town over, neither of us ready to risk being recognized. The star soccer player and the new coach out to dinner alone? Yeah, that would raise some questions.

Iris chooses a cozy bar and restaurant, and soon we’re sitting in a corner booth with drinks and food between us. I grin as Iris takes a huge bite of her burger, my cock hardening as she moans in delight. Fuck, I could watch her eat all night if she keeps making those noises.

I sip my drink, trying to find some self-control.

“You didn’t need to stand up for me like that with Jake,” she says, raising a brow at me.

“Yes, I did,” I argue. “You’re mine, remember, Iris? That means nobody gets to speak to you like that but me.”

She flushes, her pupils widening. I grin in satisfaction at her reaction.

“Okay,” she says softly, accepting it. She seems to recover some of her sass and adds, “Tell me about you, then. I mean, I’ve had your cock in my mouth, I feel like I’m entitled to some details.”

I choke on a bite of french fry, pinning her with a look when she bursts into laughter. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “What do you want to know?”

She shrugs. “Everything. Like how did you get into coaching?”

I swallow, considering my answer. “It’s not a story I tell often.”

Iris cocks her head to the side, analyzing me. “Does it have something to do with the scar I noticed on your knee?”

I stiffen, an automatic response when the subject’s brought up. But she’s right, if she’s mine, then she is entitled to know these things about me. Patiently, she waits for me to answer, and finally, I sigh and tell her the story.

“We’re very similar,” I begin with a grimace. “When I was your age, I was also a college soccer star with a scholarship and a bright future playing pro ahead of me. We won our state championship, everything was going exactly how I’d always planned. And then, in a training game, I was tackled badly. The grass was slippery, and the other player’s shoes were too old to grip properly. We slid, and he landed on me, my leg pinned beneath us both when we went down. The whole team heard it snap.”

Iris gasps, a french fry frozen in her hand halfway to her mouth.

“I heard it, too, before the pain registered. And God, was there pain,” I laugh humorlessly, cringing at the memory. “I’ll spare you the details, but it wasn’t pretty. Shattered my patella. Surgery meant I could walk on it again, with a shit tonne of physio, but my dream of playing pro was as broken as the bone.”

I expect Iris to have a snarky remark, but she surprises me by reaching out, her hand finding mine on the table.

“I’m sorry that happened,” she says softly, her eyes holding mine.

“It’s okay,” I say with a shrug, shoving the pain back down. “Just means I’m even more determined to get you noticed by the scouts. You’ve got what it takes to make it, Iris.”

She grins, laughing. “Well, with a coach as strict as you, I’ve got a better chance than ever,” she teases.

“Strict, huh?” I tease right back, lowering my voice. “Oh, little brat. You have no idea how harsh I can be.”

Iris’ lashes flutter as she smiles at me. “Bring it on, Coach.”

4

IRIS

The drive to Isaac’s place is short but feels so much longer because all I can imagine is what we’re about to do. I can feel how wet I am with the anticipation of it, his low threat of showing me just how strict he can be causing a hundred scenarios to play out in my mind. I want it, want him so badly. Fooling around in the locker room gave me a taste of him, and now I’m starving.

The second we get in his front door, Isaac’s arms are around my waist, and he lifts me off the floor. Instantly, I wrap my legs around him, clinging on as he strides through his place to the bedroom. I can’t help the way my mouth roams over his throat and jaw, kissing and sucking and tasting him.

“Keep doing that and I’ll fuck you against the wall before we get to the bed,” Isaac growls. I’m sure he means it as a threat, but it sounds like a good plan to me. I don’t want to wait a second longer. My core throbs, my clit begging for attention. I try to grind against him, but the fabric of our clothes prevents me from getting any of the friction I desperately need.