Rough Play

Episode 3

Mid-March, Five months later

Rock on blades in the cold, shadowed spotlight,

The words “flag” and “freedom” stir you.

Do not be lulled by the song.

Hear the screams, knights of the ice, wield your stick swords.

Fly the wings, break away, never shy from the crush.

Play as though at war and hear the trumpet sound.

Standing in the shadow of the blocky beast of gray slate and glass, Oriana gazed up at the glaring light coming from the high window of her father’s office. In her mind’s eye, she could see the poem, written by her twelve-year-old self, etched on a bronze plaque. The plaque hung on the wall behind her father’s desk among tarnished gold medals and faded blue ribbons. The original had been lost long ago, but she could still picture her father, holding the stationery with the pink carnation print, hands shaking as he read the meticulously handwritten words. His eyes glistening, he’d laughed and hugged her.

“Beautiful, sweetheart,” he’d said. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

For a while, his words rang true, but, by now, that precious plaque had gathered years’ worth of dust. The Delgado Forum, the largest building this close to the Narrows, was all her father cared about.

She inched closer to the wall.

Paranoid much? She rolled her eyes and laughed at herself. Even if she stood in the middle of the street, her father couldn’t see her from way up there. And she was waiting for Paul, so it wouldn’t matter if he did.

The muffled sound of Metric’s “Stadium Love” came from her book bag. Heavy textbooks thunked on the sidewalk as she dropped the bag between her feet and crouched to unlatch the buckle. Reaching in to fetch her cell, her hand brushed the smallest book and heat skimmed her ears. She should have stopped at home and dropped it off. If anyone saw what she’d been reading…

Her fingers touched the cool, metallic edge of her cell. She snatched it out and closed her bag, making sure the strap was tight. The muscles in her thighs clenched as she rose, wobbling a little on her heels. Stilettos took some getting used to. Too bad the comfy sneakers in her bag wouldn’t look half as sexy as the thigh-high leather boots she’d chosen to complete her costume for the evening. She wiggled her toes and winced at the sting of a broken blister on the inside of her left foot.

What was it Silver always said? Ah, yes. You wanna look hot? Suffer.

Then again, her little sister had started wearing G-strings in her mid-teens to avoid “gross” panty lines. In her late teens, she’d stopped wearing bras. Oriana didn’t ask why—she really didn’t want to know. Keeping up with Silver’s warped fashion sense would take more free time, and, well, guts, than Oriana possessed. For school and special occasions, she wore nice, tailored suits. The rest of the time, she stuck with sweats. A little boring, maybe, but she hated having to constantly fiddle with her clothes and worry about how everything fit.

Looking around to make sure no one was watching, she ran a finger under the tight leather clinging to the flesh of her thigh. A cool breeze skimmed between her legs, reminding her of what else she was wearing. Better not to think too hard about the outfit beneath her white, mid-length wool coat.

She turned her attention to her phone, unwound the cord for her earbuds, then stuck them in her ears. When the highlight reel began, a smile whispered across her lips. The Friday night crowd bustling around her faded away. All she heard was the spectators’ roar. All she saw was him.

Even on the small screen, she could make him out. Max Perron, number 40. A close-up of his face after a sweet slap shot sent tiny wings fluttering in her stomach. Sun-kissed ocean eyes glowed in a wickedly handsome face. Beautiful…even more so up close, filled with heat. She hadn’t seen them in so long, not in person, not in any way that mattered, since the day he brought her flowers for her birthday and she’d told him their friendship was a bad idea. She’d ignored every call from him for what seemed like forever. Ignored them until they stopped coming.

A shriek pierced through the sounds blasting in her ears and brought her back to the present. She took out the earbuds.

“Tyler! Oh, I can’t believe it’s really you!”

The shrill cry came from a young woman dressed in a huge jersey who stepped out of the shadowed alcove halfway down the ramp on the side of the forum. The players came out of there after practices or games, and fans would lay in wait to get a glimpse of their heroes. But Oriana had a feeling this girl was more than a fan.

Tyler Vanek, one of the rookies brought up from the farm team the year before, stopped short and leaned an elbow on the brick wall beside the parking garage entrance, trying to look smooth.

“Hey. And you are…?” His lips curved and his cheeks, soft and freshly shaven, glowed under the bare bulb that flashed on overhead. He raked his fingers through his tight, blond curls, and his eyes traveled over the girl as she hopped on her spiky, red heels.

The poise of a man, with the expression of a little boy eager to get his hand in the cookie jar. Maybe he didn’t know who the girl was, but he’d clearly figured out enough to like his chances.

What did Max call them again? Oh, yeah, Puck Bunnies. Oriana smirked when the girl leapt forward with a little shriek. Appropriate.

Vanek braced and caught her before she could knock them both over. “Wow. You’re feisty.”

Ya think? Oriana stuffed her phone in her book bag and took out her sunglasses. The last dying sun rays had barely crested the city skyline, but she slipped the glasses on anyway. A side step up the sidewalk out of their line of sight put her in the perfect position to observe without seeming to. Not because she was into…watching or anything, but she was curious to see how far it would go.

Most of the players would offer a signature and gently detach themselves. The rookie obviously didn’t know better. Bunny’s lucky day.

Clinging to his shirt, the blond Jessica-Rabbit-look-alike rubbed one leg up his thigh. “Can we go somewhere?”

“I can’t, I gotta get back.” Vanek groaned as her hand disappeared between their bodies. “But here’s good.”

With his back against the wall, he watched her get on her knees.

Oriana let out a huff of disgust and spun away from the pair. Then checked her watch. The spindly silver hands didn’t move.

Stupid batteries.

Groans from below set her teeth on edge. Peeking at the lusty pair, she blushed. How could they do that out in the open? Loud slurps had passers-by glancing their way and doubling their pace. Vanek’s baby face screwed up, and he clenched his hands in the girl’s hair as she bobbed her head faster and faster. An old man slowed and took a good long look at the show before giving Oriana a toothless grin.

Cheeks blazing, she crossed her arms over her chest and faced the street. The image of another man getting sucked off by a girl on her knees played like p**n on the big screen of her mind. She pressed her eyes shut and tried to force the images out of her head. Vanek’s grunts brought them back.

What she’d witnessed in the alley had haunted her for nights after.

You made the right choice. Forget it.

But she couldn’t. The way she felt about Max wouldn’t go away. She might not want the kind of wild life Max lived, but her heart didn’t care. Logic told her there was nothing wrong with the normal, stable life she intended to lead with Paul.

Then she recalled her plans for the evening. Okay, so desperation trumped normal.

Too late for her and Max, but with Paul, maybe, just maybe, she could salvage what they had. If only she wasn’t the only one fighting for their relationship.

Where are you, Paul?

Tugging a curl loose from her bronze coiffure, she twirled it around her index finger and traced a big, silver hoop earring with her thumb. The scenario played over in her head like it had while she’d carefully picked out each piece of her outfit. Paul, all detached, sitting across from her in the secluded booth she’d paid extra to reserve at his favorite restaurant, looking at his cell every couple minutes. Then she’d take off her coat.

And he’d stare.

The snug, black corset dress she’d finally settled on, knee-length, slit up both sides to the hip, made her feel a little self-conscious, but what she wore underneath made her feel like a goddess. Maybe she should give Paul a preview in the car. He might not want to go out to dinner after all.

Page one of her new…relationship handbook said a man like Paul needed direction. Needed to be caught off-guard.

Men in demanding jobs often feel like they have to be in control at all times. They can’t find release in the bedroom because they’re wound up so tight. Take their choices away and you’ll find you’ve got a man ready and willing to please. Make him work for it. You’ll both enjoy the results.

Could it possibly be that simple?

You’re not even wet.

Oriana winced as another memory twinged like a splinter. The way things had gone the last time she and Paul were alone together, she was lucky he’d agreed to meet her at all. Whenever things got intimate, she screwed it up. Their s*x life was seriously lacking, the very reason she’d taken the initiative to ask him out for once. And called her sister for some advice.

“Look for a book called Lady in Charge,” Silver had told her. “If that don’t work, ditch the loser.”

She’d found the book online under “femdom” and decided her little sister was seriously unhinged. Dominate Paul? Really? But then she read the excerpt and decided to give it a shot. The b*****e stuff looked…interesting. Picturing silk scarves or lined cuffs securing her wrists—No, Paul’s wrists to the headboard…

Well, couldn’t hurt to try. She couldn’t very well make things worse.

Thinking of the graphic image on page 214 of a woman attaching a spiked ball stretcher to her lover’s sack, she grinned and shook her head. Such extremes right off the bat would definitely make things worse. Better stick with the mild stuff. Like taking charge for the night.

For some reason, the very idea made her feel like she’d taken a big bite of something that smelled sweet and tasted awful. She mentally flipped through the pages she’d pored over the night before, trying to find a single appealing scene. Maybe a simple role-play?

How would she broach the subject with Paul? “I want to try something…”

Her stomach did a little flip. Okay, no talking. Just a candlelit dinner, a little reveal of her sexy lingerie, and maybe some moves from the book. Tease him under the tablecloth and order him not to come. He’d be putty in her hands. The book said so.

Well, something’s gotta work. Oriana made a face and checked her long, black, manicured nails. According to that same book, the ‘honeymoon’s’ over.

The streetlight overhead flickered to life and a shadow fell, her only warning before a massive form slammed into her. Teetering on her heels, her arms flailed. Her book bag swung out, hit the sidewalk, and skidded off the curb.