15. Maren #2
His body goes rigid beneath me. His eyes snap open, pupils blown wide with arousal and confusion in equal measure.
For a split second, he doesn't register the knife—his focus is entirely on my face, on the words I've just said.
Then his gaze drops to the blade pressed against his throat, and understanding dawns like a cold sunrise.
“Maren,” he says carefully, his voice steady despite the knife at his pulse point. “What are you doing?”
“Don't move,” I murmur, applying just enough pressure to make my point without breaking skin. “Not unless you want me to slip.”
I press the blade a fraction harder against his skin, not enough to break it, but enough to remind him it's there. “Now, answer the question, Rhodes.”
His Adam's apple bobs beneath the knife's edge as he swallows. “How do you know about Kayla?”
“Your phone lit up,” I say, my voice dripping with fake sweetness. “She seems very eager to help you 'relax' after your game. Said she'd be waiting in your bed.” I tilt my head, studying his face with clinical detachment. “So I'll ask again. Why are you here?”
Riggs doesn't even flinch. The knife is right there, right against his throat, and he doesn't try to push me off, doesn't reach for my wrist to move the blade away.
The fucker actually leans in, pressing his throat harder against the tip until I see it—a perfect ruby droplet welling up where metal meets skin.
“Kayla Thompson,” he says, his voice steady and low, “is what my mom calls 'family friends,' which means her mom and mine got drunk together at their sorority over twenty years ago, and now we all have to pretend we give a shit about each other.”
I don't move the knife. Or ease up on the pressure. The blood drop grows fatter, threatening to slide down the column of his throat. My eyes follow its journey, mesmerized.
“She's a homie hopper,” he continues, and I can feel the vibration of his voice against the blade. “Goes through the team roster like it's her personal fuck catalog. Martinez. Johnson. Wilson. She tried with me after I joined, but I never touched her. Never fucking wanted to.”
“So why is she texting you about waiting in your bed?” The words come out harsher than I intended, revealing too much. The jealousy in my voice is like acid, burning through my indifference.
His eyes lock with mine, pupils so wide I can barely see the hazel ring around them.
“Because she doesn't understand what 'not interested' means.
Because she's used to getting what she wants.” His hands slide up from my hips to grip my waist, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to bruise. “Unlike you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” I keep my voice steady, but inside, something's unraveling.
Riggs lifts one hand from my waist, and I press the knife harder in warning.
Another drop of blood wells up, joining the first to create a thin crimson line down his neck.
He doesn't even flinch. Instead, he reaches up slowly, deliberately, and wraps his fingers around my wrist—not pulling the knife away, just holding me there.
“It means,” he says, voice rough with something that isn't fear, “that you want me. But you won't let yourself have me.”
His thumb strokes over my pulse point, and I hate how my heart betrays me, quickening beneath his touch. I can feel every callus on his fingertips, every ridge of his fingerprints against my skin.
“You don't know what I want,” I whisper, but the words sound hollow even to my own ears.
“Don't I?” His hips shift beneath me, pressing his hardness against my core. Even through our clothes, the contact sends electricity up my spine. “You're sitting on my lap with a knife to my throat, Maren. You're not exactly subtle.”
I should get up. Put the knife down and walk away before this goes somewhere we can't come back from. But then he does something unexpected—he tilts his head back, exposing more of his throat to my blade.
“Do it,” he challenges, voice a low rumble that reverberates through my body. “If that's what you need.”
“You're fucked up,” I breathe, but I don't move the knife.
“So are you.” His lips curve into a smile that's more predator than prey. “That's why we work.”
Work. Like we're some kind of equation. Like we make sense.
“We don't work,” I argue, but even as I say it, I'm leaning closer, drawn to the sight of his blood like a moth to a flame. “We're a fucking disaster.”
“Maybe,” he concedes, his free hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair. “But you like disasters, don't you, Maren? You chase the storm and baby, I’m a fucking hurricane.”
Something snaps inside me—the last thread of restraint, of sanity—and I crash my mouth against his.
The knife is still in my hand, pressed against his shoulder now instead of his throat, but neither of us cares.
His lips part instantly, tongue sliding against mine with an urgency that matches the pounding in my chest.
He tastes like beer and something darker, something that's just Riggs—metallic and sweet and fucking addictive. I bite down on his lower lip, hard, and he groans into my mouth, the vibration traveling straight to my core.
His response is to tangle his fingers in my hair and yank my head back, exposing my throat. I feel the wet spot growing in my panties, soaking through to my sweatpants. His mouth latches onto my neck, hot and demanding, teeth scraping over my pulse point before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark.
“Fuck,” I hiss, grinding down against his hardness. The friction is exquisite, even through our clothes, but it's not enough. Nothing is ever enough with him.
Riggs works his way down my throat, alternating between soft kisses and sharp bites, leaving a trail of marks that I know will bloom purple by morning. His stubble scrapes against my sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation that has me gasping.
“Everyone's gonna see these,” he murmurs against my collarbone, his voice smug as he sucks another bruise into my skin. “Everyone's gonna know you're mine.”
“I'm not yours,” I argue, but the words lack conviction when I'm writhing on his lap, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him.
He bites down on the junction where my neck meets my shoulder, hard enough that I cry out, my back arching.
“Liar,” he whispers against the sting, soothing it with his tongue.
“You've been mine since that first night, just like I’ve been yours. Let’s consider him an offering, and whoever listened bound you and me together. ”
The memory sends another gush of wetness between my legs. I can feel it now, soaking through my pants and onto his. The evidence of my arousal, impossible to hide.
“Take this off,” I demand, tugging at his t-shirt. As I yank the torn shirt over his head, the edge of the knife nicks his chest, leaving a thin red line just below his collarbone.
Riggs hisses, his body going rigid beneath me.
“You like that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
His cock twitches beneath me, the unmistakable pulse against my core answering before his words do. “Fuck yes,” he growls, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
Something dark uncurls inside me. I trace the tip of the knife along the cut I've already made, not applying pressure, just following the thin line of blood that's beaded up on his skin. His chest rises and falls rapidly, each breath making the blade dance across his flesh.
“Jesus Christ, Maren,” he groans, his head falling back against the couch cushions. “You're gonna fucking kill me.”
“Maybe,” I whisper, leaning down to lick along the same path the knife just traced. His blood is hot and metallic on my tongue, the taste of him flooding my senses. “Would you let me?”
“I'd let you do anything,” he admits, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache in ways I don't want to examine. “Every goddamn thing.”
I press the knife into his skin again, just below his right pectoral, applying just enough pressure to draw another thin line of blood. Riggs' entire body shudders beneath me, his cock hardening even further against my center.
“You're so fucked up,” I breathe against his skin, watching the goosebumps rise in the wake of my words. “Getting hard while I cut you.”
“Says the girl who's soaking through her panties,” he counters, one hand sliding between us and down the waistband of my pants. His fingers press against my center, finding the exact spot where I need him most. “Christ, you're drenched.”
I can't deny it. My body betrays me, clenching around nothing as his fingers circle my clit through the thin cotton. The pressure is maddening—enough to tease but not enough to satisfy.
“Shut up,” I manage, but there's no heat behind it. Not when I'm grinding down against his hand, desperate for more pressure, more friction, more of him.
“Make me,” he challenges, and slides his finger inside me in one smooth motion.