Chapter 19 Marnie
MARNIE
I don’t sleep.
How could I? My entire body is still humming from what Roman did—or didn’t do—in this hotel room three hours ago.
I can still feel his hands on me, his mouth, his fingers exactly where I wanted them. Right until he stopped.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. 3:15 AM.
I hate you
Roman
Still awake?
You know I am.
Roman
Good.
Good?
This is cruel.
Roman
This is teaching you. There’s a difference.
I throw my phone across the bed and stare at the ceiling.
My body is screaming at me to just finish what he started. It would take maybe two minutes. Less, given how worked up I still am.
Because some masochistic part of me wants to see if he’s right. If this actually works. If my body can learn to do with someone else what it’s always done alone.
But I can’t help myself. I slide my hand across my stomach and under the edge of my sleep shorts, my phone buzzes and I jerk my hand back as if I’ve been caught.
Roman
Marnie.
What?
Roman
Don’t touch yourself.
How did you...UGH
Roman
Because I know you. You’re lying there thinking about it. Thinking about how easy it would be.
He’s right. I hate that he’s right.
Roman
Go to sleep. Tomorrow’s another lesson.
I hate you
Roman
You keep saying that.
Because it keeps being true.
Roman
Goodnight, Moxie.
I roll over, punch the pillow, and eventually fall into restless sleep sometime after five.
The travel day to Toronto is torture.
I’m exhausted from not sleeping, hyperaware of every time Roman looks at me, and trying very hard to act professional when all I want to do is either kill him or climb him. Possibly both.
“You okay?” Jake asks during warm-ups. “You seem... tense.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve reorganized the tape kit three times.”
“It was disorganized.”
“It actually wasn’t.” He studies my face. “Did something happen with—”
“No. Nothing happened. Everything’s fine.”
“Marnie—”
“Jake. Please. I’m fine.”
He backs off but I can feel him watching me for the rest of the night.
The game is close—we win 3-2 in overtime, Roman gets the game-winning goal, and when he skates past the bench afterward he looks directly at me.
Just for a second.
And then he winks.
I’m furious. And turned on. And so frustrated I could scream.
Back at the hotel, I’m in my room trying to focus on PT reports when he messages me.
Roman
Get any new material lately?
I stare at the message. Is he seriously—
Roman
Books. You were reading on the plane. Figured you got something new.
Oh. The books.
I reach for my bag, pull out the one I’ve been meaning to read. Tied Up in Overtime.
Maybe.
Roman
Let me guess. More goalies?
Coaches this time. About a woman who gets benched for bad behavior.
Roman
And?
And he teaches her discipline.
Roman
That sounds intriguing.
Does it?
Roman
Moxie.
What?
Roman
Are you trying to drive me crazy?
Is it working?
Roman
Room 847. Ten minutes.
You have a game tomorrow.
Roman
Nine minutes now.
I should say no. Should maintain some kind of boundary. Should not let him think he can just summon me.
I’m knocking on his door in eight minutes.
He opens it immediately, pulls me inside, and backs me against the door in one smooth motion.
“Hi,” I manage.
His hands find my hips. “You’re trying to torture me.”
“I’m just reading a book.”
“You’re reading discipline porn and texting me about it.” He leans down, mouth at my ear. “That’s not innocent.”
“Maybe I’m just expanding my horizons.”
“Maybe you’re trying to make me as desperate as you are.”
“Is it working?” I ask, echoing his earlier question.
Instead of answering, he kisses me. Hard and hungry and nothing like the controlled touches from last night. This is want without patience, need without strategy.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
“Lesson two,” he says. “Same as lesson one. You get close, but you don’t get to finish.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Life’s not fair.” But he’s smiling as he lifts me, wraps my legs around his waist. “But I promise it’ll be worth it.”
He carries me to the bed and I’m already so wound up from yesterday that when his hand slides between us, I gasp.
“Still sensitive?” he asks.
“You know I am.”
“Good.” He works me slowly, thumb circling while his mouth finds my neck. “I want you to feel like this for days.”
I gasp, arching into his touch. “You’re going to go back to your room. Lie in bed. Think about my hands.” He increases the pressure and I nearly come off the bed. “Remember, you can’t touch yourself.”
“I can’t—two nights—”
“You can. You will.” He looks down at me, eyes dark. “Because I can actually give you what no one else could.”
He’s right. Damn him, he’s right.
He works me right to the edge again—slower than yesterday, more deliberately, and when I’m trembling and gasping and so close I can almost taste it—
He stops.
“No—Roman, please—”
“Not yet.” He sits up, puts space between us. “Two more days.”
“Two more days?” My voice comes out strangled. “I can’t do two more days like this—”
“Yes you can.” He helps me sit up, smooths my hair back. “Your body’s learning. I can feel it—you got there faster tonight. Less in your head. More in the moment.”
“I’m going to actually murder you.”
“Probably.” He leans forward, kisses me softly. Too softly for how wound up I am. “Go to bed, Moxie. Tomorrow’s Philadelphia.”
“Tomorrow you’ll be as desperate as you’re making me.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Philadelphia is the last game of the road trip and I can’t remember the last time I slept.
Actually slept. Not the half-conscious tossing and turning where every shift of fabric feels like too much, where I wake up aching and frustrated and ready to murder Roman Varga with my bare hands.
Three nights. Three nights of him getting me so close I can taste it, then stopping. Then watching me with that satisfied smirk while I try not to combust.
I’m not wound tight. I’m a live wire. One touch away from short-circuiting completely.
And Roman? Roman looks like he’s having the time of his life. Like his body isn’t screaming at him the way mine is. Like he didn’t spend last night with his fingers inside me, his mouth on my neck, whispering filthy promises before walking away.
Then he glances over and catches me staring.
His mouth curves up. Just slightly.
Bastard.
On the plane I text him a passage from Tied Up in Overtime where the coach makes the heroine come three times before he even gets undressed.
He just made her come three times. Must be nice.
Roman
That’s called a hat trick, Moxie
Also, patience
I’ve been patient for THREE DAYS
Roman
And you’ll thank me tomorrow when you finally understand what your body can do
I’m going to kill you
Roman
You’re going to beg me. There’s a difference.
I want to throw my phone. Want to march to his seat and—
My phone buzzes again.
Roman
How wet are you right now?
I actually look around the plane to make sure no one’s reading over my shoulder.
That’s not fair
Roman
Answer me
Very
Roman
Good. Stay that way. I want you dripping by the time we get home tomorrow.
ROMAN
Roman
Marnie. One more night. Then I’m going to take you apart so completely you’ll forget every other man who’s ever touched you.
I’m going to make you come so many times you lose count.
But first you’re going to learn what it feels like to be on the edge for so long you’d do anything—beg, cry, whatever it takes—just to fall.
I can’t breathe. The plane is too hot. My jeans are too tight. Everything is too much.
Roman
Put your book away
Why?
Roman
Because I can see you from here and if you keep squirming in your seat I’m going to come back there and make it worse
I slam the book shut.
Roman
Good girl
The game that night is brutal—physical, chippy, Roman taking hits that make me flinch. But every time he gets up, every time he skates back to the bench, his eyes find mine.
Checking. Making sure I’m watching. Making sure I see exactly how controlled he is while I’m falling apart.
After the game I corner him in the medical room because he’s favoring his shoulder and I’m still the head PT even if I want to strangle him.
“Shoulder. Now.”
“It’s fine.”
“Sit down before I make you.”
He sits, and there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach flip. Like he’s filing that aggression away for later.
I move behind him. “Shirt off.”
“My favorite phrase.”
I help him peel off his base layer and see the bruising starting across his shoulder blade. My fingers probe gently, checking range of motion, making sure nothing’s separated.
The muscle is angry but the joint is stable.
“You’re getting ice,” I tell him.
“Yes ma’am.”
I wrap the ice pack around his shoulder, very aware of how close we are. How his skin is warm under my hands. How he’s watching me in the mirror across from the table with that look that makes everything worse.
“Three nights,” he says quietly.
“I know how long it’s been.”
“You’ve done so well.” His voice drops lower. “Better than I expected, honestly.”
“Done well?” I move to face him. “I can’t sleep. Can’t think. Can barely function without wanting to—” I cut myself off.
“Without wanting to what?” His good arm reaches out, fingers finding my hip. “Say it.”
“You know what.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Without wanting to touch myself,” I grit out. “Happy?”
“Very.” He pulls me closer, between his knees. “Because that means it’s working. That means tomorrow, when I finally let you come, your body isn’t going to have time to think or doubt or do any of the things it usually does. It’s just going to feel.”
“And when exactly is tomorrow?”
“When we get home.” He’s smiling now. That smug, satisfied smile that makes me want to kiss him or kill him. “One more day.”
“That’s twenty-four hours.”
“More like eighteen.” His thumb traces my hipbone through my shirt. “But who’s counting?”
“I am. I’m counting every fucking minute.”