The Assistant Coach (BOOK 1: OMEN KING SERIES)

|𝟸𝟶|

Kohl Warren

A groan escapes my lips as Lindsey — or was it, Melanie? — rides me like she's auditioning for a wild rodeo.

Her ample boobs are practically screaming for attention, and her blonde hair is falling like a curtain over her face.

I grab her waist, gripping it tightly as she arches her back, her body pressed against mine. The room is filled with the sound of her quaky moans, but my mind can't help but wander to a different image – Leia.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Lindsey or Melanie breathes, her words urging me to thrust even deeper, but my thoughts remain fixated on the memory of Leia smiling in the rink days ago.

I can't deny that it's a pretty shitty move on my part to be fantasizing about another girl's smile while thrusting in Cassandra or Lindsey? Whatever it was.

But let's be real, it took a solid 20 minutes of effort for me to get hard, and somehow, conjuring up images of Leia seemed to do the trick.

But just when things were getting interesting, she ruined the moment by blurting out, "When are you going to take me out on a date?"

I freeze, caught off guard by her unexpected question. I mean, we barely know each other, and she already wants a candlelit dinner? Talk about jumping the gun.

She swiftly climbs off me, and my once-prominent boner retreats faster than a turtle in its shell. It's hard to maintain the mood when the other person is clearly expecting more than just a one-night stand.

With a half-hearted chuckle, I reply, "Oh, you know, I've got a busy schedule of eating takeout and watching reruns of 'The Office.' I'll text you somewhere between my weekly laundry and my overdue dentist appointment."

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by my sarcastic response. Well, excuse me for not wanting to plan our future wedding after a quick fuck that didn't even satisfy me. Can't a guy just enjoy some no-strings-attached fun without signing up for a lifetime subscription?

As I hurriedly scramble to find my clothes, I can't help but wonder how I ended up in this situation. Maybe it's time to start vetting my one-night stands more carefully, or at least invest in a t-shirt that says, "Warning: Emotional Attachment Not Included."

Note to self: Next time, avoid the whole "take me out on a date" conversation by having a designated escape line ready. Something like, "Oh, did I mention I'm allergic to commitment? My apologies!" or maybe, "Sorry, I've already reached my quota

of disappointing first dates this month."

But hey, at least I can cross "awkward mid-sex conversations" off my bucket list. Now, where did I leave my dignity? Ah, who am I kidding? That shit left long ago.

I glance around my messy room, my eyes landing on the pile of discarded clothes strewn across the floor like a modern art installation gone wrong.

She shoots me a glare that could curdle milk, but I can't help but smirk back at her. It's not like I promised her a lifetime of commitment or a white picket fence with a golden retriever.

I'm more of a "live in the moment" kind of guy, if you catch my drift. And clearly, she didn't catch it.

As I wriggle into my boxers, I marvel at the sheer grace with which she's attempting to dress herself. It's like watching a squirrel try to juggle acorns while doing a handstand.

She hops around on one foot, attempting to navigate her way through the maze of clothing, and I resist the urge to offer her a map and a compass.

Finally managing to put on her clothes, she stands there, tousled blonde hair and a black dress with a scowl that could launch a thousand passive-aggressive remarks.