I barely make it two steps in before he moves.
Big hands clamp my thighs, and suddenly I’m weightless. Six feet of hockey player lifted like I’m nothing, hauled into the air and dumped onto his counter like I belong there.
I yelp—loud, sharp—the second my bare ass hits the cold countertop. The chill shoots up my spine, making me jerk, cock slapping hard against my stomach, leaking already.
Before I can even adjust, he’s moving again. Calm. Deliberate. He stalks to the freezer, opens it, and pulls out a pack of ice.
My eyes go wide. My whole body jolts. I start scooting fast, scrambling back across the counter like the cold surface might swallow me whole. “N-no, sir—wait—”
He’s faster. Always faster. One hand clamps my hip, drags me right back to the edge. My heels dig against the cabinet, but it’s useless—he owns every inch of me.
Then the ice hits my ribs.
“Fuck!” The yelp tears out of me, my back arching hard away from it. The cold bites deep, shocking straight into the bruise until pain and chill twist together like knives.
“Hold still.” His voice is steady, low, cutting right through me.
My breath heaves, chest shaking, cock twitching like it doesn’t know if it’s supposed to die or come untouched from this.
“You’re going to hold this here,” he says, calm as stone, pressing the pack harder into my ribs until I yelp again. “While I fuck you. Are we clear?”
My eyes snap up to his, wide, desperate, drowning in the weight of him. My whole body jolts under the cold, but I can’t—won’t—say no.
“Yes, Captain,” I gasp, as I clutch the pack to my ribs myself.
The ice burns against the bruise, my body shuddering, but my cock is steel-hard, throbbing, aching.
Because of course I’ll hold it.
Of course I’ll do anything he tells me.
He stares at me. Just…stares. Like he’s reading every twitch of my ribs under the ice pack, every gasp that slips out, every bead of sweat on my temple. His mismatched eyes drag over me slow, clinical, assessing.
And then—Christ—he smirks.
That smirk. The one that curls at the scar, the one that meansI’m in trouble.The one that means I’m going to love every goddamn second of it.
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath.
He doesn’t even blink. Just turns, calm as ever, plucks a handful of ice cubes straight out of the tray and drops them into a bowl. Afew.Not one. Not two. A fuckingfew.
Sets the bowl down by my hip like it’s casual. Like he didn’t just plant the devil’s own promise right beside me.
The sound that slips out of me is a whimper—wrecked, high, desperate—because he’s not even touching me yet. The anticipation alone is killing me, my cock twitching hard enough to leave slick on my stomach.
Then he grabs a bottle. Not water. Not milk. Something thick, amber, with the smell of oil that heats when it touches skin.
My eyes snap wide. “Cap…” My voice cracks, whiny, begging before I can stop it.
“Mhm.” His hum is low, deep, lazy—like he’s barely paying attention. But his eyes never leave mine.
Then his palm hits my chest, firm, steady, and pushes me back.
“Down.”
I fold instantly, ice pack still clutched to my ribs, spine pressing against the cold counter as he lays me flat. My curls stick damp to the steel beneath my head, my chest heaves, and my cock throbs against my stomach, already aching.
He sets the bottle down next to the bowl of ice. Unbothered. Collected.
