The praise detonates through me harder than the hand on my cock. My vision whites out, my chest arches off the wall, and I break—coming hard in my jeans, shaking so violently the picture frame above us rattles. My cry tears out raw, shameless, muffled against his shoulder when I can’t hold it back anymore.
He doesn’t stop. Not right away. He works me through it, hand relentless, smirk sharp when I cry out his name into his chest. His grip keeps me upright when my knees give, my body trembling from the wreckage.
By the time he finally lets go, I’m destroyed. Boneless. My chest heaves against his, my face flushed scarlet.
And he’s smirking. Slow. Sharp. Scar pulling like he knows exactly what he just did.
“You did good tonight, pup.” His thumb strokes once across my jaw, rough but steady. “On the ice. Here. You earned that.”
A broken sound claws out of me, half laugh, half whimper. “Th-thank you, Captain.”
He kisses me again—hard, claiming, filthy—and then his hand slides back into my hair, tugging me off the wall like I weigh nothing.
“Bed.” One word. Final.
My legs stumble, still shaking, but I don’t argue. I follow him across the room.
My knees knock the mattress when he pushes me back.
“Lie back.”
My ribs still aching from tonight, my jeans damp and sticky where he wrung me out against the wall. But I obey. Of course I obey. I sink onto the sheets, heart thrumming like I’m waiting for the puck to drop all over again.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t tear at me like he did in the elevator or the hallway. No—he stands at the edge of the bed, broad shoulders framed in the warm hotel light, eyes dragging slow over every inch of me.
“You look wrecked,” he murmurs, low, steady. “But you’re not done yet.”
My cock jerks weakly against ruined denim, my body already spent, but heat surges through me anyway. “Y-yes, sir.”
His scar curves into the smallest smirk. Then he climbs onto the bed—slow, deliberate, knees sinking heavy into the mattress on either side of me. The sheets dip, the air shifts, and suddenly the whole room feels smaller.
“Hands up.” His voice is soft but sharp, leaving no room for disobedience.
I raise them. My wrists hit the headboard. He doesn’t tie me down—he doesn’t need to. His stare alone is enough to chain me in place.
One big hand lands on my ribs, right where the bruise throbs deep under the skin. A reminder of every board battle and every filthy promise he made tonight.
“Mine,” he says, thumb pressing steady over the bruise.
“Yours,” I gasp, chest jerking under the weight.
His other hand works my hoodie up slow, peeling fabric inch by inch until my stomach’s bare, flushed and trembling under the hotel light. He doesn’t tear it. Doesn’t rush. Just strips me careful, deliberate, like he’s got all night to make me lose my mind.
By the time the hoodie’s off, my breath’s gone. I’m laid bare in front of him.
He leans down.
“Good” he murmurs. “Now I’m going to take my time with you.”
His hand slides lower, heavy on my stomach, thumb brushing just above the waistband of my jeans.
“Say please,” he murmurs. Calm. Steady.
My throat closes, heat exploding through me all over again. “P-please, sir…”
“For what?” His eyes pin me, one glacier, one void. “You don’t get shit until you say it right.”
Shame burns hot across my cheeks, but I choke it out anyway. “Please undress me.”
