Water hisses louder. His footsteps scuff. Then the shower next stall over shuts off with a squeak.
I slump against Damian, mortified, groaning into his chest. “Oh my god…”
He smirks against my mouth, thumb dragging through my soaked curls, eyes glinting like a wolf who just scared off prey.
“Focus on me, pup,” he murmurs, kissing me again, slow and filthy. “Not him.”
My whimper echoes off the tile, my whole body still burning like fire.
I should probably check on the rookie shoebox at some point.
The little apartment the team gave me when I signed. I bet it’s full of dust bunnies by now, probably smells like mold, probably has a fridge full of science experiments I forgot to throw out. But I haven’t slept there in months. Not since the night Damian dragged me up to his place and never let me leave.
And right now? I don’t care if that shoebox burns down. Because I’ve got something better.
I’ve got him.
I’m standing in his doorway, laces tight, gear bag slung over my shoulder, playoff nerves clawing up my throat so sharp I can barely breathe. And then—his jacket lands heavy on my shoulders.
Not the one he gave me months ago that I drowned in. Not the one I looked like a kid playing dress-up in. This one’s different—thicker, heavier, leather worn soft at the edges, shoulders stretched from years of his frame filling it.
And I fill it now.
Christ.
I blink down as his big hands tug it into place, brushing the collar flat like he’s dressing me for war. My curls brush against his knuckles, my throat works, and my pulse goes wild when his mouth dips to my ear.
“Look at you,” he rasps. His scar brushes my cheek as his lips graze the shell of my ear. “My center. My pup. My good boy.”
My breath shudders out, knees threatening to fold under me right here in the doorway.
“Sir—” I gasp, already trembling.
“Playoffs,” he murmurs, calm as death, growl steady as stone. “You know what that means?”
“Yes, sir.”
His smirk curves against my ear. “Say it.”
“Win every draw.” My voice cracks, wrecked already. “Make them bleed.”
“That’s right.” His hand fists in my curls, pulling my head back until my throat’s bare. His eyes burn down into me, steady, final. “You’re going to win me every fucking faceoff. You’re going to break every bastard who dares touch you. You’re going to humiliate them shift after shift until they know your name like prayer.”
I whimper, knees buckling. His jacket creaks under his grip where he holds me upright.
“And when you do—” his voice dips lower, filthier, promise sharp as a blade, “—I’ll reward you so slow you’ll cry. On your knees. On your back. Until you forget how to stand.”
Heat floods me. My hands claw at his sleeves, nails scraping leather, my breath ragged against his chest.
“Yes, sir,” I choke, trembling. “I swear—I’ll do it. I’ll win every draw. I’ll bleed for you. I’ll—”
His mouth crashes down on mine.
I gasp into it, caught between his jacket and his grip, kissed until my knees almost give for real. His tongue claims my mouth like he’s staking territory, his teeth scrape, and by the time he lets me breathe again, my lips are red and swollen.
“Good boy,” he rasps, forehead pressed to mine, breath hot. “Now go earn it.”
My chest heaves, my stomach’s full of fire and terror and devotion, and all I can think as I stumble after him down the hall is that I’d rather die than disappoint him.
