My chest caves. My head snaps toward him. “Wh—what posters?”
His lip lifts faint “The ones you admitted to on the plane, pup. Ceiling, closet, over the bed.” His hand flexes once against the wheel, knuckles split and scarred. “Start talking.”
My face ignites. “Jesus Christ—you’re really not gonna let that go?”
“No.” His eyes flick to me, one ice, one void. Terrifying. “You had four. You said it yourself. I want to know what they were.”
I choke out a laugh. High. Nervous. “You—you seriously want me to describe my teenage jerk-off material while you’re driving? That’s—that’s what we’re doing?”
“Now.”
The word hits like a bodycheck. My throat closes. My knees bounce hard against the dash.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging both hands through my hair. “Okay. Fine. Uh—first one was…your rookie season. Red jersey. They had you skating off after a fight, blood all down your chin, helmet hanging off your hand. I, uh—I taped it up right above my desk.” My laugh cracks. “Inspirational, you know? Study motivation.”
Damian hums. Low. Amused. “And the second?”
My stomach drops. My cheeks are nuclear. “Jesus, you’re cruel.”
“Yes.”
I groan, smacking my head back against the seat. “Alright, fine—the second one was the Chicago fight. The helmet rip. I already told you that.”
“You said you taped it. Not that you had the poster.”
I swear under my breath, but I can feel the smirk cutting across his mouth even without looking. “Yeah. Okay. It was on my ceiling. Happy now?”
His voice drags lower. “Very.”
The leather seat creaks when I shift, my jeans suddenly too tight, my skin buzzing hot.
“The third?”
“Christ, Captain—this is—this is sadism.”
“Correct.”
I wheeze a laugh, burying my face in my hands. “Okay. Okay. Third was the cup run. That shot of you holding the trophy up with your lip split open, looking like—like some kind of war god. I…” My voice cracks. “Yeah. That one was over my bed.”
He hums again. Slow. Dangerous. “And the fourth?”
My throat works. “Locker room shot. You without a shirt. Tattoos, bruises, ice pack on your shoulder.” My face burns hotter. “I—uh—I may have stolen that one out of a magazine.”
The SUV is silent except for the engine growl and the sound of my own lungs trying not to collapse.
“You touched yourself under every single one of those, didn’t you?”
My whole body jolts. “Captain—fuck—”
“Answer me.”
“Yes, sir!” The words tear out of me too fast, too loud. My palms slam useless against my thighs. “Fuck, yes, I did, I—Christ—”
His smirk cuts at the scar.
“Now tell me,” he says. “Exactly how you touched yourself under those posters.”
My lungs seize. My legs kick useless against the floorboard. “Wh—Captain—”
