It’s everything.
His mouth devours mine, hard and merciless, his grip in my hair keeping me right where he wants me. And the whole time, I’m grinning into it. Broken, desperate, half-mad—but grinning.
Because I know exactly what’s happening.
He wrecked me once today already. Out on the ice, drills sharp as blades, body pushed until my lungs screamed and my legs gave out. He didn’t let me coast, didn’t let me hide, didn’t let me be anything less than raw. Every whistle was a knife. Every look was a reminder:you’re mine, pup, and I’ll carve you into something worth the jersey on your back.
And now he’s about to wreck me again.
At home.
Where there are no whistles, no eyes, no excuses.
My cock’s already hard in my boxers, a wet spot spreading, my thighs trembling just from the grind of his clothed body against mine. I’m barefoot, stripped down, pathetic in nothing but cotton and socks while he’s still fully dressed—black Reapers jacket, jeans, boots, the whole package. Untouchable.
It should humiliate me. It does. But fuck if I don’tlove it.
Because it drives the truth deeper: I’m the rookie, the one undone, and he’s the captain who keeps his armor on until he decides otherwise.
My grin spreads when his hand slides off my jaw and down my chest, dragging his knuckles rough over my ribs. I bite back the jab that almost slips out—something about how he coaches as mean as he fucks, or maybe the reverse—because I know better. If I mouth off now, he’ll make me pay twice as hard.
But the words are there, buzzing on my tongue like bees.
He feels it. Of course he does. His eyes catch mine, cold and dark all at once, and his hand tightens in my hair. “Go on,” he murmurs, low, steady, lethal. “Try it.”
My grin falters for half a breath. Then it’s back, shaky but there. “Didn’t say anything, sir.”
“Yet,” he corrects, grinding his cock against me harder, enough to make me gasp. “You never know when to shut your mouth, Mercer.”
And he’s right. God, he’s right. My whole body is straining to spit something reckless. But I swallow it down, let the moan rip out of me instead, nails scratching helpless at the wall behind me.
“Good boy,” he says, lips brushing mine again. “Almost learning.”
Almost. Not quite.
His hand finally drags down, over my stomach, into the waistband of my boxers. My head thumps the wall, a shameless gasp tearing out of me when his knuckles brush the slick head of my cock. My grin twists into something feral, my breath breaking apart.
“Fuck—sir—”
“Louder,” he growls, palming me rough through the thin cotton. “Let the neighbors hear who ruins you.”
I moan, loud, raw, body jerking helpless against his grip. My cock twitches in his hand, precum slicking his palm, my thighs shaking with the effort not to crumble completely.
He doesn’t let me go. Doesn’t strip. Doesn’t even unbutton his jacket. He just keeps me half-ruined right there against the wall, stroking slow, cruel, grinding his clothed cock against my hip until I’m trembling and whimpering, grinning even as my eyes blur.
Because I know this isn’t even the beginning.
This is just him proving the point: he owns me on the ice, and he owns me here too.
His hand keeps me right on the edge—stroking slow, rough, deliberate—never enough to let me finish, never merciful enough to stop either. My thighs are shaking, sweat beading at my temple, my cock dripping down his knuckles. I’m choking on my own moans, back arching, panting, and still he doesn’t let me tip over.
“Captain—fuck—sir—” The words tear out of me raw, broken.
And then it hits me.
I’ve never once called him by his name. Not when I worshiped him from posters on my ceiling. Not when I watched his fight reels on repeat, moaning into my own hand at fourteen. Not when he pinned me against that hotel wall and took me apart for the first time.
Not once.
