“I’m begging, Captain—need your come—need it inside—want to feel it—”
I growl low, feral, and lock both hands on his hips. My pace turns savage—no more slow grind, no more patience—deep thrusts, angling him open until every hit drags a scream out of him.
“Yesyesyes—fuck—please—”
That’s it. That’s the one. The way he begs—raw, ragged, so fucking pretty—snaps what’s left of my restraint.
“Perfect,” I snarl as I drive one last brutal thrust, burying myself to the hilt. My release rips through me, violent, unstoppable. I groan low against his shoulder as I spill hot inside him, grinding deep, holding him open around me so he feels every pulse, every drop.
He keens under me, trembling, arching back into the pressure. “Thank you, sir—thank you—”
I collapse forward, chest to his back, my hands still gripping his hips like I’ll never let go. His body’s wrecked, sweat-slick, painted in me inside and out, and he’s still whispering it, broken and small.
“Thank you, Captain.”
And I know—I’ll never stop making him beg for me like that.
Coach Harrow showing up in the flesh is like spotting Bigfoot.
No one really believes it until he’s actually there—cigar clenched between his teeth, clipboard tucked under one arm, eyes sharp enough to peel the skin off your back. He hasn’t been on the ice for months, not really. That’s Damian’s kingdom now. But today? Apparently the crypt cracked open and the ghost decided to haunt us.
And guess who he points at the second drills start.
“Mercer. Vance. One-on-one. Now.”
The whole rink goes quiet.
Cole grins instantly, wicked as sin, tapping his stick against the ice like it’s a drumroll. “C’mere, curls. Time to learn what a real forward looks like.”
I don’t grin back. Not today.
Because my heart’s pounding too hard, my lungs already working double-time, and I know exactly who’s watching.
Damian.
He’s at the boards, arms crossed, jaw locked tight, eyes steady on me. He’s always steady. M Coach is watching, sure, but he doesn’t matter half as much. Not when Damian Kade expects me to bleed for him.
The whistle shrieks.
Cole lunges first. He’s bigger, heavier, skating straight through like a freight train, his grin flashing behind the cage. He thinks I’ll fold. Everyone thinks I’ll fold. Six feet, wiry frame, still filling out—I’m not supposed to stand against a man who outweighs me by thirty pounds of muscle and hair gel.
But I don’t.
Not while Damian’s watching. Not while I can still hear his voice in my head from last night, low against my ear—give me everything, pup, or you’re nothing.
So I drive forward.
My skates cut sharp, my body crashing into Cole’s with all the weight I’ve got. It’s not enough to knock him down—not yet—but it’s enough to stagger him. Enough to rip that smug grin off his face for one breath.
“Jesus Christ, curls,” he wheezes, shoving back, “you trying to break my ribs?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks raw in my throat, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t stop.
We battle—stick against stick, blade against blade, body against body. Every time he shoves me, I shove back harder.Every time I slip, I claw my way upright. My lungs burn, my thighs scream, my ribs ache where he slams me into the glass. But I don’t go down. I won’t.
Because I know what Damian will call me if I hold.
Good boy.
