Not yet.
His mouth is back on me, devouring. His tongue flicks over the head just right and my whole spine bows off the mattress. I choke on a moan that sounds like please, but he grips my thighs harder and keeps going like he’s got all the time in the world and I’m the only thing on the menu.
“Sir—”
Nothing. Just his mouth. His tongue. His growl as he drags me closer to the edge again, again, again, and pulls back enough to make me crazy.
Tears burn behind my eyes. My thighs twitch. I can’t think, can’t function because I’m so close and he’s still not letting me…
It breaks out of me. A wrecked, raw, ugly sob. I shove my fist in my mouth to try and stop it but I can’t, I’m crying now. Fucked-out and sobbing on the bed, shaking like a leaf, begging silently with my whole body.
And that’s what finally does it.
He lifts his head, eyes catching mine—dark, wild, and so damn smug. He sees the tear slip down my cheek and something snaps in him.
“Oh, baby,” he growls, almost gentle. “You crying for me?”
I nod. Hard. Fast. Fucking desperate.
“You want to come, pup?”
“Please,” I gasp. “Sir—please, I need—please—”
His mouth’s back on me before I can even finish the thought, and this time he doesn’t stop—he groans like he’sdrinkingme, like the taste is wrecking him as much as it’s wrecking me. His hands keep me pinned, tight and trembling, while he sucks me down hard, obscene, his lips dragging over every inch like he’s claiming it. And I break. My body shatters—fireworks behind my eyes, stars bursting in my chest, every muscle locking as I scream his name and come so hard I black out for a second
When I come back, I’m panting, sobbing, shuddering on the sheets.
He kisses my hip, my thigh, my stomach—soft kisses that make it worse. “I’m gonna make you cry like that every night once you wear my name,” he whispers.
I think I die.
Damian crawls up over me, all heat and muscle and filth still glistening on his mouth. His body settles heavy against mine, his hand slides up my ribs, and his mouth claims mine again, rough and deep, tongue tasting me like he’s not done, like he’ll never be done.
I whimper into the kiss, already twitching, already aching again. His hips press me down into the mattress, his mouth is devouring me, and I’m stupid enough to think he might go another round.
Then he breaks the kiss, smirking cruelly, and leans in to growl right against my ear, “Now get packing.”
I howl. “Nooo,” I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “You monster. You sadist. You just ruined me and now you’re sending me to fold socks??”
He laughs.
Laughs. The sound is low and smug and filthy, and it makes me want to smack him and blow him again in the same breath.
“Bags packed in fifteen, or I’m making you sit on the plane without underwear,” he adds.
I glare at him. “Joke’s on you. I wasn’t gonna wear any anyway.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Ten minutes, then.”
I groan louder, roll off the bed with my legs shaking, and stumble toward the closet, swearing under my breath about evil captains and playoff blue balls and how I’m still gonna find that ring if it kills me.
Game 3 starts with blood in our mouths and Elias’s tears still clinging to our ribs.
We don’t say it. None of us. Nobody mentions the loss, the scoreboard, the fact that the Bastards broke us last game. What we do remember—what’s etched into every blade and tendon—is the sound of Elias’s voice cracking in the locker room, shrieking my name. That first loss shredded him. Not just bruised, broke. So no. We’re not skating tonight just to win the game.
We’re skating to avenge our center.
The arena is packed. Fans roaring, glass shaking, lights blinding. And every one of us takes the ice like we’re marching into war. Viktor’s jaw is already clenched. Cole is snarling before the anthem even starts. Shane’s pacing in his crease. Elias skates out with fire in his veins, curls bouncing, mouthguard hanging from his lips, the bruise on his hip from last game still visible where his jersey doesn’t quite cover it. His eyes lock on the Bastards’.
