Except I’m not invisible anymore, not after that kiss.
The kiss loops on every screen, brighter than the medal.My pulse spikes, not with fear, but with fury.He made me the headline.I spent months protecting him from.
My phone buzzes like it’s possessed, a hundred messages piling in.Photographers grin when they catch my eye, like they know a secret.I keep my chin high, but inside, I'm not so sure.I’m still shaking.From his mouth to mine.From how reckless it was.From how good it felt.
For a moment, he was entirely mine.And the entire world saw it.If I wanted him, if I wanted us, I would be thrilled.
But all I see are the tabloid headlines portraying me like an ornament.A novelty beside their beloved superstar.Something to shine one moment, and hide another.
I don’t even know what I feel.Pride, yes.But also fear.Because the line between us — professional, personal, impossible — just blurred in front of the world.
“Over here, Kern!”someone yells, pushing closer.
Then a voice, cutting through the din:
“Are you the girlfriend?”
My stomach drops.
The question isn’t for him.It’s for me.A headline, cooked, and ready.
I give them the neutral smile I was born with and walk.Away from the microphone.Away from an answer.
Later, it’s just us.
The team is still celebrating somewhere down the hall.The world is still screaming his name outside.But here, the room is dim, quiet, mine.
My Olympic winner.My happiness somehow slipping through my fingers.
His medal lies tossed on the dresser like an afterthought, still catching stray light.
He pulls me in before I can think.The kiss is immediate, hungry, like he’s still chasing the line.His hands in my hair, on my back, holding me too tight, as if I might vanish if he loosens his grip.Urgent.Fierce.
I melt under his touch, shake his jacket off to run my palms along his sculpted body.I lean even closer, as if I can’t get close enough.His hard-on presses against me, and I grind back, already throbbing with need.His mouth is rough, devouring, and when he tears at my clothes, there’s no trace of teasing this time—only possession.
There was passion between us in Kitzbühel, but then he controlled it, toyed with it.Tonight, he doesn’t hold back.He is wild.No jokes, no restraint, just pure, desperate need.
When he pulls my shirt over my head, his eyes burn with lust so sharp it makes me moan aloud.
“I want you so much,” I whisper, though my voice comes out weak, almost small.Because the intensity in his gaze is almost frightening, it’s not just desire—it’s a demand.A plea he won’t voice.
I step back toward the bed and he follows, stripping as he moves, until I’m down to my wet panties and he’s rolling a condom down his cock, hard and straining.
I spread my legs wide, my hand sliding between them automatically, desperate for relief.He grabs my wrist and pins both my hands above my head, his body looming over mine.
“My turn,” he growls, and slides into me—slow for a heartbeat, then slamming deep.
A cry rips from my throat, and I close my eyes against the force of it, but his hands grip my face, holding me there.
“Look at me,” he commands, voice ragged.Not a plea.A command.
So I look into eyes dark with need, but also something rawer, something that cuts deeper than lust.
“Look at us,” he forces my chin down, so I see where his cock disappears inside me.“Watch how I fuck you.”
It’s filthy.It’s breathtaking.And it’s more than that; it’s like he needs me to witness it, to prove this is real, that it’s him I want, not the medal flashing on the dresser.
He pounds into me, wild and relentless, and the sight of him sliding in and out of me makes me whimper.My whole body arches to meet him, desperate.
