if you fall in love
and forget how to take a slapshot
i’m benching you for emotional misconduct
Nate
just opened this chat
genuinely not sure if i need holy water, a therapist, or to lie face-down in traffic
thanks for the support
go fuck yourselves
Leo
bro said ‘lie face-down in traffic’ like he didn’t just nut so hard he saw the season finale
10
“NO, NOT HIM,” SHE LIED
Holly
“I don’t believe in distractions. Apparently unless they play hockey and smell like danger.”
Her night ended the way every other one had that week: alone. The book she’d pretended to read was abandoned on the nightstand. Her apartment was silent, still humming with the echo of performance. And she was curled in bed, tense and wired, wrapped around a need she’d spentdaystrying to ignore.
She’d done everything right. Showered. Moisturized. Performed the ritual of control with expensive serums and soft lighting, pretending that discipline could smother the heat still simmering between her legs. Her skin glowed like she was calm. Composed. Like she wasn’t one breath away from crawling out of her own skin.
But the lie peeled at the edges.
She could still feel him. Nate. His hand pressed to her lower back. The weight of his thigh between hers in that final pose. Hot, commanding,knowing. Like he’dfelther clench around nothing and pressed harder.
The sweat was gone. The music over. But the ghost of him lingered, soaked into her pores like perfume. She closed her eyes, and there he was again. The heat of his gaze. The rasp of his breath behind her ear. That voice.Just tell me how you want it.
She turned over, groaning. Sheets twisted around her legs. Her tank top clung damply to her skin. She was flushed, pulsing, restless. Her thighs pressed tight, hips shifting like they could outmaneuver the ache. But they couldn’t.
She reached for control. Told herself she was just adjusting her waistband. Just trying to sleep. But her fingers slipped beneath the elastic, slow and shameful, like she could lie to herself a little longer. Like she wasn’t already soaked. Like her hand hadn’tbeen here before, chasing this same phantom.
The first brush of contact made her hiss, and she dragged one fingertip through her slick folds as she warned herself not to wonder what it would be like to havehishand there instead. Her back arched, reflexive and needy. Her breath caught, and she squeezed her eyes shut like that would make it stop. Like she didn’t want it.
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t. Not again.”
But her hand moved anyway.
There was no grace in it. No seduction. She didn’t stroke, shedug. Fingers sliding through soaked heat with ruthless efficiency, each movement sharp, fast,furious. She moved like she was punishing herself for wanting, for needing, for remembering the way his thigh had pressed between hers like a question she already knew the answer to.
Her wrist flexed, hips lifting into her own hand in frantic, stuttering jerks. There was nothing rhythmic, just chaos. Just ascramblefor relief she knew wouldn’t come clean. She fucked her hand like it might knock him loose from her brain, like she could drive him out with pressure and friction and speed. But all it did wassummonhim.
The harder she moved, the more vivid he became. The ghost of his teeth at her throat, dragging her open, voice low and filthy. That was the worst part. How fucking hot he’d been when he said it.
Tell me where you want me.
Like he didn't know damn well exactly what he was doing.
She gasped, thighs twitching, fingers slick and sliding as she chased release harder, rougher. Like she could erase him. But all she did was burn herself at his altar.
