I pouted. Full, theatrical, the same expression I used to give judges when they dared deduct for a wobbly landing.
“We’re gonna get sweaty anyway.”
“I’m aware.” His grin was slow, dangerous, the one that used to make my knees forget how to hold an arabesque. “But I know you. You always shower after the club. Always. Even when your feet are bleeding through your heels, and you’re half-dead on your feet. You still drag yourself into the bathroom, wash the night off, and crawl into bed smelling like hotel soap and victory.”
My heart did something traitorous—squeezed, fluttered, remembered every single time he’d been right about me. I grabbed his cheeks with both hands, squishing lightly until his mouth puckered like a fish. Leaned in until our noses brushed and our breath mingled.
“You remember the strangest things, Petrov.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?” His voice had gone soft around the edges, the way it only ever did for me.
“Maybe.” I huffed, then kissed him—gentler this time. Just lips. Just the barest press.
A thank-you wrapped in affection I wasn’t ready to name. He chuckled into my mouth, kissing me back with the same careful reverence, and for one heartbeat the heat receded enough for me to feel the weight of five lost years sitting between us like an unlanded throw.
Then the haze surged back.
I forgot what he’d wanted me to do. Forgot the water. Forgot everything except the way his cock twitched beneath me when I rolled my hips again.
He scooped me up like I weighed nothing.
One fluid motion—goaltender strength, the same power that had once stopped 100-mile-an-hour slap shots now cradling an Omega in preheat like she was made of spun glass and bad decisions. My legs wrapped his waist automatically. My arms looped his neck. I was still in the ridiculous black dress, still dripping slick down my thighs, still biting another hickey into the thick muscle of his shoulder while he carried me across the room like a man multitasking between saving the game and winning the girl.
“What are you doing?” I mumbled against his skin, teeth still grazing.
“Why don’t we enjoy a shower together, hmm?”
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him I just wanted to fuck—hard, fast, right here on the bed that smelled like clean cotton and possibility. But the idea of him naked under running water, after five years of only seeing him in grainy game footage and fever-dream memories… that was dangerous. Tempting. The kind of temptation that made my core clench and my breath catch.
“Fine,” I grumbled, sucking one last bruise into the curve where shoulder met neck. “But I’m leaving more of these.”
“Poor me, looking like a walking tree carrying a very possessive squirrel,” he mutters humbly, but his arms tightened around me and I felt the smile in his voice.
The bathroom was all slate and glass and soft lighting that clicked on automatically. He set me on the vanity, cold marble kissing the backs of my thighs. Then he stripped me—dress up and over my head in one smooth motion, bra unhooked with two fingers, thong peeled away with a wet sound that should have embarrassed me and only made me wetter.
He looked at the soaked lace like it had personally offended him.
I kicked off my heels. Watched him shove his own clothes away—black shirt, jeans, boxer briefs—until he stood naked and glorious andhard. His cock was flushed dark, veined, the head already glistening. I reached for it.
He caught my wrist again.
“Shower.”
I whined.
He turned the water on.
I stepped under before it warmed.
Cold.
Bliss.
The spray hit my overheated skin like a triple Lutz landing clean—shock, relief, the sudden clarity of edges biting ice. Goosebumps raced across my breasts. My nipples tightened to aching points. I tipped my face into the stream and moaned like the water was fucking me instead of him.
Luka stepped in behind me.
Chest to my back. Cock sliding along the cleft of my ass. Hands bracketing my hips like he was afraid I’d disappear.
