The scotch glass shattered against the wall.
I didn’t flinch at the sound—just watched the amber liquid streak down the pristine white paint like blood. My fingers were already at my belt, tugging the leather free with a sharp hiss of metal through loops. The buckle hit the floor. Followed by the zipper.
No finesse. No patience.
Just need.
My palm wrapped around my cock, skin hot and tight. A groan tore from my throat at the first stroke—rough, desperate. The fantasy hit like a puck to the ribs: Belle, pressed against the alley bricks, her coat rucked up around her waist, those slender thighs trembling as I forced them apart.
"No—"
Her voice would break on the word. Not fear. Defiance. Even as I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, even as my other yanked her underwear aside, she’d fight. Twist against me. Bite her lip until it bled rather than give me the satisfaction of hearing her gasp.
I stroked harder, thumb smearing precum over the head, imagining the way her body would betray her. The way her hips would jerk when I thrust inside, dry and brutal, stretching her until she whimpered. Not pain. Hunger. The kind she’d never admit to.
"Please—"
The word would rip from her like a secret. Her nails would dig into my wrists, her back arching off the wall as I bottomed out, my name a curse on her lips. I’d feel her clench around me, tight and wet and lying, because she’d still be telling herself she didn’t want it even as her body took every inch.
My grip tightened, fingers digging into my own skin hard enough to bruise. The burn grounded me, kept me from coming too fast. I wanted to draw it out—wanted to hear her beg in my head, wanted to feel the way her thighs would lock around my hips when she finally stopped fighting.
"Gideon, I?—"
Fuck.
I came with a choked groan, spurting over my knuckles, my stomach, the floor. The release was brutal, leaving me hollowed out and shaking. My breath came in ragged pulls, the fantasy still clinging to the edges of my vision—her hair tangled in my fist, her lips parted, her eyes finally, finally on me.
The mess dripped down my fingers.
I didn’t move to clean it up.
Just stood there, staring at the broken glass, the ruined paint, the proof of what she did to me.
This wasn’t over.
Not even close.
The next morning, the shower ran cold until my skin went numb.
Steam never touched the glass. Just ice and discipline and the kind of clarity that came from breaking yourself down to nothing. I braced both palms against the tile, let the water beat against my spine until the ache in my muscles dulled to background noise.
Four-thirty. Same as always.
The sun hadn't cracked the horizon yet. Lake Belmont stretched beyond the bathroom window, gray meeting black, the division between water and sky invisible from this angle.
I toweled off. Shaved. Pulled on the clothes I'd laid out the night before—dark jeans, black henley, the watch that cost more than her monthly rent.
The broken glass still littered the floor downstairs. The scotch stain had dried into the paint, darker now. Permanent.
I stepped over it.
Coffee. Black. Two cups while I scrolled through emails I wouldn't answer until the trainer cleared me for morning skate. Endorsement offer. Charity gala. Interview request from some podcast that thought athletes had interesting things to say about books.
Delete. Delete. Archive.
My thumb paused.
One notification. Missed call. Three-seventeen a.m.
