Page 45 of Hold the Line

The words make no sense. He mispronounces half of them, turning declarations of love and filth into something about trees and random objects. In any other situation I would be correcting him immediately, teasing him about his terrible accent. But right now? Right now I do not care. The fact that he is even trying — that he learned my language just to reach me, that he is whispering broken Russian praise while riding me like his life depends on it — undoes me completely.

I groan, long and low, hips jerking up involuntarily to meet his movements. Cole’s hands stay pinned on my wrists, keeping me there as he fucks himself harder, faster, trembling thighs working as he chases another peak. Every clumsy, heartfelt word out of his mouth makes my chest ache with something far too big for words.

“Fuck…” I rasp, wrecked. “Keep going. Just like that.”

If I really wanted to, I could flip Cole onto his back in the blink of an eye and fuck him into the mattress until he forgot his own name. But fuck — the sight of him right now is easily in my top three favorite things in the entire world.

He is straddling me, flushed and trembling, sweat glistening on his golden-brown skin as he rides me with single-minded determination. His rhythm is devastating — deep rolls of his hips that take me all the way in, grinding down hard before lifting up again, the tight heat of him squeezing around my cock on every stroke. And through it all, he keeps whispering broken Russian praise like it is the only thing keeping him sane.

“Come for me, big tree… Vitya, come… please, big tree…”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. The mispronunciation is so bad it loops back around to ridiculous, but the earnestness in his voice makes something fierce and tender explode in my chest.

I try — I really try — to stay still and let him have this. My hands stay pinned above my head where he left them, fingers curled into the sheets as I fight every instinct to grab him and take over. But Cole’s rhythm is driving me insane, tight and wet and perfect, and those clumsy little Russian words are going to kill me.

Right when I feel my orgasm barreling toward me, unstoppable and devastating, I rip one wrist free, wrap my arm around Cole’s waist like a steel band, and yank him down hard as I thrust up into him with everything I have left. Cole yelps, hands flying to my shoulders to hold on for dear life as I start pounding up into him, chasing the release he has been teasing me with all night.

“Fuck— yes— take it,” I growl, voice wrecked as I fuck him through it. Laughter and curses mix in my throat because I am so far gone it is ridiculous. “So fucking good for me— tight little hole— mine— all fucking mine—”

Cole whimpers and brats through every thrust, brain clearly too fried to do anything else. “You— asshole— couldn’t let me finish— fuck, Vitya, you’re so deep— I hate you— don’t stop— harder, you big stupid tree— I was so close— fuck me like you mean it, you Russian bastard—”

I come harder than I ever have in my life.

A raw, broken groan tears out of me as pleasure slams through every nerve ending, hips stuttering up into him as I fill him deep, pulse after pulse, until I am shaking underneath him. Cole holds on desperately, whimpering and moaning through it, still trying to brat even while he is falling apart on my cock.

Cole collapses completely into my arms, body going boneless and heavy as the last of his strength gives out. He is still mumbling bratty little things against my neck, his voice soft and slurred with exhaustion. “You’re so… mean… stupid Russian… tree man… should’ve let me finish… asshole…” Each word gets quieter, slower, until they fade into sleepy, contented hums. Then he goes quiet, soft and trusting, curled against my chest like he was made to fit there.

I run my fingers slowly through his damp hair, savoring the feeling of him like this — warm, spent, and completely mine. I tilt his head up gently with two fingers under his chin so I can see his face. “Still with me, little magpie?” I ask softly.

Cole nods sleepily, eyes half-lidded and hazy. “Why do you call me that?”

I smile, brushing my thumb over his bottom lip. “Because you’re loud… and a damn thief.”

Cole gapes at me, suddenly a little more awake. “Excuse me?! I am not a thief!”

“Yes… you are,” I say, teasingly.

He actually frowns, brows pulling together as he genuinely tries to think. “I mean… there was that keychain from the airport in Vancouver… I didn’t even notice I still had it until we were on the plane. And that fridge magnet from the team store in Boston… and Damian’s whistle from three seasons ago when he wasn’t even the official coach yet — he looked for that thing for months. And… uh… that shiny little bottle opener from the bar in Miami… and the sunglasses from that one hotel… and maybe a few pucks from practice… and that signed hockey card from the charity event…”

I wait until he runs out of steam, watching the slow realization cross his face. Then I lean in and kiss his forehead.

“My heart, you idiot,” I murmur against his skin. “You stole my heart.”

Cole goes very quiet. He stares up at me with wide, soft eyes, something vulnerable and warm blooming across his expression. Then he buries his face back into my neck, arms wrapping tighter around me like he never wants to let go. I hold him close as sleep pulls us both under.

Practice is winding down, everyone drenched in sweat and breathing like they just ran a marathon through hell, mostly because Elias has been in full feral captain mode — chirping everyone, pushing the pace, and generally being an absolute menace. The rookies have already puked. Several times. Jace looks like he is one more suicide away from crying. I am grinning like an idiot because this is exactly how I like it.

Lena is in the stands like she is every damn year around Christmas, screaming and cheering like we are playing in the Stanley Cup Final instead of a tired end-of-practice scrimmage. “Let’s go, Reapers! Skate harder, you lazy asses! That’s my brother out there looking like a snack!” She has been doing this since I got drafted. It used to embarrass me. Now I just wave my stick at her like a lunatic and yell back.

Damian blows the final whistle, the sharp sound cutting through the arena. We all start gliding toward the bench, exhausted but buzzing, when — of course — he blows it again. Two short, angry bursts. Jace, poor kid, faceplants dramatically into the ice mid-stride. A couple of the guys have to jump over his sprawled body like it is some kind of hockey obstacle course as they turn back toward the bench.

“Listen up, Reapers!” Damian barks, voice carrying that commanding growl that still makes rookies straighten up instantly. Elias is practically vibrating out of his skin beside him on the bench, which means he is absolutely in on whatever this is.

“And Lena!” Damian calls louder, tilting his head toward the stands.

Lena actually yelps — a high, surprised sound I have never heard from her before. She clutches the railing like she has been caught doing something illegal. I snort so hard I almost choke on my own spit.

Damian continues, cane planted firmly, looking every bit the terrifying coach even with the holiday lights someone strung up along the boards. “This Christmas it’s dinner at our house. 24th December, 6 pm. Be late and you will run laps around my house for Christmas.”