I reach out. My hand lands on his arm, feather-light. No pressure. Just heat and skin and the question hanging heavy, like a third presence between us. His eyes close. He breathes in slow, like he’s trying to hold himself together through the sensation of my hand on his skin. I can see it moving through him — that thing he fights constantly, that he redirects into anger and slammed lockers and wrong decisions on the ice.
“Once,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “We try this once. Then we move on. No more letting it bleed into the game.”
He reaches up and moves my hand away. I let out a frustrated breath. Why am I chasing this? Why do I keep fighting for something that bites back every damn time? I look at him standing there — chest rising and falling a little too fast, eyes back open now, green and exhausted and wanting something he won’t let himself have — and he’s pissing me off again.
I want to see how far I can push before he snaps. That’s the only thing he seems to respond to anyway.
So I shove him, hard, back against the wall, because he reacts to my anger more than anything else. “You know what?” I murmur, close enough that my mouth almost brushes his mouth. “You’re fucking scared.” His throat works around whatever he wants to say, like I struck something too close to the surface, and I feel a sharp, dark satisfaction curl low in my chest.
Good. There it is.
“And if you’re scared…” I tap his forehead twice, watching the way his eyes flash. “You’re weak.” He exhales through his nose, sharp and controlled, but I can already see him slipping. “And if you’re weak,” I lean in, lips grazing his ear, voice dropping until it’s barely more than a whisper—“you’re not in control anyway.”
That does it. I feel him lock up. His breathing gets rough, heavy, like something just broke inside. God, I love this part. The way he hates it and wants it all at once. Jamie doesn’t want gentle. I tried, but he wants someone who’ll push right past his guard and take whatever they want from him. He wants a fight.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he bites out, but his voice isn’t steady anymore, not the way he wants it to be. “All you do is run your mouth—get under my skin—you’re in my head and you won’t fucking leave.” He tries to turn away, but I catch his wrist, stopping him cold. For a heart-stopping second, we’re frozen. His pulse hammers under my fingers. Mine matches it, beat for beat.
Slowly, I bring his wrist to my mouth. Press a kiss to the blue vein and lick it, slow. Not force, not dominance. Something worse. Something that worms it way under his skin and stays there. He shudders, rewired, body unsure what to do with me giving instead of taking.
“Get on your knees,” he says, voice ragged, shaking, but there’s power in it, power he needs, so I give it to him. Fine. For now I’ll give him the control he so desperately craves. I drop down, slow, making him watch every second—real surrender, not just for show. Even as I kneel, the charge between us crackles, sharp and electric. I look at him.
He’s already falling apart for me.
“Is this what you want, Captain?” I whisper against the heated skin of his stomach, my voice low against him, but my eyes stay locked on his, challenging. I ease his shorts down slowly, and his cock immediately pops out, thick, straining, a drop of precum pearling at the tip like an invitation.
"Christ," I mutter, the word rough in my throat, and I grin upat him, at his dazed eyes, the flush high on his cheekbones. He thinks he's winning this, thinks he's got the upper hand. But I can see the desperation all over him, his thighs already trembling, his cock twitching toward my mouth like it knows exactly where it wants to be.
"Now look at me this time," I order. I drag my tongue along his length, slow and torturous, from base to tip, gathering that bead of precum, letting him watch me taste him.
And he tastes so fucking good.
His whole body jolts, a broken sound ripped out of him, half groan, half something like my name.
"So you do know how to be nice," I taunt, mouth still against him, breath hot on his skin. I pull off. Just far enough that he can feel the loss, the cold. His cock bobs in the air, wet and wanting, flushed pink. I let my breath ghost over him, so close I could lick, but I don't. I let my lips graze his thigh instead.
"Beg for it," I say. "If you want it so badly, Captain, admit it."
His glare is lethal. He could kill with eyes like that. But his hips are betraying him, little involuntary thrusts, chasing my mouth. He grits out, "Go fuck yourself, Rhys."
I laugh. "Not until you go first." I slide my fingers up his inner thigh, slow and cruel, brushing his balls with a feather-light touch, then back off again. His thighs twitch, his breath comes out ragged.
"I won’t beg," he says, but his voice is thinner now, stretched tight. I watch the pulse flutter in his throat. I dip my head, let my tongue flick out just once, barely catching the tip and the salt of him. Then I pull away again. I want to see how far he'll bend before he breaks. He clenches his jaw, fists white-knuckled.
"Don't you fucking tease me, Rhys."
I rest my chin on his thigh, looking up at him. "Then tell me what you want. Say it." His whole body trembles. I can seehim breaking now, the fight draining out of him, replaced by rawness and wanting. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw working, and when he speaks it's barely a whisper.
"Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Rhys." His voice cracks. "I want you. I want your mouth. Please."
I grin, savagely, in deep satisfaction. "Good boy."
I feel him tense, feel the moment he snaps. His fingers tangle in my hair, rough and demanding, forcing me down. He touches me like he’s angry about needing to.
He wants it. He wants it so badly he's shaking with it.
