Page 76 of Puck Your Charity

"Now I take care of you." I pull back and slam into her.

I set a deep, punishing pace. I thrust into her with raw, relentless power. I keep my chest hovering over hers, watching every expression cross her face. She chases my thrusts. She wraps her legs around my waist, her nails digging into my back.

The bed frame knocks against the wall. The scent of cedar and apple pie turns intoxicating.

"Fuck, Olive." I groan, my jaw tight. "You feel incredible."

I slide one hand under her lower back, tilting her hips up to change the angle. I hit a spot deep inside her that makes her entire body arch. I attack that spot over and over. Each thrust drives the breath from my lungs. My wet hair falls forward, brushing against her breasts and her face. She grabs the long dark strands, pulling me closer to kiss me frantic and hard.

Our mouths clash in a messy tangle of tongues. I fuck her with an unyielding rhythm. I pull out to the very tip, letting the head of my cock drag along her sensitive opening, before driving back in. The swollen knot bumps against her entrance withevery downward stroke. The constant blunt pressure teases the stretch. It edges her closer and closer to the breaking point.

Sweat coats my back. My muscles burn from the exertion. I ride the intense wave of pleasure, giving her everything I possess. Her inner walls clench and flutter around my shaft.

"Give me the knot." She begs, her voice a desperate sob. "I want your knot, Malcolm."

"Take it." I oblige her demand.

I grip her hips tight. I pull out one last time and drive forward with a devastating thrust. I shove my knot past her tight threshold. The thick mass pops inside her core, locking our bodies together.

“Malcolm!” The immense stretch triggers her climax. Her inner walls milk my cock with crushing force. White-hot pleasure explodes in my brain.

I roar, throwing my head back. I pump a hot, thick load into her. I collapse against her chest, my heart hammering against her ribs. I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her neck, content to stay locked inside her forever.

Late May brings a fierce, suffocating heat to the city outside. Inside the arena, the ice radiates a bitter chill. The stadium buzzes with a deafening roar. Over twenty thousand fans pack the stands, screaming until their throats bleed.

Tonight marks Game Six of the playoffs. We lead the series three games to two against the Reapers. A win tonight punches our ticket to the Alpha Cup Finals.

I stand near the blue line. The third period clock shows five minutes remaining. The score sits tied at two. Sweat stings myeyes under my visor. My lungs burn. Every muscle in my legs aches from the relentless pace of the game.

I scan the ice. The Reapers play a dirty, aggressive trap game. They target our knees and throw cheap elbows behind the referee's back.

A month ago, this kind of hostile play would trigger Victor's worst impulses. He would lose his temper. He would drop his gloves, throw a punch, and sit in the penalty box while the Reapers scored on a power play. His toxic anger used to dictate the rhythm of our front line.

Victor skates into the offensive zone, and the difference looks staggering.

He unpacked his trauma. He stopped running from his past. He built a solid, undeniable bond with Olive, and it changed his entire foundation. He no longer plays with chaotic, reactionary rage. He plays with cold, protective, lethal precision.

A massive Reapers defenseman cross-checks Victor in the lower back. Victor stumbles but keeps his balance on his skates. He ignores the cheap shot. He keeps his eyes locked on the puck. He weaves through the defense with flawless stick-handling. He anticipates the trap and slips right past the giant defender, leaving the guy out of position.

Lawrence races down the left wing. Victor fires a blind, perfect backhand pass right to Lawrence's stick tape.

Lawrence winds up and rips a blistering slapshot. The rubber disc flies past the Reaper goalie's glove and smashes into the back of the net.

The red goal light flashes. The stadium horn blares with a deafening blast.

I throw my arms up and skate toward the net. Finn pumps his arms in the crease, his goalie pads slowing his celebration. Victor tackles Lawrence against the glass, an enormous, genuine grin breaking across his face.

We hold the lead for the final four minutes. I deliver two punishing hits against the boards, clearing the puck out of our zone and protecting Finn's net. The clock ticks down. Ten seconds. Five seconds.

The final buzzer sounds.

The crowd explodes. We dump our gloves and our sticks on the ice. I tackle Finn in the crease. Lawrence and Victor pile on top of us. We survived. We secure our spot in the ultimate championship series.

The celebration continues down the concrete tunnels. We march toward the home locker room. The air smells like sweat, ice shavings, and total adrenaline. Reporters shout questions from behind the barricades. We ignore the press and push through the double doors.

The locker room turns into a chaotic mess of flying tape and triumphant shouts. Guys blast music from a speaker in the corner.

I drop my heavy gear bag near my stall. I peel my soaked jersey over my head.