Page 124 of Pucking Daddy

Zara stands at the end of the hallway, silhouetted against the distant lights of the lower bowl.

She wears jeans and one of my old Raptors hoodies—the gray one with the frayed cuffs that I give her during a particularly cold night at the apartment.

Her curls are pulled back in that messy ponytail she defaults to when she isn't thinking about appearances, and even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders.

"Hey." Her voice is soft, carrying easily in the silence. "Are you okay?"

I close the distance between us, stopping just short of touching her. "You didn't have to come."

"I know." She reaches out, her fingers brushing my jaw. "I wanted to."

The contact undoes something in my chest. All day, I’ve been holding myself together with sheer stubbornness—but here, with her hand warm against my face, I feel the cracks spreading.

“The arena’s empty,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, threaded with something that wasn’t there before. Something that has my pulse kicking up despite everything weighing on me. “Everyone’s gone.”

I let out a quiet huff of a laugh, because of course she’d say something like that right now. Because of course she’d be the one person who can cut through the pressure sitting on my chest.

“What are you suggesting, Mrs. Halberg?”

Her lips curve, just slightly. “I’m suggesting…” She takes a small step closer, closing the already minimal distance between us. “That maybe I can help you relax. Make you forget.”

I answer by kissing her.

Finally. I have her again.

It isn't gentle. It can't be, not with everything churning inside me.

I back her toward the concrete wall, swallowing her gasp as her shoulders hit the cold surface.

Her hands are already working at my jacket, shoving it off my shoulders with an urgency that matches my own.

"Here," she breathes against my lips. "Right here."

We stumble down the corridor, past the empty equipment room, until we reach the edge of the lower bowl.

The ice stretches out before us, pristine and waiting, the overhead lights casting everything in a blue-white glow.

I turn her in my arms, pressing her back against the concrete barrier that separates the seats from the ice.

I pull her hips against mine, letting her feel exactly what she’s doing to me.

Zara's breath hitches, and she rocks forward, grinding herself against the hard length of me. The friction is maddening—even through layers of fabric, I can feel the heat of her.

Zara's hands slide down my chest, her fingers deft as they work at my belt.

The metal clinks softly in the quiet arena, the only sound besides our ragged breathing. She doesn't fumble, doesn't hesitate—just works with a single-minded determination that makes my cock twitch in anticipation.

She pushes my pants down just enough, her palm pressing flat against my stomach before her fingers wrap around my shaft.

I hiss at the contact, my hips jerking forward of their own accord. She lingers there for a heartbeat, squeezing gently, before sliding her hand toward the tip to find the excess skin. She brushes up and down—once, twice, three times.

“Enough,” I growl.

“Someone’s eager,” she murmurs, a trace of her usual playfulness slipping through.

“Someone’s been hard since our wedding day,” I counter, and her grip tightens in response.

Then she's sinking to her knees, the concrete cold and unforgiving beneath her.