Page 85 of Break the Ice
Round four’s such a failure—we’re both grunting by the time we’re about to come—that it becomes a success.
We chase our orgasms, lost in the throes of our passion.
I’ve questioned what could be waiting at the end of this game. I’m still not sure, but as Rafe pumps into me, I’m aware nothing will ever be the same again.
There’s no returning to the life I thought I was building. The wounds I was throwing dirt on top of. The truth is, what happened with David changed me, and the same can be said about the dark secret we’re keeping.
Mr. Hawk’s death.
As deeply as I’ve loathed Rafe, I’ve also depended on him.
I’ve trusted him on a level I’ve never trusted another human being before. I’ve put my fate in his hands. He’s proven he has his own fucked up methods of handling that trust, but he’s come through every time thus far.
Can I really say he’s my enemy? Can I claim some darker part of me doesn’t relish the games we play?
These thoughts are wiped out by my orgasm. I come, and I come hard. The pleasure smacks into me with no mercy to be found. I’m left wrecked, panting for air, spasming around Rafe’s dick as I come with a scream of his name.
He’s with me every moment. Kissing me fiercely on the lips. Slamming his hips into me. Spilling his release as my pussy milks him dry.
We’re so gone by the end, it’s all we can do to stand pressed up against the lockers. Our limbs are tangled and we’re incapable of speech. Rafe only lets me down when he realizes he’s crushing me.
My legs wobble as my feet touch the ground. “That was… extremely inappropriate.”
He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair. “No shit, Sugar. But extremely inappropriate is my middle name at this point.”
“I’ve learned,” I quip, a slight smile coming to my face.
He grabs my jeans and shoves them into my hands. “Put these on. Hurry. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”
“I’m not walking out that door. The whole team’s probably?—”
“Schmidt won’t say shit. And Coach’ll tell everybody they didn’t hear shit. But I wasn’t talking about that door, Sugar. I meant the back door—the fire alarm’s been disabled ’cuz we usually sneak Ice Girls out that way.”
“Don’t I feel classy?”
He links his fingers with mine and then brings the back of my hand to his lips. It’s possibly the most normal gesture of affection he’s ever given—I know this because a second later, after he’s dropped a kiss to the soft skin, even he looks surprised.
“You’re on a whole different plane of existence than the Ice Girls. Those perfect tits alone put you miles above the rest?—”
“Rafe,” I groan, my cheeks warm.
He tugs me along wearing a broad grin, as if he’s aware how his crass language still gets to me.
We do as Rafe suggests. We sneak out the disabled emergency exit and make a break for it like we’re fleeing the scene of a crime. In some ways, that’s exactly what we’re doing.
I have no idea where Rafe’s taking me until we’re a few streets away from his condo. I open my mouth to question him and then think better of it—his cum is still inside me, my pussy so wet and slick it’s like carrying a part of him in my most intimate place. It shouldn’t be something I revel in and yet I do. I sit in the passenger seat of Rafe’s Corvette and close my eyes, letting the ache he’s left in his wake settle in.
I’m still thrumming from the passionate sex. Even if it’d been in yet another unconventional place. I can only hope no one else overheard or saw anything, though that seems unlikely given how abruptly we’d commandeered the locker room. If I had any luck at all, most of the team still would’ve been out at the rink.
The first few moments inside Rafe’s condo are silent. He tugs off his t-shirt and tosses away things like his keys and wallet. I gravitate toward his kitchen island, the pendant lights dangling from above like a spotlight on me. I’m uncertain if we’re still playing round four or if this is something else altogether.
Rafe picks up on my confusion and approaches me with a gaze that rests on my face. It’s difficult to get a read on what the shine in his eyes means. Is he still pissed about catching Mr. Blackman with me in the skybox or is he finally ready for a conversation?
He stops once he’s close enough to trace the curve of my cheek, slow and deliberate so that I remain in mystery. He peers into my eyes as if he’s figuring out the precise shade of brown they are, and then he lets go of the anger. At least for me.
I know because I can feel the tension leave his body, the muscles in his forearms no longer so clenched, the veins less protruding among the rough hair. His warm palms slip lower to the sides of my throat, and he draws my mouth to his before even speaking a word.
I find myself sinking into the kiss from the moment our lips touch. It’s another injection of passion mere minutes after what happened in the locker room. It feels like validation, like reaffirmation that what’s developing between us goes beyond just a game.
