Page 20 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

I can feel her muscles start to contract and I am greedy. I want to feel this orgasm. I want her muscles to squeeze around my cock. I grab a condom and make quick work of putting iton before positioning myself at her entrance. I should take my time with her and let her adjust to each of my barbells, but I don't. I can't. I need to fill her. I slam into her, her body moving with mine. Her whimpers entice me to go harder and push my limits with her. I bend into her, folding her legs behind her head, placing my hand to rest on her chest near the base of her neck. Ziggy grabs my hand and inches it up her neck, leaving her hand atop mine. As I thrust into her, she applies a gentle amount of pressure with the hand on mine, encouraging me to tighten my grip ever so slightly as my lips meet hers and my tongue seeks its place with hers.

I plunge deeper and deeper into her, pressing tighter into her neck, our tongues still exploring each other. Ziggy moves her hips in circles against me, pressing harder, meeting each movement of my hips. "Holy shit, Elliot!" She shouts, "You feel so good. I think I can feel your piercings in my throat."

I let go of her neck, moving my arms underneath her to scoop her up. I slam her down on my dick again, getting even deeper, making her scream out my name before saying, "You can definitely feel them. I'll make sure of that."

I press my hips up into her while pulling her body into me. I squeeze her ass as I grind into her, applying pressure to her clit as I move.

"Fuck, that's so deep!" She says as she pulls at my hair. "Harder, Elliot, harder! You’re going to make me come."

Ziggy is screaming, her muscles gripping my dick. Pulsing around me, the sounds of our wet skin slap together as she writhes into me. Her arousal drips down both of us. We move together, our bodies finding a rhythm that is both frantic andperfect. It’s intense, overwhelming, and everything I have been craving.

I pull out of her, laying her back down on the mattress before bottoming out in her cunt again. I pull her leg up around my neck, gripping her tight around the neck, and press a thumb into her clit again before losing myself in her. I pump into her feverishly, knowing that my own orgasm is coming. I just hope to get one more from her before I do. The world outside ceases to exist. There is only Ziggy and I, a tangle of limbs and heat and raw, unfiltered passion. Every touch, every kiss, every gasp of pleasure is a release, letting go of all the anger and frustration that has been building up for weeks. I feel lighter than ever as I sink into her.

"Oh, Anatife, you feel so good," I say through gritted teeth. My orgasm rushes through my body. "Come for me one more time as you take every drop of my cum." I feel Ziggy squeeze around me as I fill up the condom, her body pulling everything from me.

We lie tangled together, our breathing slowly returning to normal. Ziggy drifts off to sleep, her head resting on my chest. I watch her for a moment, the rise and fall of her breath calming and centering the nightmare inside me. I feel better than I have in weeks. I know this shouldn't happen again but a small piece of me can’t help it.

She is currently my main source of chaos. She is, for all intents and purposes, still the enemy that'll continue to disrupt my life, turning my career upside down. Nothing good can come from this, but that doesn't stop me from reaching for her phone and calling myself from it. I shouldn't save my number in her phone as a shark and an eggplant emoji, but I do. I can't deny the pull she has on me. I will need more of this, more of her, even ifit means walking a dangerous line. Obviously, my mind is gone, because I'm no longer thinking clearly.

Chapter 19

Strangely, I am excited to get back to my apartment. The sight of Atlanta no longer makes me physically ill, and it no longer feels like I'm captive among its streets. After the wild ride of the last couple of weeks, it feels good to have some down time, a few moments of relaxation, even if only for a few days. I toss my suitcase onto the floor, kick off my shoes, and sink into the couch, my stress riddled body beginning to ease. I have three days to breathe before heading back to Arizona, where the Red Wolves face off against the California Redwood Rangers. For now, no more hockey until I can relax and catch up on some much-needed rest.

Unfortunately, even as I try to unwind, thoughts of Elliot gnaw at the edges of my mind. Our night together was intense, passionate, and nothing like I expected. The only thing that did hold up to my expectation was that that night was one time only. Elliot got all he wanted from me–to scratch the “itch.” As I left his hotel room the next morning, I got nothing from him. Not any type of reaction or acknowledgment. I at least hopedwe would agree that it couldn't happen again. Nope, nothing. He acted like nothing happened, like we hadn't just crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. And since then, I haven't heard a peep from him.

It's infuriating. Here I am, full of a confusing mix of emotions—anger, frustration, and, annoyingly enough, desire—while he seems to have gotten me out of his system without a second thought. I won't fall into the trap of thinking we shared anything more than just a single physical connection. Yet, maybe, deep down, I hoped that there would at least be an unspoken understanding between us. Nope, instead he is just going to pretend it never happened. At least his radio silence is a cold reminder that, to him, last night was just to get past our shit, nothing more.

Groaning, I bury my face in a cushion, trying to shake off the irritation festering inside me. I don't want to care about Elliot St. Germain, his infuriating charm, or his stupidly attractive mustache. I want to focus on my career and prove that I can be one of the best reporters in the business, even if I have no intention of sticking around long-term. But now, every time I close my eyes, instead of pushing the idea of him out of my mind, his image comes rushing back. A reminder of how easily he gets under my skin and how good his touch felt against it.

Determined to distract myself, I grab my laptop and begin reviewing my notes for the next few assignments. I have been brushing up on my technical details, studying game footage, and trying to get a better grasp of the intricacies of hockey. I might never fully understand the sport, but I am getting better. Traveling around, watching team after team, has been keeping me on my toes. I am starting to feel more confident in my abilities, but if I'm really going to leave a mark, I have a long wayto go. I need to be at the top of my game, focusing on the story and not on the frustrating goalie who managed to throw me off balance. As I delve deeper into my work, the annoyance slowly begins to fade, replaced by the familiar drive to succeed.

I spend the rest of the night in a rare luxury, doing absolutely nothing. I get into my pajamas, binge-watch my favorite comfort shows, and treat myself to an absurd amount of takeout. It’s a nice change of pace from what life on the road has been like. The second day, however, I feel more restless. It's harder and harder to shake the thought of Elliot from my mind. The way he looked at me, his intensity, and the way he made me feel—both irritated and completely alive. It's a dangerous combination. It’s about time for the Red Wolves' game to start. I'm off work today; in no way obligated to have to watch hockey today, so why do I find myself drawn to the television? I convince myself I need to see how the team performs for research purposes. I curl up on the couch with a glass of wine, the remote in hand, and tune in just as the game is starting.

From the first puck drop, Elliot is on fire. His movements are precise, his focus laser-sharp. He blocks shot after shot with an ease I've never seen before. His presence on the ice is commanding and dominant. It is, without a doubt, the best game I have ever seen him play, not that my opinion really means much here. Even the announcers have dubbed this as his best game ever. Every save, every dive, every block—it's as if he is able to anticipate the other team's next move before it happens. The commentators are losing their minds, praising his every move. Who the hell is this, and where did he come from?

As the final buzzer goes off, signaling the end of the game, the Red Wolves win 6 to 0. The game was an incredible feat compared to how their last few weeks' stats were looking. Thecamera pans to Elliot. Exhaustion fills his face, but that doesn’t stop him from maintaining that smug sense of triumph. He has snapped out of his funk and helped his team to victory, and it’s impossible not to be impressed.

This version of Elliot is a completely different person than the one I saw while covering the team. Focused, intense, and exuding confidence that seems unshakeable, he is almost unrecognizable from the man who struggled to make a save, or who let his distraction guide his play. Watching him dominate the rink was mesmerizing but also frustrating. He has this ability to perpetually throw me off balance. Each time I think I'm getting a good glimpse into who he is, I see a new, different side. I continue sipping my wine as the postgame interviews play in the background. I mindlessly observe them while my head is thousands of miles away. My phone buzzes with a new message. I set my wine glass down and grab my phone. My heart skips a beat as I see Elliot's name flash across the screen.

:I have a proposal for you.

I stare at the message, my mind racing. How does he have my phone number? What can he possibly want? Before I can overthink it, another message comes through.

:You just became my new

ritual. We have to keep having

earth-shattering sex before each game.

After the game is over, we can go back to

hating each other. It can be our little secret.

I blink, rereading the message several times. Is he serious? The thought of more sex, of continuing...whatever this is, is absolutely terrifying and makes me really horny. My phone buzzes again.

:And by the way, what

kind of psycho doesn’t lock their phone

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