Page 31 of Depths of Desire
I shook my head. “Not tonight.”
He gave me a quick scan but didn’t push. “Catch you later, then.”
I nodded and stalked off in the opposite direction. The wind outside slapped my face as I stepped onto the path that led back to the dorms. My lungs seized for a second, stung by the cold, but I welcomed it. Anything to ground me.
The loss sat in my chest like a bruise, but it wasn’t just the game.
I walked faster, earbuds in but no music playing, letting the campus blur around me. I didn’t want to talk. And I didn’t want to drink. I didn’t want to be seen right now. I just wanted…
I didn’t even know. That was the problem.
By the time I reached my dorm, my fingers were stiff and red. I climbed the stairs two at a time and let myself into the quiet dorm room I shared with Rhett. It was still warm from his earlierpresence, faintly smelling of aftershave and whatever protein bar he’d demolished before the game.
I dropped my gear, peeled off my hoodie, and collapsed onto my bed.
The silence rushed in immediately.
And there he was again.
Oliver Hayworth. Clean lines and strong strokes and ridiculous discipline. He haunted me in ways he probably didn’t even mean to. He hadn’t texted. I hadn’t either. We’d kept the unspoken agreement. That night had been exactly what he said it was. A moment.
But moments lingered, dammit.
And I hated myself a little for letting it get to me and for waking up next to someone who wanted nothing from me and still feeling more seen than I had in months.
I rubbed my hands over my face, willing the image away.
He wasn’t mine. He’d been clear. Focused. Busy. All the old bullshit. Too busy for distractions, too busy for boys who liked to skate backward and make dumb jokes. Oliver wasn’t cold, not exactly, but he had rules. “Walls” was another word for it. I’d gotten past them once, and I knew better than to try again.
It was supposed to be a onetime thing.
And it had been.
So why did it still feel like he was holding a part of me hostage?
I turned over and buried my face in the pillow.
What I needed—really needed—was to focus. If he could do it, so could I. On the season. On the team. On the fact that we’d blown a chance to cement our dominance, and I was one of the guys who’d failed to deliver.
I couldn’t afford to spiral over one night in the snow.
I’d get over it.
Eventually.
If only I didn’t still feel him inside me every damn time I closed my eyes. If only I didn’t feel the pulling of his cock when he finished, a wild ripple of pleasure thundering through my very core. If only I didn’t pull this memory out of the abyss every time I drew a breath.
EIGHT
OLIVER
The pool wasquiet this time of day.
Only the occasional echo of footsteps reached me from the far end of the facility. The water was cool, not cold. My skin had adjusted after the first few laps, but my head never quite did. I turned at the wall, pushed off hard, and sliced through the lane again.
Breathe. Pull. Kick. Repeat.
It was muscle memory by now. It had to be. Nothing about this place changed. The faint scent of chlorine, the hum of the overhead lights, and the pale lines at the bottom of the lane keeping me tethered to the right path. All of it was constant. All of it predictable. Everything except my own damn mind.
