again just thinking about it.
I watch the early-morning streets of Washington drift by in a frosty haze. Too early for the bundled-up lawyers and lobbyists of the West End to be out. Everything is a gorgeous sun-kissed gray, with empty sidewalks and unspoiled buildings. It feels like a new dawn. For the first time in—well, in I can’t remember—the tension is gone from the base of my skull. I am at peace with this world. Not a hunted man.
A free one.
The itch from under my skin is gone. I’m not choking on the need to visit Brimstone to atone. My god, it’s an incredible feeling. Almost as incredible as Fiona felt, slamming down onto my cock.
I grin slyly to myself. I’m pretty sure I can arrange for that to happen again real soon.
A memory of Rajani wafts toward me, lips pursed as she pretended to be stern. It’s not just about the sex, Marcus . And she was right.
It’s true here, too. Fiona is that rare spirit, one I’ve been yet to find in the endless stream of puck bunnies and gold-diggers who seem to be the only sorts of women willing to get within a mile of a guy like me. She’s her own woman. Opinionated, determined, unfiltered, unfettered.
And it’s intoxicating.
But I can tell she’s not fully at ease with it. Probably some asshole or two told her off for it—told her it wasn’t her womanly place to take charge. I wonder if that’s why she got so skittish there at the end. If she was expecting to hear the same thing from me.
Well, I’m sure I can show her otherwise. That I can appreciate all her angles. (And, god, all her curves . . .) Because I’m hooked.
I catch sight of my reflection in the tinted window. The huge grin. Yeah. I’m hooked.
And I’m screwed. In the best possible way.
The car drops me off in the back of the Eagles Arena in Chinatown. This morning, we have an optional skate, but for a guy in my position, there’s nothing optional about it. I need to have a chat with my shooting coach and some of the other coaching assistants besides—see what I can do about shoring up these “fundamentals” that have Coach Isaacs so concerned.
I head into the locker room to change and lace up my skates. There’s a mental ritual I like to follow when I’m lacing. It’s a little bit ADHD Coping Mechanism, and a little bit Life of a Submissive. Which, I guess, are one and the same for me. But with each tightening of crossed laces, I imagine my focus getting a little sharper. I imagine my body inviting in whatever pleasure and pain is going to come next. I’m putting on my armor, suiting up for battle. I can survive whatever comes next.
Survive, and thrive.
As I finish tying the knots in my second skate, the smattering of other Eagles players milling around suddenly snap to attention. Everyone starts clapping and cheering.
“Thank you, thank you, everyone. You are so much kindness.”
Drakonov’s back.
He flashes a gap-toothed grin at everyone as he struts into the locker room. He’s looking well-rested, but there’s more to it than that. Sergei’s positively glowing, looking on the outside the way Fiona made me feel inside. I share a knowing smile with him and grip his forearm for a brotherly shake.
“Good to have you back, man.”
“Is good to be back, my brother.” He steps back and looks me over. “I did not know you would be on the skates this morning.”
I toss a nervous glance over my shoulders, but the other players who turned up are chatting amongst themselves. Probably taking bets on how Drakonov’s going to perform tonight. Whether Coach will even put him in, or if he’ll just want him to stay limber and ease back into the game. I lean in toward Sergei and pitch my voice low.
“I can’t afford not to. Coach is really riding my ass.” I swallow. “Says I need to show more consistency—you know. Keep playing at a high level.”
Sergei pauses for a moment, processing the English, then nods. “I need you to be on the ice with me,”
I watch the early-morning streets of Washington drift by in a frosty haze. Too early for the bundled-up lawyers and lobbyists of the West End to be out. Everything is a gorgeous sun-kissed gray, with empty sidewalks and unspoiled buildings. It feels like a new dawn. For the first time in—well, in I can’t remember—the tension is gone from the base of my skull. I am at peace with this world. Not a hunted man.
A free one.
The itch from under my skin is gone. I’m not choking on the need to visit Brimstone to atone. My god, it’s an incredible feeling. Almost as incredible as Fiona felt, slamming down onto my cock.
I grin slyly to myself. I’m pretty sure I can arrange for that to happen again real soon.
A memory of Rajani wafts toward me, lips pursed as she pretended to be stern. It’s not just about the sex, Marcus . And she was right.
It’s true here, too. Fiona is that rare spirit, one I’ve been yet to find in the endless stream of puck bunnies and gold-diggers who seem to be the only sorts of women willing to get within a mile of a guy like me. She’s her own woman. Opinionated, determined, unfiltered, unfettered.
And it’s intoxicating.
But I can tell she’s not fully at ease with it. Probably some asshole or two told her off for it—told her it wasn’t her womanly place to take charge. I wonder if that’s why she got so skittish there at the end. If she was expecting to hear the same thing from me.
Well, I’m sure I can show her otherwise. That I can appreciate all her angles. (And, god, all her curves . . .) Because I’m hooked.
I catch sight of my reflection in the tinted window. The huge grin. Yeah. I’m hooked.
And I’m screwed. In the best possible way.
The car drops me off in the back of the Eagles Arena in Chinatown. This morning, we have an optional skate, but for a guy in my position, there’s nothing optional about it. I need to have a chat with my shooting coach and some of the other coaching assistants besides—see what I can do about shoring up these “fundamentals” that have Coach Isaacs so concerned.
I head into the locker room to change and lace up my skates. There’s a mental ritual I like to follow when I’m lacing. It’s a little bit ADHD Coping Mechanism, and a little bit Life of a Submissive. Which, I guess, are one and the same for me. But with each tightening of crossed laces, I imagine my focus getting a little sharper. I imagine my body inviting in whatever pleasure and pain is going to come next. I’m putting on my armor, suiting up for battle. I can survive whatever comes next.
Survive, and thrive.
As I finish tying the knots in my second skate, the smattering of other Eagles players milling around suddenly snap to attention. Everyone starts clapping and cheering.
“Thank you, thank you, everyone. You are so much kindness.”
Drakonov’s back.
He flashes a gap-toothed grin at everyone as he struts into the locker room. He’s looking well-rested, but there’s more to it than that. Sergei’s positively glowing, looking on the outside the way Fiona made me feel inside. I share a knowing smile with him and grip his forearm for a brotherly shake.
“Good to have you back, man.”
“Is good to be back, my brother.” He steps back and looks me over. “I did not know you would be on the skates this morning.”
I toss a nervous glance over my shoulders, but the other players who turned up are chatting amongst themselves. Probably taking bets on how Drakonov’s going to perform tonight. Whether Coach will even put him in, or if he’ll just want him to stay limber and ease back into the game. I lean in toward Sergei and pitch my voice low.
“I can’t afford not to. Coach is really riding my ass.” I swallow. “Says I need to show more consistency—you know. Keep playing at a high level.”
Sergei pauses for a moment, processing the English, then nods. “I need you to be on the ice with me,”
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