Brutal Obsession: Chapter 28

I shiver and don’t answer him.

I can’t.

Because he’s right, his words do something to me. Something uncomfortable, that I’m not willing to admit. Not even to myself.

Knox scores with ten seconds left, officially breaking the tie. Willow—and the rest of the girls—jump up from their chairs, screaming and cheering. My own reaction is delayed, my phone clenched in my hand. I force myself to be happy, to clap and holler along with my friends.

There’s one more play, the ref dropping the puck, and then the buzzer sounds.

Game over.

The Hawks won—barely. By the skin of their teeth, with Greyson benched for the second half of the final period. Both teams look like they went through a war, but our blue-and-silver-clad team rushes out onto the ice in celebration.

“Come on,” Willow says, tugging on my hand. “We’re going out to celebrate.”

I smile and stay seated. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Her gaze sweeps my face, and she eventually nods. “Text me if you want me to come back to the hotel room. Even if it’s only ten minutes from now. Got it?”

My breath hitches, and I force another smile. “Got it. Thanks, Willow.”

She leaves with Jess and Amanda. It takes some time for everyone in the section to go. Paris doesn’t so much as look at me as she sweeps by, but I hear her mention Greyson. Maybe she thinks this is her own version of a power play. Doing what she does best, flirting with him in a crowd full of people.

I swallow.

Slowly, slowly, the whole stadium empties. A Zamboni drives out onto the ice, the driver old and weathered. He maps a crawling path around the rink, and the ice returns to a smooth, blank slate. I track him with my eyes, unable to do anything else.

My nerves are shot.

Eventually, he finishes and rumbles through the opening. Silence reigns.

It forces me to concentrate on my heartbeat. My body. The dull ache in my leg.

Nerve pain.

I don’t want to think about how long my body has betrayed me. I want… something more than a distraction. Something worse.

And then a door from the players’ bench swings open, and Greyson steps out onto the ice. He’s shed his pads, the uniform. He wears a form-fitting black sweater and jeans. His skates are laced over them. His hair is wet.

He glides to me and presses his hands to the glass.

We stare at each other, and then, with deliberation, he tips his head to the gate left open by the Zamboni. Do I want to go out onto the ice? Not particularly.

Still, I rise and find my way down there. It takes several painstaking minutes, and then I’m in a mat-covered hallway. I spot the Zamboni first, parked against a wall, and then the opening.

Greyson waits for me there.

His hands are wrapped, his left thicker than the right. It doesn’t stop him from extending them toward me, and it doesn’t stop me from taking them. He steadies me as I take my first step onto the ice.

My boots aren’t made for this. I slip a little, and he chuckles. He’s taller in skates. Whereas our height difference used to be manageable—annoying, but manageable—now he towers over me.

Without warning, he swings me up into his arms. One arm under my knees, the other against my back. His fingers curl on my ribcage.

I shriek and latch on to his shoulders. Some part of me is convinced he’s going to drop me in the center of the ice and watch me try to make my way back to the edge.

He grins. “You okay, Violent?”

I narrow my eyes.

“New nickname.” He skates away from the opening. His motions are fluid, easy. Like he was born skating, not walking. The air whistles past us as he picks up speed. “Do you like it?”

“Violent? Not particularly.”

“It suits you.” He flexes his left hand, just visible under my knees. “I blame you for this.”

“You would’ve done it regardless,” I argue.

He skids to a halt in the center and sets me down.

Shit.

See? I knew this was going to happen.

I hold on to his forearms once I’m upright, although I don’t expect to stay standing for very long. He spins me in a slow circle, rotating around me on his skates. My boots make my movement easy—as in, unable to stop myself from going wherever the hell he wants.

“You put the idea in my head.” He tips forward, putting his face in front of mine. “You fuck with me every chance you get.”

I laugh. It’s mean and coarse, even to my own ears. “I do? You’re one to talk.”

I release him and step back.

Bad idea.

My arms pinwheel, and I manage to latch on to him. Too late, my feet slip out from under me. I hit the ice hard on my ass, my legs between Greyson’s. His upper half is dragged down with me, doubling him over, but he manages to stay upright.

“This is going well,” I mumble.

He hums and traces his finger over my collarbone. “What’s wrong?”

I cringe. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

He lifts me again, this time urging me to wrap my legs around his waist. He grips just under my ass, on the backs of my thighs. I hang on to his shoulders and lock my ankles behind him. I feel oddly secure like this. Less like he’s going to drop me anyway. It helps that he’s steady. I lean back slightly to stare into his eyes. He’s not being nasty—which is a first.

I open my mouth to ask him about it.

First the bus, in which he sat me on his lap… and made me orgasm. Now we’re here.

“I don’t want you to be nice,” I whisper.

He shrugs and skates. Instead of going for the wall, or the opening, he goes in a wide circle. His hand slides up my back, pressing me closer.

It should be weird for him to skate with me clinging on to him like this, but he doesn’t say a word. In fact, he seems to enjoy it. His blades leave trails in the ice, and he goes in a wide circle. The only sound seems to be the way his skates carve the ice and our breathing.

“I love fresh ice,” he says in my ear. “I love that there aren’t any other marks to catch my blade. There’s something about the perfection of it that gets me.”

“How often do you get to skate on fresh ice?”

He shifts me slightly, readjusting his grip. “Depends on the day. Sometimes I sneak into the rink at Crown Point just to carve it up before anyone else can.”

“So you like to take away the opportunity from others,” I retort.

Greyson’s laugh is husky. “Yeah, sure. If they wanted it, they’d get up early like I do.”

Hmm.

I glance over my shoulder to see where we’re going when he suddenly changes direction. He’s heading for his team’s bench. He sets me down on the wall and glides backward.

I watch him go.

He throws his arms out wide and takes off. It’s almost like he’s running on the ice, full speed toward the opposite end. It’s impressive. Captivating.

I have the insane desire to let him see me dance—and then it’s immediately squashed.

Anger surges through me at the diagnosis Dr. Michaels gave me. Stupid. It’s so fucking stupid how one thing can happen, and then another, and another on top of that.

The lights shut off, and I let out a short shriek as we’re plunged into darkness.

The rasping sound of skates is the only thing that tells me Greyson is incoming.

He stops just before touching me, showering ice shavings against the wall. A second later, his fingers slip up my knee.

“We might get locked in here.” His fingers are still traveling upward.

Meanwhile, my heart is going a hundred miles per minute. And then I realize: he reacts best to my fear. He likes it. He wants it.

My fear is blood in the air, and he’s the wolf following the scent.

He tugs at my jeans, his deft fingers unbuttoning and unzipping them before I can protest. He gets them down around my ankles. The cold air pricks at my skin. My eyes aren’t adjusting fast enough. One sense down, I’m operating blind.

But my ears pick up a second zipper, and a rustle. And then his cock is pressing against my slit. His skates put him at the perfect height for this. To thrust into me.

He grips my hips and presses into me, so freaking slowly I think I might die.

“I’ve been waiting to sink into you all day.” He inches forward more.

My head falls back. He feels too good, and after the day I’ve had? I need this more than I’m willing to admit. My muscles are tense until he touches them. My brain whirls until his lips find mine in the darkness.

I pull him closer.

His lips trail away from mine, down my cheek, to my jaw. Then the sensitive skin just under my ear. I let out a moan when his teeth scrape my throat. I find the hem of his shirt and force it up, sliding my hands up his abs.

Yep , I was right earlier—they’re defined enough to have their own zip code. I pinch his nipple, and he lets out a hoarse laugh.

“Naughty.” He drives harder into me, enough that my body scoots back on the chipped, painted wood. He pulls me right back into him, and his hands start wandering. He gets under my shirt, then my bra, and palms my breasts. “So fucking perfect. Your tits are fantastic.”

He lowers his head and shoves my shirt up the rest of the way, forcing me to lean back. He bites my flesh.

“God, more,” I groan. I tense around him.

I need this pain to ground me.

“Grey. Harder. Fuck.” Every word is on a pant. I just want more viciousness from him. I put my hands over his wrapped ones and press down. His body ripples, answering the involuntary spike of pain, and he growls.

He picks me up in one move and lays me down on the ice.

Cold seeps into me, almost burning, and I arch away from the sensation. But he’s right there, already between my legs and driving back into me. Pushing me into the ice. The sensation is like needles stabbing into me everywhere it touches. My ass, my shoulders, my head. My hair is fanned out, and the sweat that collects on the nape of my neck immediately induces chills.

But after a minute, all I can focus on is Greyson.

The feel of him , hot against my cold body. The friction of his cock going in and out, his lips on my skin. Always moving. Breast, throat, collarbone. He trails kisses, soft in contrast to the hardness of the ice. His forearms are braced on either side of me, his hands curled in my shirt.

He shifts to the side and slips his hand between us. He touches my clit, soft at first, then harder. He tweaks it, and I almost scream.

“I want to hear you,” he says in my ear. “I want anyone who lingers here to know exactly who’s fucking you.”

I’m silent.

He twists, a new angle, a new punishment. Harder and faster. “Say my name.”

“Fuck off.” I squeeze my eyes shut.

His hand leaves my clit, and I’m left gasping for air. His orgasm comes swiftly, out of nowhere, and he stills. Buried in me.

In the back of my head, I know I should be worried. Birth control doesn’t protect me against everything.

He lifts his head, and I slowly open my eyes. My vision has adjusted. Moonlight comes in through skylights and high windows. There are faint emergency lights outside the rink, just barely visible from here.

The cold hits me, and I shiver.

He slips out of me and scoots back on his knees. He grips my knees and widens my legs as far as they can go. My ankles are still trapped together by my jeans, stuck on my boots.

When he runs his finger from my slit up to my clit, my lips part.

“Here’s a little challenge for you, Violent.” He toys with my clit again, analyzing my reaction.

I squirm. I want to get off, I’m right there , on the edge, but he pulls away before I can get there. Again. And again. We go through this for fucking eternity, until I’m desperate enough to do it myself.

So I do.

I touch myself while he watches, while I shiver and moan and try not to let him see all of me. I fucking hate it. Where did my self-control go? Where did my will? But his gaze combats the cold, and I know just how to take myself there.

In seconds, I’m floating.

He thrusts two fingers inside me, and I gasp at the additional sensation. I clench around him, startled, but my orgasm keeps coming. He strokes deep inside me. I shudder. I keep shuddering. My vision flickers.

“Your cunt looks like it was made to hold my cum,” he says eventually.

He hauls me up before I’m fully ready, setting me on my feet. He slides my jeans back up my legs, making sure to touch my cold, red skin on the way.

Did we really just fuck on the ice?

My face heats with shame.

I’m close enough to the wall that I make it there on my own, sliding and fumbling until I reach the opening. Once I’m back on solid footing, I pick my way past the benches and into the hallway that leads to the locker rooms.

Yeah, not going back there.

Greyson is behind me.

He catches my wrist. I haven’t made it very far, spinning me around. It’s a little lighter out here, emergency lights on the wall giving us a yellowed glow.

His gaze roams my body again. “Forgot to say earlier, but I enjoy your school spirit. I’ll see you soon, Vi.”

And then he releases me and steps back. I stand there until he disappears around the corner.