Chapter 36
Noah
I woke up naked, tangled in warmth, pain, and the steady rhythm of another man’s breathing.
My brain tried to start its usual morning sprint–panicking, bracing, fighting–but everything felt… muffled. Muted. As if my body had
reached a decision my mind hadn’t signed off on.
I didn’t move.
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I just lay there, still tucked in his arms, my back to his chest, his hand resting–possessively–on my waist.
Sometime during the night, he’d changed. Now he wore only a tank top and black athletic shorts, and somehow, that made it worse. More
intimate. More normal.
I turned slowly in his arms, just enough to see him. His eyes were closed, but even in sleep, he looked…
Unreal.
He had one of those faces that felt sculpted, not born–like the gods took their time with him, running fingers over stone until it softened into sin. A square jaw that could’ve been chiseled out of granite, with the faintest shadow of stubble that made you want to run your
fingers across it just to feel the scrape.
Full, perfectly shaped lips–somewhere between cruel and kissable–often pressed into a line of restraint that hinted at just how much he was holding back. His cheekbones were sharp, proud, unapologetically masculine–like they’d been built to carry the weight of every stare.
His dark hair was tousled now but still perfectly framed his face. Controlled but touchable. Dangerous.
It wasn’t fair, really.
To look that good and still be the one in charge. To tempt my confused senses with feelings and emotions a straight guy shouldn’t have.
To make me doubt if I was even straight at all.
I exhaled shakily and tried to pull away–but winced the second I moved.
Fuck.
The bruises from last night flared across my ass and thighs. Not a gentle soreness. A real, deep ache that sent a pulse of arousal directly
to my gut.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
What the hell is wrong with me?
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Chapter 36
I’d been punished. Whipped. Ordered to kneel. Denied orgasm. And yet…
My cock was hard again. Already.
I thought about practice. The locker room. The shower. How the hell was I going to explain this to anyone? I couldn’t. I’d have to hide the marks, Shower late or early or alone. Pull my shorts up higher. Pretend I hadn’t spent the night stripped bare and broken at my coach’s
feet.
But my thoughts shattered the moment I felt it.
His erection. Pressed against my stomach. Thick. Hot–I stopped breathing.
I didn’t know what was worse–the fact that it was there… or the fact that I wanted it to be.
My hand twitched, desperate to move. To touch myself. Or him. Or anything… but I stayed frozen, shaking slightly with restraint and
aching in all the wrong places.
He stirred behind me, and I tried to calm my breathing. It didn’t work.
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Aiden shifted, groaning softly. His voice, when it came, was still rough with sleep.
“If it were the weekend,” he murmured, “I’d show you how to take care of that.”
My face went hot.
He pulled away just enough to sit up and swing his legs off the bed. He didn’t look at me when he stood. “But we have practice in an
hour.”
He padded toward the bathroom, casual as ever. And I was left in bed, panting like I’d just run drills.
At the doorway, he glanced over his shoulder. “Go make coffee. One scoop per cup. Toast. Two eggs, over medium.”
Then he disappeared into the shower, and I sat there, still rock hard, still aching, still humiliated–wondering what the hell was happening to me and why I didn’t want it to stop.
The kitchen was spotless–because of course it was. Every cabinet, knife, and countertop placed with military precision. I hesitated at the coffee machine before finding the scoop. One scoop per cup. Two cups.
Toast went in next. I cracked the eggs into the pan as carefully as if my life depended on the yolks not breaking. Maybe it did.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
