Page 60 of Shattered Ice
I don’t want to break the spell or bring my ghosts into his bed. “Fine,” I whisper, forcing my body to relax into his hold.
He doesn’t push, but I feel his arm tighten around me, a solid, protective weight. My own body betrays me with a shiver that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with a pure, unadulterated want. The slow burn is gone. The fire is still raging.
Later, we leave the sanctuary of his room only because the hunger for food outweighs the hunger for each other. We find a small, greasy diner off campus, sliding into a cracked vinyl booth in the back corner. The air smells of coffee and bacon, a dose of normalcy so surreal it feels like we’re actors in a play about a happy couple.
A waitress comes over, pen poised over her pad. “What can I get for you two?”
Adrian orders for both of us without looking at me. “She’ll have the eggs and bacon, black coffee. I’ll have the steak and eggs.”
I’m stunned into silence. He knows my coffee order from the café.He has been watching.The knowledge isn’t sweet; it’s surveillance. His hand finds my thigh under the table, his thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles on my skin. The conversation is sparse, but our bodies are having one of their own, a constant, low-grade thrum of awareness and need. This isn’t a date; it’s a brief, necessary truce in a war.
We leave the diner and start walking back toward campus. As we reach the main quad, he stops. “Not done with you yet,” he says, his voice a low growl. He nods in the direction of my dorm. “Your place.”
It’s not a question. Back in my tiny room, the dynamic shifts. This is my territory. I’ve seen him in here before, but then he was a predator surveying. Now, he’s different. His gaze isn’t scanning for exits or weaknesses; it’s taking things in. It lingers on my stacks of books, on the worn-out armchair, on the photo on my desk.
He picks up the photo, his expression unreadable. He holds it not with warmth, but with the focused intensity of a strategist studying a map, searching for the fault lines in my foundation. His brow furrows with genuine curiosity. “This your dad?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice quiet.
He looks from the photo to me and back again, a silent, searching look in his eyes that feels more intimate and invasive than his touch. He puts it down gently. The hunger is back in his eyes, darker than before. "I want you again, Clara," he growls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me.
This time, I’m the one who closes the distance. The waiting is over. I step into him, my hands finding his waist, and pull him down for a kiss that is all mine—demanding, possessive, a declaration. He responds instantly, a guttural groan rumbling in his chest as his hands grip my thighs, lifting me effortlessly. Hekicks the door shut, the thud a punctuation mark on our shared surrender, and carries me to the bed.
"You're so fucking demanding," he growls against my mouth, but the words are laced with something like reverence, a prayer whispered in the dark.
"You have no idea," I breathe, my hands already at the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head. I trace the largest scar on his shoulder with my fingertip, feeling the raised tissue beneath my touch.
"Where did you get this?" I ask, my voice barely a whisper.
"Greystone, freshman year," he murmurs, his eyes dark and unwavering. "Dirty hit. Broke my collarbone."
I lean in and press a soft, lingering kiss to the scar, a tender acknowledgment of a past pain. A shudder runs through his entire body, a primal response that electrifies me.I can undo him with a touch.I pull back, a confident smile on my lips, and start unbuttoning his jeans, my fingers moving with a newfound, predatory confidence. He lets me. He just lies there, hands fisted in my sheets, watching me with a burning intensity as I strip him bare.
“My turn,” I whisper, the words tasting like a victory. This isn’t just about pleasure, though the heat between us is undeniable. It’s about seeing if I can grab the leash, if I can find the edge of his control and push him over it. It’s about finding out what happens when the prey bites back.
I see his jaw clench as he cedes control, a flicker of surprise and something wild and angry in his eyes. He is not used to the leash being pulled. He expects me to take, but I intend to discover. My exploration is meticulous, a slow unveiling of his hidden responses. I spend time learning him, the way a deep groan rumbles in his chest when I trace my lips along his inner thigh, the way his breath hitches when I finally take him into mymouth, my tongue swirling around the head in a slow, teasing caress.
"Fuck, Clara," he moans, his hand fisting in my hair, tugging gently to pull it away from his face so he can watch me. Our eyes connect, a silent challenge passing between us as I suction my lips, drawing him deeper. His hips buck, a powerful thrust that hits the back of my throat. I swallow around him, my eyes watering, but I don't break eye contact. The feeling of him filling me, even this way, sends a thrill through my core. I spread my legs wider, the movement instinctual, needing friction against myself as a counterpoint. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. "Your pussy wet for me, baby? You like taking my cock in your mouth?"
I hum around him, muffled but affirmative. His hand tightens in my hair, a firm command. His hips buck again, a testing movement. I arch an eyebrow.Is that all you’ve got?The unspoken dare hangs in the air.
"If it becomes too much, you better tell me," he demands, his voice a low growl, a hint of concern battling the raw hunger in his eyes.
I nod slightly, giving him the consent he’s still looking for. Then his hips begin moving, slow at first, gauging my endurance. But when I widen my mouth in a silent invitation for more, he growls and takes over. He controls the rhythm now, a relentless, powerful thrusting that leaves me breathless. I let him. Seeing him lose control is intoxicating. A wild, exhilarating dance of power and submission.
“Look at you, the dirty little tutor letting me fuck her mouth,” he taunts. The words ignite a perverse pleasure in the transgression. I tilt my hips, a silent invitation, and he notices. Of course he does. A slow, predatory smile stretches across his face. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you.”
I am a willing combatant in this beautiful, terrifying war between us. He is a storm, but I am learning how to ride the lightning. This is a high-stakes chess match played on the battlefield of our bodies, and for the first time, I feel the exhilarating thrill of holding the winning hand.
He doesn’t last long. A raw, guttural roar of my name as he comes undone, his body arching off the bed in a violent, shuddering spasm that isn't release—it's surrender. I swallow his defeat, the taste of his control finally broken, and savor the victory, knowing he will make me pay for it later.
Afterward, he pulls me up, his movements rough and desperate. He flips us, pinning me beneath him, his mouth crashing down on mine. He tastes his own climax on my lips, and the knowledge is a dizzying, humiliating thrill.
“You think you can just do that to me and it’s over?” he growls, his hips already pressing down, seeking entrance. I’m a little shocked he’s hard again.
“I was just getting started,” I gasp, the words a breathless challenge. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist.
“Well, now it’s my turn.” His eyes are dark with lust as he grabs a condom off my nightstand. He tears it open and rolls it on with agonizing precision, his gaze never leaving mine, torturing me with anticipation. He doesn't merely enter; he claims. The slow, deliberate slide ignites a twin groan, ripped from our shared core, proof that the aching void inside me was shaped exactly for him, a lock built for a single, brutal key. His invasion is a bold declaration, a slow, insistent pressure that stretches and fills, leaving no space untouched as my body arches into him.
