Page 62 of Shattered Ice
In one fluid motion, he lifts me, turns me, and presses me forward against the cold, thick glass of the player’s box. My gasp echoes in the quiet. The empty arena sprawls out before me, a silent, ghostly audience. The thrill of being so exposed is a dizzying rush. He presses his body against my back, his erection hot and hard against my thighs. He runs a hand down my back, his palm flat against the jersey, over his own name.
“This,” he says, his voice a low rasp by my ear. “This is what I wanted to see.” He enters me from behind in one smooth, powerful thrust. I cry out, my hands flying up to brace against the cold glass. He hooks his hands on my hips, holding me in place.
“I love seeing my name on you as I fuck you, Clara,” he growls, his thrusts matching the possessive rhythm of his words.
I’m drowning in sensation. The glass bites into my palms, so cold it burns, while behind me Adrian consumes me like wildfire. The vast darkness of the empty arena witnesses our collision—his hips crashing against mine with a force that makes my teeth rattle. The scent of him invades me: rink-cold air crystallized on hot skin, the salt-sharp tang of exertion, and something primal that belongs only to him. He stretches me, thedelicious pain of his invasion making tears spring to my eyes even as I push back, desperate for more.
His teeth sink into my shoulder, reopening the bruise he left before, marking me as conquered territory. The pain rips a scream from my throat that dissolves into a desperate moan. He withdraws until I’m empty, then yanks my hips up and back, repositioning me. When he slams back in, he strikes something so deep inside me my vision fractures into stars. A sound I don’t recognize tears from my lungs. His answering growl vibrates through my bones. “Right there.”
He holds me captive at this angle, each methodical thrust an exquisite torture. “Tell me what you feel, Clara.” His voice is razor-edged.
“You’re everywhere,” I choke out, reality blurring. “Destroying me.”
“Good.” His free hand snakes around my front, his fingers finding the slick, swollen center of me. Two brutal circles, and electricity detonates through my system. His control snaps. His rhythm turns savage, merciless, his fingers working me with violent precision. The pressure builds like a scream in my throat. When I finally break, the orgasm tears through me with such force I go blind, my body convulsing around him as he pounds toward his own release. His final roar seems torn from his soul as he comes, his body shuddering against mine.
Afterward, we collapse against the glass, my legs trembling, my lungs burning. His jersey clings to my sweat-slick skin, his name emblazoned across my back. His calloused fingers trace the letters of his name across my spine.
“You wear my mark like you were born for it,” he growls, his voice shattered.
In the glass reflection, our eyes lock—his pupils blown wide. “Because I was,” I whisper, the truth of it searing my throat.
He spins me around, pinning me against the cold surface. His gaze devours me. When his thumb drags across my bruised lips, I taste blood—mine or his, I don’t know anymore. The kiss that follows isn’t gentle. It’s a claiming so profound it rewrites my DNA, a covenant sealed in our own blood and spit. When he finally tears away, the question that has haunted us both has been incinerated, replaced by a savage certainty. We are two halves of something dangerous and inevitable, and I belong to him as irrevocably as he belongs to me.
Chapter 36
Adrian
Thelibraryisacage of quiet tension. A storm is brewing outside, the sky a bruised purple, the wind howling against the tall, panoramic windows. Rain lashes the glass in angry, diagonal waves. The atmosphere inside Room A312 is thick, charged, a perfect mirror for the restless, coiling thing in my gut.
Clara is already there, a small, focused island of calm. This time, I don’t take the chair across from her. I don’t want the distance. I slide into the one right beside her, a deliberate act of assumed intimacy. The leg of my chair bumps hers, and I feel the jolt of contact travel up my entire body. She looks up, her eyes wide for a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise she immediately smothers. Her whole body goes still, a quiet, almost imperceptible brace for impact. She doesn’t tell me to move.
“Ready to work on your history paper?” she asks, her voice all business, a shield of professionalism she’s trying to hold up. But I see the faint blush that creeps up her neck, a traitorous signal that she’s hyper-aware of my thigh pressing a steady, insistent line against hers.
“In a minute,” I murmur, leaning closer, deliberately invading her space. I watch her pretend to focus on the textbook, her teeth sinking into the soft flesh of her bottom lip. “You do that when you’re concentrating.”
Her head snaps toward me, her eyes flashing. “Do what?”
“Bite your lip,” I say, my gaze dropping to her mouth. The urge to replace her teeth with my own is a sudden, physical ache. “Drives me fucking crazy.”
Her blush deepens, a satisfying crimson. “Focus, Hale,” she whispers, but there’s no real heat in it. She’s fighting a smile, her lips parting on a shaky breath. I feel a surge of dark, possessive satisfaction. The respect she earned from me in that classroom has only made me want her more. The knowledge that I’m the only one who can shatter her perfect composure is a drug.
She leans over the book to explain a concept, forcing herself back into the role of tutor. The movement brings her closer, and the scent of her shampoo drifts up—faintly citrus, sharp and clean, tangled with the smell of old paper and the warm vanilla that is justher. I close my eyes for a split second, inhaling, and the memory of her in my bed crashes over me. I shouldn’t notice. I do. I notice everything.
And then the lights flicker. Not once, but twice. A stutter of pale, buzzing light that makes the shadows in the room jump. We both look up. They cut out completely.
The darkness is absolute. Instantaneous. The hum of the fluorescents dies with a suddenness that feels like a physical blow, leaving a ringing, pressurized silence. Then the roar of the storm outside rushes in to fill the void. An oppressive,suffocating blackness swallows everything until the room ceases to exist. A gasp escapes her—not of surprise, but of pure, unadulterated terror. I hear the scrape of her chair as she recoils.
The memory of the first time this happened hits me, but this time is different. I’m not just an observer. I know what this means to her. My first instinct—the old, predatory one—is to use this, to see her weak and undone. But it’s immediately crushed by a new, more powerful instinct.Protect. Ground. Anchor.The thought is clear and absolute. She’s mine to break, but not like this. Not by this.
“Clara,” I say, my voice a low, steady murmur, a deliberate anchor in the dark. “It’s okay. I’m right here. Just the lights.”
I hear her breath, a series of short, ragged, panicked sounds. I hear her swallow audibly in the thick silence. In the faint, gray light from the stormy window, I see her silhouette shift, her body instinctively leaning closer to my warmth. I don’t touch her. Not yet.
“Can you hear my voice?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
A long second stretches. Then, a shaky, almost inaudible, “Yes.”
Relief washes over me, so potent it’s almost dizzying. “Good. Tell me three things you can feel right now,” I say, pulling the words from some calm, unknown place. “The table under your hands. The chair at your back. What else?”
