Page 61 of Shattered Ice
"Clara," he rasps, his voice a dark, guttural confession. "God, Clara. You're… so tight. And so incredibly, impossibly wet." Each word is a brand, a molten promise. His fingers bury in my hair, a tender command, tilting my head back to expose my throat.Our eyes lock, a shared understanding of the precipice we teeter on. There is only him, only me, and the electrifying dance of our bodies building to a crescendo.
“Adrian, fuck.” I clutch his back, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body tightening around him as his speed increases. He touches that spot inside me, a precise, agonizing pleasure that makes my legs lock around him, the heel of my foot digging into his ass, urging him closer.
“Come for me, baby.” His mouth drags down my jaw, a searing trail of fire as he thrusts with slow, deliberate precision. My back bows off the bed, an involuntary arch of pure sensation. My orgasm crashes into me like a tidal wave, pulling me under. I cry out his name, a guttural scream, as my nails rake down his back.
“Fuck,” he moans, thrusting into me three more times before falling over the edge with me. We collapse in a tangle of limbs, spent and sated, the air thick with vanilla and the sharp, metallic scent of sex, our ragged breaths slowly evening out.
We spend the rest of the day tangled in my cheap sheets, the world outside fading into an irrelevant blur. Our bodies learn a new language of bruises and whispers, tender touches and fierce demands, of surrender and control, until we finally collapse, exhausted.
Chapter 35
Clara
Later,asthefinaltendrils of a dying sun bleed across the sky, painting the clouds in hues of bruised purple and fiery orange, I step outside my dorm. The air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and impending frost. My heart begins to beat a heavy, expectant rhythm before my eyes even locate him. Adrian. He’s leaning against the lamppost, a dark, solitary figure framed by the anemic, fading light. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans, his gaze intense and unblinking.
“Come with me,” he says as I approach, his voice a low rumble. It’s a command, soft and unyielding, laced with an unspoken invitation. I simply nod, my throat inexplicably tight, my voice gone.
We walk side by side, the silence between us a living, breathing thing. It’s different now, this quiet—not awkward, but filled with a heavy, palpable anticipation that hums beneath my skin. Our footsteps crunch softly on the gravel path toward the ice rink. He leads me to the locker room, the metallic tang of stale sweat and disinfectant a stark contrast to the fresh air. With practiced ease, he retrieves his old practice jersey from a hook and hands it to me.
“Wear this,” he instructs, his eyes holding mine, a hint of something unreadable flickering in their depths.
My breath catches. Without a word, I pull my own sweater over my head, the cool air briefly prickling my skin, leaving me in just a thin camisole and leggings. I slide my arms into the oversized jersey. It’s enormous, swallowing me whole, the hem falling to my mid-thigh. His number, 17, sprawls across the back, a silent declaration of ownership. But it’s more than the number; it’s his scent—the bracing chill of ice, the clean scent of soap, and the unique Adrian aroma that’s both musky and sweet. It’s all around me, a possessive, intoxicating weight. A slow, deeply satisfied smirk spreads across his lips.
“Looks good on you,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering, making my skin prickle with an unfamiliar heat.
He leads me out and into the player’s box overlooking the vast, empty sheet of ice, the low refrigeration hum the only sound. I walk to the glass, pressing my palm against its cold, smooth surface. The sight of the empty rink hits me with a wave of unexpected nostalgia, a bittersweet ache deep in my chest. I remember this feeling, this specific smell of cold, clean ice and Zamboni exhaust. I spent hours in rinks like this as a kid, watching my dad play in his beer league, the sound of skates carving and pucks hitting the boards the soundtrack of my childhood. This space, which should feel like Adrian’s territory, feels a little like coming home.
He comes to stand beside me, not touching, just watching my face. His usual predatory intensity is gone, replaced by a quiet, genuine curiosity. “You seem comfortable here,” he says, his voice a low murmur.
I keep my eyes on the ice, afraid that if I look at him, the fragile moment will shatter. “I am.”
“You like hockey?” he asks. The question is so simple, so normal, it’s disarming.
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “My dad loved it,” I say, the words a quiet confession. “It was our thing.”
The silence that follows is heavy. I finally risk a glance at him. He’s staring at me, his expression completely unguarded for the first time. The arrogance, the anger, the carefully constructed walls—they’re all gone. In their place is a raw, stunned look, like a man watching a flash flood erase a map he thought he had memorized. He’s seeing me. Not as the tutor, not as the scholarship girl, not as a problem to be solved. He’s seeing me as someone who understands a part of him he thought no one else could touch. It’s a look that feels more dangerous than any anger he’s shown me.
He closes the distance in one swift stride, his hands coming up to cup my face with a possessive tenderness that steals the air from my lungs. “Mine?” he murmurs. The word is different now. Not just a claim, but a question, laced with a reverence that makes my knees feel weak.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Say you’re mine, and I’ll say I’m yours,” I whisper, a challenge and a plea woven into a single breath.
His eyes deepen, the raw hunger in them mirroring my own. He shifts his grip, cupping my jaw. “You’re mine, Clara,” he says, his voice a low, rough growl that vibrates through me. “You’ve been mine since I walked into that fucking library.”
A shiver, hot and electrifying, goes through me. “Yours,” I breathe. The word is an exhalation. A surrender.
He kisses me then—hard, possessive, a fierce claiming. His mouth is a scorching brand, his tongue a silken invasion I give into willingly. His hands slide under the heavy jersey, his rough, calloused fingers finding the bare skin of my waist. He’s not being soft; he’s marking me. I arch into him. I want him. I want the ache. I wantthis.
He pulls back, breathing ragged. He sits on the long bench that runs the length of the box and pulls me to stand between his legs, his hands resting on my hips. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my leggings and tugs. “These off.”
My heart hammers. I step back, and with shaking hands, I pull my leggings and panties off, kicking them aside until I’m standing before him, bare from the waist down, engulfed in his jersey. He pulls me back between his knees.
“Condom,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “My jeans. Back pocket.”
My fingers tremble as I reach behind him, my fingertips brushing the firm curve of his ass as I fumble for his wallet. I pull out a condom, the small foil square a shocking piece of reality. He sits on the bench, spreading his legs, creating a space for me between them as his hands begin to massage my ass. He watches me, his eyes dark and hungry, as I tear open the condom with my teeth. With a surge of boldness, I lean forward, letting the jersey hang low so he can see my breasts, the tips already hard. My fingers, still trembling, unbutton his jeans. I take his thick, hard cock into my hand and slowly, carefully, roll the condom on. He groans, a deep, guttural sound, his knuckles going white where he grips the bench beside him.
He pulls me down, guiding me, until I’m straddling his lap. I lower myself onto him, taking him inside me inch by agonizing inch. A sharp, pleased hiss escapes my lips as I take all ofhim. For a moment, he lets me have control. I meet his gaze, my hands braced on his broad shoulders, and kiss him, setting the pace. I start to move, a slow, deliberate rocking. He groans again, his hands gripping my hips, his eyes fluttering shut. And in his surrender, a surge of pure, intoxicating power floods me.I can do this,I think.I can make him come undone.I ride him faster now, chasing a pleasure that’s sharp and immediate, my muscles clenching around him.I’m close, so close…
Then his eyes snap open, dark and possessive. His hands tighten on my hips, stilling my movements. “Myturn,” he growls.
