Page 69 of Shattered Ice
Sarah startles awake. “Oh. Was I sleeping?” She gives us a tired, fond smile. “You two have fun.” She kisses Clara’s forehead, then gives my shoulder a surprising, warm pat before disappearing down the hall.
The silence she leaves behind is filled with the low murmur of the movie and a new, more intimate tension. Clara reaches for the remote and the screen goes black, leaving the room lit only by the glow of the Christmas tree in the corner. She looks at me, her eyes a little shy in the soft light.
“My room’s this way,” she says softly.
Her room is a perfect museum of the girl she used to be, so deeply personal it feels like I’m trespassing on sacred ground. Faded concert posters on the wall, a row of debate team trophies on a shelf, a framed photo on her desk of her with her parents, all of them smiling. A worn-out teddy bear is propped against her pillows. It’s a universe away from my own cold, curated dorm room.
I pick up a trophy. “First place, State Finals,” I read aloud. “You were a debater?”
She flushes. “For a while. It taught me how to argue.”
“No shit,” I say, a real, easy smile breaking across my face. She swats my arm lightly, and I catch her hand, lacing my fingers through hers. I trace the names on the spines of the books on her nightstand, learning the shape of her mind. I want to know all of it. Every secret, every memory packed into this small, safe room.
I finally sit on the edge of her bed and pull her to stand between my knees, my hands resting on her hips. The fairy lights over her headboard cast a soft, golden glow, making her eyes look like pools of deep, warm honey.
“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” I say, my voice a raw, honest whisper. “Not just now. In that classroom, when you took that asshole apart… it was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her cheeks flush deeper. A shy smile touches her lips, and it wrecks me. Her fingers work at my shirt, buttons slipping free with quick, nervous clicks. I stop her, my hands covering hers, just for a second. I unzip her dress slowly, watching the silk pool at her feet until she’s left in a simple bra and panties, her skin luminous in the low light.Vulnerable. Beautiful. Mine.
Her hands are back at my shirt, pushing the fabric off my shoulders. I take my time, my hands shaking slightly as I unhook her bra and slide my thumbs under the waistband of her panties, guiding them down her legs. She’s completely bare, and the sight of her, so vulnerable and trusting in her own childhood bedroom, makes my throat go tight.
I sit back on the bed and look up at her. “Clara,” I start, my voice rough. “I want you. All of you.” Her breath hitches as she nods. I lie back on her pillows, my heart hammering. “Sit on my face, Clara,” I growl, the words a raw plea. “Let me taste you.”
“Wait,” she whispers, her eyes dark and nervous, but also determined. “Adrian, I’ll… I’ll suffocate you.”
A slow, rough smile curves my lips, one that feels more real than any smirk. “Then I’ll die worshipping.” My hands find the headboard behind me, knuckles white as I grip it, holding her gaze. “Come here. Let me.”
The battle wages in her eyes—fear against need. Then something in her breaks, allowing her to choose me. She crawls over me, her movements hesitant, trembling, yet determined. When she finally lowers herself, the first sweet, intoxicating taste of her brushes my tongue. A deep, visceral groan tears from my throat, the sound reverberating through her. My hands clamp to her hips, pulling her down, closer. I bury myself in her taste, in her unique scent, a frenzied symphony of licking and sucking until her entire body is trembling above me. Her fingers clutch frantically at the headboard, her thighs quivering as she begins to rock into my mouth, a dance of pure pleasure.
“Oh God—Adrian,” she moans, her voice fragmenting. “Don’t stop.”
I can’t answer, so I groan into her, letting her feel my need. She moves with me, a rhythmic grinding against my mouth, losing herself until her cries shatter into the air and her body trembles violently against my grip. Her release crashes through her, and I don’t stop, not until she collapses, utterly spent, sliding off to the side.
With an ease born of desire, I flip us, hovering over her, tasting her on my lips as I kiss her. The kiss is slow, deep, reverent. Not a claim of possession, but a promise. I pull back, needing to see her face in the soft glow of the fairy lights. She looks at me, her eyes wide and trusting. The thought of putting anything, even a thin layer of latex, between us feels like a betrayal. Like something that belongs to the man I was yesterday, not the one I want to be with her tonight.
“Clara,” I say, my voice hoarse with a terrifyingly new vulnerability. “I need to feel you. All of you. No barrier between us.”
I see the flicker of fear in her eyes, the quick, sharp calculation. I’m asking for her absolute, unconditional trust. I expect her to say no.
Instead, she stares at me for a long moment, her gaze searching mine. Then she gives a single, decisive nod. “I’m on the pill,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
Relief crashes through me, so potent it makes my head swim.She’s trusting me.I owe her the same safety. “I’m clean,” I say, my voice thick. “Tested at the start of the season. I swear to you, Clara. I’m safe.”
She nods again. The deal is sealed. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, a ragged sound in the quiet. The last wall between us has just crumbled to dust.
I move over her, settling between her legs. Her hands come up to cup my face, her thumbs stroking my jaw. I’ve never done this before. Not with anyone. The thought should scare me, but all I feel is a desperate need to be closer than I’ve ever been to anyone. The first touch of my skin against hers is a jolt of pure electricity. Her breath hitches, a sharp gasp that vibrates through my bones. It’s more real, more potent, than anything I have ever felt.
Then, slowly, reverently, I push inside her.
An inch. Two. The feeling of her stretching to take me, of her slick, tight heat surrounding me, is an agony of pure pleasure. A guttural groan is torn from my throat.This is it. This is her.Not a fantasy. Not a memory.Her.For the first time in my life, I understand what it means to feel like you’re coming home. It’s not just physical; it’s a feeling of rightness, of finally being in the one place I’m supposed to be. I bury myself to the hilt, and we both let out a ragged breath. I stay there for a long moment, completely still, just feeling her pulse beat against mine.
I start to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that is all about her. I want to memorize this: the way her body feels, the way her muscles clench around me. My internal monologue, usually a chaotic storm of anger and strategy, goes quiet. There is only this. Only her. Her scent of vanilla and clean skin and the sharp, metallic tang of her arousal. The sight of her flushed face in the soft light, her eyes half-lidded. The feeling of her nails digging into my shoulders, anchoring me.
“Adrian,” she whispers, the sound a broken prayer. “You feel… everything.”
“I know,” I murmur against her lips. “Fucking perfect. You feel perfect, Clara. Made for me.”
This isn’t about taking; it’s about being taken. She’s taking every last piece of my control, my focus, my sanity, and I’m giving it to her. I pull back just enough to watch her eyes flutteropen, a silent plea in their depths. I drive back in, deeper, and a raw, beautiful cry escapes her lips. That sound is everything.
