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Freezing, I push the flat of my thumb against her clit. “You what?”

“I want your…” She gasps and I bend closer to her parted mouth, enthralled by the flutter of her fine lashes against her cheeks. “I want your ass in a prison cell again.” She opens her eyes, her defiant stare boring into mine. “Please tell me more about how I did it the first time.” She tenses, probably in anticipation of my anger.

But my mouth just curls up into a loose smirk, a chuckle bouncing in my chest. “You West Enders. Always so obsessed with winning. You’re in East End now, Rosi. There’s only one way to reign here.” When I glance back, the clock says 12:01, and I don’t miss a beat.

Grabbing my cock, I notch it up against her entrance and slam my hips forward.

She screams.

Like the wideness of her eyes, it’s more surprised than pained, which is good. Lex will thank me for stretching her so well. I hook my hands around the backs of her knees, shoving them up toward her shoulders, and make sure I bottom out as deep as her body will let me.

“Look at it,” I snarl, some of the anger seeping through. I grab the back of her head and wrench it down, forcing her gaze to where my dick is buried inside of her. “Watch me put it into you.”

I’ve been holding it off for the last hour, but I finally let it go, needing little more than a half a thrust before it starts. My cock visibly pulses with the first wave of my release, swelling and twitching. She makes a shocked sound, but I’m too busy erupting with ecstasy to care. This orgasm is just like the last one. It goes on and on, both of us watching as my cock surges inside of her. It’s hard to hold myself up, my limbs flooded with warmth as I empty myself into her.

For some reason, I just keepcoming.

She looks on with parted lips as it spills out from the edges of her tight cunt, as if her slender little body couldn’t possibly hold it all.

“Fuck,” I grunt, giving my hips a little nudge. It never used to be like this. Even when I was getting head from that girl after Friday Night Fury, I came and went. This is the second time I’ve fucked Rosilocks, and it’s just a fucking near constant flow of spunk.

By the time I finish, the leather couch is soaked.

I pull out carefully, anticipating the stream that follows and ready to push it back in. But before I can, her fingers are there. Three of them. She catches the trail of leaking cum and quickly slides it back inside. When I glance up, she’s staring right at me.

Her jaw is set, fingers holding my seed inside. “I know where I am,” she says, and even though she doesn’t say it, I can practically see the prayer in her eyes.

To create is to reign.

She knows only one thing can save her now.

“Oh, Rosi.” Tenderly, I trace the tense line of her jaw, knowing that only one thing will truly satisfy me. “I’m going to have so much fun breaking you.”

On the ice,there’s chaos all around me. Constant movement, the other players, the puck, the sticks. A player can’t just think about what they’re doing. A top player has to be three steps ahead, anticipating the next moves, and right now I’m not doing my job. I’m thinking about Rosilocks, how she looked while she was taking all of my commands. How wide her eyes got as she watched me fill her up. The look on her face when she left my room, so determined to hold her head up high, because in her mind, she’d won.

It’s not that I want her to want my baby.

Love isn’t real. The closest I’ve ever come to it is the bond I have with my brothers, but even that’s too twisted and permanent for such a trite, bullshit label. People like Rosi wouldn’t understand, because they’re still living the lie that there’s such a thing as selfless want.

It’s that wanting my baby inside her–any of ours–would be her worst fucking nightmare.

Wicker would probably finesse it, because that’s what he does. Lex would find a formula, something expertly designed to get him results. Me?

I’m the blunt instrument guy.

I take a whack at the puck, but my blade barely knicks it, sending it skittering left.

A whiff.

“Fuck!” I slam my fist into the glass.

Coach Reed shouts, “Get your head out of your ass, Ashby!”

“Just to be clear,” Wick says, skating past, his forehead damp with sweat, “he means you.”

“Fuck off,” I mutter, adjusting my gloves.

He smirks. “If only.”