Page 18

I climb onto the bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat of my skin.

I'm nervous, not because I'm unsure. I'm nervous because I want this so badly.

I want him so badly. I haven't prepped, haven't had the chance to, but I don't care.

I trust him to take care of me, to make this good for both of us.

I don't have to wait long. Bast stands in the doorway, naked and glorious.

His body is a work of art, all smooth, light brown skin stretched taut over muscles honed from years on the ice.

His cock is hard, jutting out proudly, and I lick my lips at the sight of it.

I could cum just from looking at him, just from the anticipation of what's to come.

"Tu es belle, Princesse." You are beautiful, Princess . His voice is like velvet, wrapping around me, pulling me in. He strokes his cock as he approaches, his gaze never leaving mine.

He climbs onto the bed, his body blanketing mine as our lips meet in another searing kiss. His weight is a comfort, a grounding force that settles my nerves and sets my body alight. His dick presses against mine, hot and hard, and I moan into his mouth, begging for more.

He reaches for the lube and condoms on his nightstand, his fingers slick and cool as they find my entrance.

One finger, then two, then three, stretching me, preparing me.

I gasp at the intrusion, at the burn that quickly turns to pleasure, and push back against his hand, eager for more, eager for him.

“Bast, please. I need you.” I moan as he brushes his fingers over my prostate.

“I know you do, Princesse. I’m going to take care of you.

” He removes his fingers, leaving me bereft, slides the condom on and coats himself in more lube.

Then he's there, the head of his cock pressing against me.

He enters me inch by glorious inch, filling me, completing me.

I moan, beg, cry out for him to fuck me, to move, to do something, anything.

. .but he stills, his body trembling with the effort to hold back.

"I missed this," he whispers, his voice ragged. "I love the way your body fits against mine, Princesse."

He leans down, kissing me slowly, his tongue stroking mine in time with the slow, languid thrusts of his hips. It's not fucking; it's more. It's a dance, a sensual, intimate dance that has me drowning in pleasure.

He whispers in French with each thrust, words I don't understand but feel deep in my soul. I'm lost in him, lost in the feel of his body moving with mine, lost in the sound of his voice, the taste of his kiss.

When we cum, I fall first. My dick, untouched, spills between us, painting our skin with my release. Bast lifts my leg over his shoulder, changing the angle, going deeper. He pounds into me, each thrust punctuated with a growled, "Le Mien!" Mine .

Bast cums with a roar, his body shaking, his cock pulsing inside me. He collapses on top of me, his breath ragged, his heart pounding against my chest. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, never wanting to let go.

In that moment, I know. I know that I'm his. I've always been his, and he's mine. No matter what happens tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that. This, right here, right now, is all that matters. This is everything.

As our bodies cool and our breathing returns to normal, Bast rolls off me, pulling me into his arms. I go willingly, nestling against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He presses a kiss to the top of my head, his arms tightening around me.

"Mine," he murmurs, his voice soft, almost reverent.

I smile against his skin, my heart swelling with an emotion I'm not ready to name. "Yours," I agree, letting my eyes drift closed, content to stay here, in his arms, for as long as he'll have me.

My phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the peaceful silence. Reality has a way of intruding, even in the most perfect of moments. I groan, not wanting to move, not wanting to leave the warmth of Bast's embrace.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Go on, answer it. It might be important."

I sigh, reluctantly untangling myself from Bast's arms and go in search of my phone.

Finding my shorts crumpled in the hallway, I fish out my phone.

The name on the screen makes my stomach drop.

It's my agent. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with resolve I don't truly feel, steeling myself for whatever news he has to deliver.

"Tony." I force my voice to sound steady despite the tsunami of anxiety crashing inside me.

As the words flow through the other end of the line, my pulse quickens against my will.

My team is not happy about my recovery timeline, too long, too uncertain.

There are whispers of organizational changes, coded language for being shuffled around like an inconvenient chess piece.

Trade possibilities. Contract concerns. It's all happening so fast, a blur of corporate decisions about my future while I'm standing naked in another man's hallway.

I'm barely processing the words as I make my way back down the hall toward Bast's room, drawn to him like gravity.

When I step through the doorway, Bast takes one look at my face and immediately sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist. He pats the bed beside him, a silent invitation I can't refuse.

His gray eyes watch me, steady, sure, anchoring me when everything else feels like quicksand.

He reaches out, taking my hand in his larger one, his callused palm against mine, grounding me when I feel like I might float away on a current of uncertainty.

"Look, Derrick. I'm going to sort this out for you," Tony says, his voice cutting through my fog. "I don't know what's making Toronto jittery right now but all I need you to do is rest and focus on healing. I will know more soon." He ends the call before I can muster a coherent response.

I stare at the dark screen as if it might reveal more answers, bone-deep exhaustion washing over me. The high of pleasure and connection from minutes ago vanishes, replaced by the cold reality of professional sports, where bodies are assets and recovery timelines are liabilities.

"Let's not think about or talk about it now," Bast says softly, gently taking my phone from my unresisting fingers. "I promised you now. So, let's do that, together."

I let him. I let him pull me down beside him, my body fitting against his like we were carved from the same stone.

I let him hold me in his strong arms, creating a fortress around me.

I let him wipe away my silent tears with his thumbs, tears I didn't even realize were falling.

I let him kiss my forehead, my temples, the corner of my mouth, not with passion but with promise.

I let him, because for the first time since my injury, I don't feel alone in this fight.

Whatever comes next, trades, contracts, uncertain futures, I know I can face it because I have him. Because I'm his. In this moment, between one heartbeat and the next, that's all that matters.