Page 8

Chapter 8

Just Torture Me Already

Dmitri

S leep is a lost cause. My body is exhausted, but my mind is a war zone.

The faint scent of vanilla clings to my sheets like a ghost, haunting me. Storytime replays in my head on an endless loop—her laughter, the soft cadence of her voice, the way she fit into the moment so effortlessly, so dangerously. Rest isn’t rest. It’s torture.

By the time the first streaks of dawn break through the blinds, I’m done fighting it. The gym calls to me. A hard workout would be ideal—something grueling, something to burn through the unwanted thoughts crawling under my skin. But it’s game night, and I have to take it easy. No heavy lifts. No punishment. Just mobility drills and activation work to keep my body ready.

I grab my water bottle and head downstairs, running through my plan. Light resistance bands. Core engagement. Some bodyweight drills?—

Der’mo.

She’s here.

In my gym.

I freeze in the doorway. Erin is seated at the cable machine, back straight, arms steady as she pulls through a set of face pulls with slow, measured precision. Completely focused. Completely unaware of the absolute wreckage she’s about to cause me.

And she’s wearing?—

Bozhe moy.

A sports bra. Snug shorts. Soft curves and taut muscle wrapped in fabric that clings like it was designed to ruin me. The soft glow of the recessed lighting highlights every controlled movement, every flex of toned thighs and defined arms.

Thighs that would look fucking incredible straddling my face.

I swallow hard, gripping my water bottle so tightly the plastic crumples in my palm.

What the hell was I thinking, telling her she could use the gym?

I consider turning away—coming back later, avoiding her altogether.

But I stay rooted to the spot. And watch.

Her delts and biceps flex with each motion, exuding control that sends my pulse speeding—a raw, instinctive reaction to an undeniably beautiful woman.

That’s all this is.

When she catches my reflection in the mirror, she startles and carefully releases the cable. “Oh! I didn’t— I thought— It’s early. I don’t want to intrude.”

“No, no, the gym is big enough. Stay.”

She stands from the bench, turns, and— bozhe moy. A light sheen of sweat makes her skin glow in the dim gym lighting. A single stray curl has slipped from her ponytail, teasing the curve of her throat. My fingers twitch with the need to brush it away, but I clench them into fists instead.

“Are you sure?” she asks, dabbing her forehead with a towel. “I can come back later?—

“No. We can work out together.” The words snap out.

She hesitates, then nods, reaching for her water bottle. The motion pulls her sports bra tighter across her chest, forcing my gaze to jerk away.

I pivot, striding toward the band rack, hyper-focused on my training. Not her. Not the way her muscles shift as she picks up her weights again, her back flexing with every rep.

Focus.

“Twenty pounds is impressive for shoulder work,” I hear myself say. “Most women don’t lift that heavy.”

In the mirror, her eyes flick to mine, something wicked and playful dancing behind them.

She knows.

She knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

“Cellos are heavy,” she teases, rolling her shoulders. “I need the strength to maintain proper form when playing.” Then, after a pause so calculated it might as well be a checkmate, she adds, “Besides, toned shoulders look great in evening gowns. Win-win.”

I nearly snap the resistance band in half.

She’s playing with fire. And I can’t touch her.

I let out a low, guttural sound—half frustration, half warning—and drop into another lunge, forcing my body into motion before closing the distance and showing her exactly how I like to play.

But no matter how hard I try to focus, she’s still there—taunting, tempting, lingering in the corner of my vision like a challenge I’m one breath away from accepting.

The quiet count of her reps under her breath. The smooth, controlled grace in the way she moves through each exercise. The way her body flexes and tightens.

My hands itch. I need to touch her. To slide over the curve of her lower back, guiding her into a slight adjustment—just enough to squeeze out another rep. To grip her waist, feel the muscles shift beneath my fingers. To spread those toned thighs wide and massage her pussy until it glistens for me.

Enough .

I drive through another lunge, forcing the heat pooling in my gut to burn off in the effort.

“Mind if I grab that band while you’re on lunges?”

Her voice is light. Innocent. But my body doesn’t get the memo.

A bead of sweat slides down her stomach, catching the soft gym light, and my pulse hammers against my ribs like a war drum. My cock has no business being this hard at six in the goddamn morning.

I shove the band toward her without looking—but our fingers brush.

And fuck me.

A sharp jolt, white-hot and electric, streaks up my spine. Her breath hitches, the smallest, sharpest intake. From exertion?

Not a fucking chance.

And that’s exactly the problem. Knowing she reacts to me the same way makes my restraint damn near impossible.

I drop into another lunge, clenching my jaw so hard I might crack a molar.

She moves into slow, deliberate stretches designed to finish me off. A deep side-bend elongates her torso, arching her back just enough to send another pulse of heat straight to my groin. Then she folds into a hamstring stretch, pressing her palms to the floor, and?—

Her tiny fucking shorts ride up.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I rip my gaze away—the ceiling, the floor, my hands, the goddamn wall. Anywhere but her.

This line—the no-touch rule—is mine. My choice.

And yet here I am, sweating under the weight of my own restraint, burning with a hunger I haven’t felt in years.

“All yours,” she says suddenly, handing me the band, casual as ever. Like she didn’t just wreck me in thirty minutes flat. “Thanks for sharing your space.”

She heads for the stairs, and I exhale, relief flooding my veins.

But then she stops.

“I’m going to start breakfast and wake up Ris,” she adds over her shoulder.

Casual. Normal. Domestic.

Like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t just burned me alive.

The second she’s gone, I drop onto the mat, dragging both hands down my face.

Five minutes. I just need five minutes. A cold shower. A few hard strokes of my cock. Then I’ll be able to sit across from her at the breakfast table, pretending I don’t want to drag her onto my lap and feed her bites of fruit just to watch her lips wrap around the fork.

Then I’ll be able to survive another day of pretending I’m not completely, utterly ruined.

* * *

The cold shower does nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

My skin still burns, my muscles still ache with pent-up desire, and no amount of icy water or cock pumping can erase the memory of her shorts riding up as she stretched in the gym.

I dress mechanically—compression gear, lightweight training clothes, the familiar layers I wear on game days. Routine should ground me. Routine is safe. But all I can think about is that she’s downstairs now, moving around my kitchen, filling my home with her scent.

When I finally drag myself down, the scene in front of me nearly stops my goddamn heart.

Ris perches on a barstool at the kitchen island, legs swinging as she carefully arranges berries on her oatmeal. And Erin… Just kill me now.

She’s traded her workout clothes for leggings and an oversized T-shirt that slips off one shoulder, exposing a stretch of smooth skin that makes my mouth water.

What’s up with those fucking shoulders?

And on the counter: egg whites, sweet potato, avocado. Perfect pre-game nutrition.

“Papa!” Ris beams. “Erin knows exactly what you eat before games! Just like Uncle Liam!”

I grunt something that might be “good morning” and definitely isn’t “marry me and have my babies.”

“Coffee?” Erin holds out a mug like a peace offering.

I reach for it, but our fingers brush, just slightly. And she freezes.

A quick inhale. The tiniest hesitation.

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice gravel.

She turns back to the stove, tending to sizzling egg whites, and—fuck. Her shirt rides up as she reaches for a plate, revealing a sliver of her bare waist.

I take a scalding gulp of coffee, welcoming the burn, desperate for something to rip me out of this.

“Papa, can we go to your game tonight? Please?” Ris chirps.

No.

I already know the answer. I can barely function with her in my kitchen. How the hell am I supposed to play when I know she’s in the arena?

“It starts at seven,” Ris barrels on, hopeful and oblivious. “And I can sleep in tomorrow since it’s Saturday! Plus, Erin says Sophie will be there too!”

Absolutely not.

“No,” I say firmly.

But Ris is my daughter. And when my daughter wants something, she fights for it.

“Please, Papa! It’ll be so much fun! And I promise to behave!”

I shake my head.

The last time Erin was at a game, I was reckless. I devoted a celly to her. Flirted with twenty thousand people watching.

I cannot afford to be that man tonight. Not when I know how much harder this could get.

But then Erin shifts, crossing her arms under her chest, watching me carefully. She doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t push.

And maybe that’s why I crack.

Maybe it’s the quiet way she lets Ris fight her own battle.

Or maybe I’m just a fucking idiot.

I exhale sharply. “Fine.”

Ris cheers, throwing her arms in the air.

“But,” I warn, firm as steel, “you both stay with Sophie in the family box. No wandering, no surprises.”

Ris squeals in victory while Erin simply nods, placing a meticulously arranged plate in front of me—perfect rations of protein, carbs, and greens exactly how I’d prepare them myself.

She’s paying attention. But I don’t thank her. Don’t acknowledge how fucking domestic this feels as I quickly eat.

“Time for school,” I announce, finishing the last bite. “Finish your food, Amnushka.”

The drive to school is pure torture.

Ris and Erin are already a team. My daughter chatters endlessly, and Erin somehow keeps up, answering every question, feeding her curiosity without hesitation.

“Papa’s plus-minus is the best on the team! That means he’s really, really good!” Ris beams.

Erin glances at me, her green eyes bright with amusement. “Sounds like someone’s been studying the stats.”

I grunt, gripping the steering wheel tighter. The morning sun catches in her hair, turns it to molten copper, and the scent of her vanilla shampoo saturates the car, creeping into my lungs. Into my bloodstream.

“Papa taught me all about hockey numbers!” Ris pipes up. “Like Corsi and expected goals and...um...all the things that say who’s really the best!”

“Time for school, Amnushka,” I cut in as we pull up to the drop-off line. Any more of this domestic bliss, and I might fucking combust.

Erin hops out first, helping Ris with her backpack.

And then the gut punch.

My daughter throws her arms around Erin’s waist, hugging her tight.

I grip the steering wheel harder.

Erin doesn’t hesitate. She bends slightly, smoothing Ris’s wild curls, voice soft. Warm. “Have a great day, sweet girl. I’ll pick you up at three.”

Ris beams. “Okay!” And then she’s gone, skipping toward the entrance.

I exhale sharply, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest.

When Erin slides back into the passenger seat, her cheeks are pink from the cool spring air.

“She’s amazing,” she murmurs, buckling in. “You’ve done an incredible job with her.”

The praise steals my breath.

I keep my eyes on the road, jaw tight, muscles locked.

“You’ll need the car,” I say gruffly as we pull into the players’ lot. “Liam will drive me home after morning skate. I’ll be back around noon.”

She nods, but the air shifts.

Suddenly, it’s thick. Dense.

My pulse slams.

She’s looking at me, wide-eyed, breath unsteady, fingers twisting in her lap.

Fuck.

“Dmitri—”

“Pre-game routine,” I cut her off, voice sharp, willing myself to not drag her across the console and kiss that soft gasp from her lips.

I’m out of the car before she can say another word, stalking toward the entrance like I’m being chased.

Liam waits, arms crossed, smirking.

“Rough morning?” he asks, oh so fucking innocently.

I mutter something extremely profane in Russian.

He barks out a laugh. “That bad, huh?”

I need ice.

Preferably an entire rink’s worth dumped directly over my head.

Maybe then I’ll stop thinking about how fucking perfect she looks in my kitchen, in my home, in my goddamn life.

This is going to be the longest game day of my career.

Seven hours until puck drop.