Slash Me Savagely (The Blackwater Reaper Hockey #1)

8. Matt

Chapter 8

Matt

T he shrill beeping of my phone cut through the haze of early morning. I blinked at the screen, heart pounding as I wrestled with the reality of the moment.

“I need to get to morning skate,” I murmured, my voice low and gravelly. "You. Call him and tell him it's over."

Gemma stared at me, wide-eyed and frozen, caught in a whirlwind of confusion. “I… I didn’t even say I wanted this.”

“You want this.” My tone shifted, sharper now. “If you don’t break things off with him, I’ll kill him.”

Her face paled, lips parting in shock. Good. She needed to know how serious I was.

“Matt…” she started, but the words faltered as they danced on her tongue.

I moved closer to her on the bed, invading her space until she could feel the heat radiating off me. The scent of sweat mixed with that damned locker room lingered between us, electric and intoxicating. “You think I'm joking?” My voice dropped to a whisper as I held her gaze steady. “I’m not.”

She swallowed hard; the tension hanging thick like fog around us.

“You don’t understand.” Her eyes darted away for a moment before snapping back to mine. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” I laughed softly, bitterly. “You’re wasting time. And I do not share."

She opened her mouth again but hesitated; something flickered behind her eyes—fear or maybe realization? The air crackled between us as she weighed my words.

“His life is in your hands, printessa ."

Her breath hitched as if she were trying to process everything at once—the stakes of our conversation colliding with her heart’s desires.

I shifted down the bed, my gaze locked onto hers, holding her captive. I moved lower, her body tensing in anticipation. I could see the faint sheen of sweat on her skin, the flush of desire spreading across her chest.

My face pressed against her, inhaling her scent, the musk of us mixed together. A primal satisfaction surged through me as I saw the remnants of our passion, my seed glistening at her entrance. It was a mark, a claim staked. One day, I’d make sure it stayed there, a permanent testament to my possession.

Her hips bucked slightly as I kissed her, my tongue tracing the line where we’d joined. She tasted of us, a heady blend that sent a jolt of raw need through me. I delved deeper, my tongue exploring every inch of her, savoring the taste of our mingled desires.

She gasped, her fingers tangling in my hair, gripping tightly as I began to devour her. I could feel her pulse quickening, her body responding to every flick of my tongue. Her moans filled the room, a symphony of surrender that spurred me on.

My fingers found their way inside her, pushing deep, feeling her clench around me. She was so responsive, so ready. I curled my fingers, hitting that spot that made her cry out, her back arching off the bed.

Her breaths came in ragged pants, her hips moving in sync with my mouth and fingers. I could feel her getting closer, her body tensing, her muscles tightening around me. I wanted to push her over the edge, to make her shatter under my touch.

Her hands gripped the sheets, her head thrashing from side to side as she rode the wave of pleasure. I could feel her pulsing around my fingers, her body trembling with the force of her climax. She cried out, my name a broken whisper on her lips as she came undone.

“Matt…,” she breathed out slowly, an edge of uncertainty creeping into her tone.

I couldn’t let that doubt linger. Not when every part of me burned to claim what was mine—what should’ve been mine all along.

“Don’t make me wait,” I urged, every syllable coated in intensity. “Make your choice before it’s too late.”

The rink's chill bit into my skin as I stepped onto the ice, the familiar scratch of blades against the frozen surface grounding me. The taste of her still lingered on my tongue, a sweet and musky reminder of the morning's conquest. I could still feel the ghost of her touch, the echo of her moans resonating in my mind. It was a distraction I couldn't shake off, a hunger that gnawed at me, demanding more.

The guys were already warming up, their voices echoing through the vast, empty arena. Stick taps and the occasional burst of laughter punctuated the air, but it all faded into a dull hum, background noise to the symphony of memories playing in my head.

I joined the drills, my body moving on autopilot. The puck slid smoothly across the ice, my stick handling it with practiced ease.

But my mind was elsewhere.

It was back in that room, tangled in those sheets, lost in her scent. I was skating, shooting, scoring, but all I could think about was her. The way she responded to my touch, the way she came undone beneath me. It was intoxicating, addictive.

I needed more.

Coach blew his whistle, signaling a change in drills. I fell into line, my breath fogging up in the cold air. The intensity of the morning skate ramped up, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning within me. I was impatient, restless. I wanted the day to fast-forward, to skip the hours and minutes until I could be with her again.

Every pass, every shot was fueled by a raw, primal energy. I was playing like a man possessed, driven by a hunger that had nothing to do with the game. The guys noticed, exchanging glances and murmurs. They knew something was up, but they didn't know the half of it.

The whistle blew again, signaling the end of the skate. I was drenched in sweat, my heart pounding in my chest. But it wasn't enough. Not even close. I needed her. I needed to feel her, to taste her, to claim her again. And again. And again.

I hit the showers, the hot water scalding my skin. But it was a poor substitute for her touch. I dressed quickly, my mind already racing ahead, planning, scheming. I had to see her.

I had to have her.

And I wouldn't let anything stand in my way.