Chapter 22 - Damian
Do I give a shit that I benched the entire team tomorrow just to keep my rookie off the ice?
No.
We’ve got a game in two weeks. They’ll survive without one practice. And the day after tomorrow, I’ll drill them so hard they’ll be puking Gatorade onto the blue line before the first whistle blows. That’s how it works. Rest isn’t mercy—it’s preparation for hell.
But tonight isn’t about the team.
Tonight’s about Elias Mercer.
The little brat opened his mouth in the locker room, whined at me in front of everyone, accused me of favoritism. He questioned me.
And he’s going to pay for that.
Which is why I’m parked in front of his apartment building, engine idling low, the black of my SUV humming steady like it’s waiting for him too. The dash glows dim, shadows carving across my hands on the wheel. My jaw ticks once, steady.
The door slams on the passenger side and there he is—Elias, curls damp, cheeks flushed, eyes flicking nervously through the shadows. He’s in street clothes now, still tugging at the hem of his hoodie like it’ll save him, like he hasn’t already given me everything twice over.
His lips part when he sees me behind the wheel. That little intake of breath, sharp and soft at the same time, like he wasn’t sure I’d actually be here waiting.
“Captain,” he says.
I tilt my head once. Nothing more.
He swallows hard. His throat works. Then he climbs in, the weight of him sinking into the leather seat, his scent filling the cab instantly—soap and sweat, a little leftover adrenaline.
I don’t speak.
Just drop my hand to his thigh, heavy, steady, until he twitches under it.
“Buckle up,” I say at last.
He scrambles for the belt, clicks it home fast, like he thinks speed will save him.
It won’t.
Not tonight.
Because tonight I’m going to remind him exactly what happens when he forgets the rules.
The SUV rumbles low as I pull away from the curb, headlights carving through the quiet street. Elias is wound tight in the seat beside me, hoodie tugged to his chin like it can hide the blush crawling up his throat.
My hand stays steady on his thigh.
“You forgot the rule tonight,” I say, almost conversational. The kind of tone that makes him squirm more than if I’d shouted.
His green eyes flick to me, wide, then down again. “Sir—”
“Don’t talk back,” I cut him off, pressing my thumb into the muscle just above his knee. “That’s the rule, isn’t it?”
He swallows so hard I hear it. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” I nod once, turning us onto the highway. “Say it again.”
“Yes, sir.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Louder.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice cracks, desperate already, his thighs twitching under my palm.
I drag my hand higher, slow, inch by inch, the pressure deliberate. His breath hitches with every movement.
“You open your mouth when you shouldn’t. You whine. You accuse.” My thumb brushes just under the edge of his hoodie, skin hot underneath. “What do you say to that, pup?”
“Yes, sir,” he gasps, hips jerking minutely against the seat.
“Again.”
“Yes, sir.”
My knuckles graze higher, ghosting over the bulge straining at his jeans. He chokes on a sound, bites his lip, writhes in the seat, but I don’t let him move. My hand presses down, pinning him in place.
“You think you get to argue with me?” My voice doesn’t rise. “You think whining makes me change my mind?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Good.” I squeeze enough to make him yelp. “Say it right.”
His head tips back against the seat, lips red from chewing on them. “No, sir.”
“Better.” My thumb strokes along the line of his zipper, slow, merciless, until his whole body trembles. “And if I tell you you’re off the ice tomorrow, what do you say?”
He whimpers, chokes, squirms—but I don’t lift my hand. Not until he whispers, raw and broken, “Yes, sir.”
My smirk sharpens. I press against him, feel him twitch under my palm, hard and leaking already.
“Louder, pup.”
His cry cracks into the cab, desperate and filthy. “Yes, sir!”
Good.
The city lights streak past the windshield, a blur of neon and shadow, while I keep him pinned under my hand, wringing yes, sirs out of him like confessions.
By the time I finally ease off the gas and pull us into a darker street, his thighs are trembling, his lips bitten raw, his eyes glassy with need.
And he’s said it enough times that the word doesn’t even sound like English anymore. Just prayer.
The drive stretches long and slow, city lights flashing across his face, every red glow from a traffic light painting him brighter, every shadow cutting him sharper. Elias squirms in the seat beside me, shifting under my hand like he’s trying to escape and grind into my palm at the same time.
He knows where we’re going.
That’s why his thighs won’t stay still. That’s why he keeps tugging at the hem of his hoodie like it’ll save him, eyes darting to the windshield, the window, back to me—like there’s anywhere else in this city he can look that won’t remind him what waits upstairs.
My hand never moves. Heavy, steady on his thigh, knuckles brushing just enough to keep him gasping every few blocks.
By the time I roll into the underground garage, his breath is ragged. His lips are bitten raw, curls sticking to his forehead, eyes wide and glassy with wrecked anticipation.
I park. Shift into neutral. Let the engine settle into a low purr.
Then, finally, I take my hand off him.
He gasps like I ripped air out of his lungs.
“Out.”
One word. Calm.
His door clicks open immediately, hoodie half-sliding off his shoulder as he stumbles out. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t dare. He just follows, every nerve in him buzzing, his sneakers scuffing against the concrete as he trails at my heel toward the elevator.
My stride is steady. Deliberate. His is twitchy, uneven, breath catching with every step like he’s already halfway to his knees.
The elevator hums, steel doors swallowing us whole. His reflection trembles in the chrome—cheeks flushed, throat bare, chest heaving. Mine doesn’t twitch.
He doesn’t look at me. Not until I tilt my head and catch his eyes in the mirrored steel.
That’s all it takes.
His breath hitches. His knees bend just slightly, like his body’s already collapsing for me without permission.
The bell dings. Doors slide open. I walk out.
He follows.
My key turns in the lock, the door clicks open, and the apartment swallows us in quiet. Warm light, leather, steel. Jackets hanging heavy by the door. The air smells like home.
I don’t stop moving until we’re inside.
Then I shut the door behind him.
He looks up at me. His chest heaves once, twice—and then he starts to backpedal.
“Captain… Sir…” He takes one step back.
But the little brat’s smiling.
It’s not defiance. Not really. It’s nervous, twitchy, reckless—like he can’t stop himself from playing with fire even when he knows it’s going to burn.
“Please…” he says, lips curling higher, trying to sweeten it like it’ll save him.
I step forward. Slow. Deliberate.
“Please what, pup?”
He swallows hard, grin flickering, then steadies it anyway, voice pitching up into the whine he knows drives me insane. “Have mercy.”
My chest rumbles, low, steady, dangerous.
“No.”
The word is final.
His smile fractures into a nervous grin, full teeth now, sharp and twitchy, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or run. His hands shake at his sides, his breath stutters, and his whole body trembles in that way it always does when he’s seconds away from coming apart.
He loves this.
Every second of it.
The cornered heat, the pressure of my body closing in, the weight of the word no landing like a blade. He thrives on it. He feeds on it. And he knows—he knows—I wouldn’t give him a single drop of it if I didn’t know exactly how much he craves it.
How much he belongs to it.
To me.
“Knees,” I say. Calm.
The word cracks across the air like a blade.
“Yes, sir,” Elias breathes—no hesitation, no fight. His grin falters into something rawer, hungrier, and then he drops.
Right there.
On the hardwood of my entryway.
His knees hit with a soft thud, his palms pressed flat to his thighs. His eyes flick up once—bright, desperate, buzzing—before he lowers them again, obedient, steady in the only way he ever is when it’s me holding the leash.
I step closer, the sound of my boots slow, deliberate. His breath hitches with every one.
This is where he belongs. Not grinning, not whining about favoritism. On his knees, waiting for my hand in his hair and my voice in his ear.
I stop in front of him, the shadow of my frame swallowing his smaller one whole. Elias kneels perfectly, chest rising and falling quick, hoodie clinging damp to his ribs, curls dripping into his eyes.
“Hands behind your back,” I murmur.
He obeys instantly, fingers lacing at the base of his spine, shoulders tightening as the position opens his chest up to me.
Good.
I let the silence stretch. Let the sound of his ragged breathing fill the apartment while I look down at him—really look. His lips parted, eyes wide, pulse hammering hard enough I can see it beating in his throat.
My hand fists slow into his hair. Damp, soft, easy to yank. His head tilts back under my grip.
“Why are you on your knees, pup?”
His throat works. His lips tremble, twitching into a shaky smile, but the words tumble out anyway: “Because I—because I had an attitude, sir.”
My thumb drags down his jaw, rough, deliberate. “And?”
He swallows. His eyes shine up at me like he’s confessing at the altar. “Because I forgot the rule.”
“Which rule?”
His chest heaves. “Don’t…don’t talk back. Don’t question you.”
I smirk. “And what happens when you forget that rule?”
A sound cracks out of him before he manages it. His voice goes thin, wrecked. “You punish me, sir.”
“Correct.”
My grip tightens, pulling his head back farther until his throat’s bared to me, wet skin shining under the dim light. He gasps, hands clenching tighter behind his back, body trembling, but he doesn’t move.
“Good boy,” I rasp, letting my thumb press under his chin until his jaw juts open. “Now open wider. You’re going to thank me properly.”
His throat’s bared, lips parted, eyes blown wide with that desperate shine I’ve seen since the first second he chirped me on the ice. He wants this. Needs it. Worship disguised as bravado until I strip him down to nothing but obedience.
“Take my cock out.”
His breath stutters. His hands twitch where they’re locked behind his back, but I release the command with one sharp tug. He scrambles forward, hoodie brushing against my legs, shaking fingers dragging at my zipper until he frees me.
I don’t help. I don’t need to. I just look down at him, watching his eyes flick up once—glassy, frantic, worshipful—before they drop again.
“Good,” I rasp. My thumb strokes once across his jaw, guiding him closer. “Now earn your mercy.”
The sound he makes is raw, broken, but his mouth seals around me like he was built for it.
Christ.
Heat surges through me as his lips stretch, as his throat works, as he takes me deeper with that desperate need painted across every line of his face.
He’s sloppy, eyes already watering, but he doesn’t stop.
He won’t. Not when it’s me holding his head steady, not when it’s me telling him to take it.
I fist tighter into his curls, tugging just enough to force his eyes up.
“Look at me.”
He does. His eyes shining, cheeks hollowed, mouth full of me, choking on every inch like it’s holy.
“That’s it, pup,” I growl, chest rumbling. “You love this. Don’t you?”
His muffled voice vibrates around me, desperate and shameless. His lashes flutter, but he nods as best he can.
“Say it,” I order, yanking him off just enough to hear him.
His lips are red, spit slick down his chin, chest heaving. “I—I love it, sir. Love—love worshipping you—”
My cock twitches hard in his grip. My hand locks back into his hair and I shove him down again, deeper this time, until he gags around me. His throat squeezes tight, eyes flooding, but he doesn’t fight. He clutches my thighs like they’re the only thing keeping him upright.
“Good boy,” I rasp, low and sharp. “That’s how you beg. Not with whining. Not with backtalk. On your knees, with your mouth full of me, thanking me for every second I let you breathe.”
He chokes again, tears streaking hot down his face, and it’s perfect. He’s perfect.
I hold him there, let him break against me, until his whole body’s shuddering, desperate, shaking with devotion.
And only then do I let him up for air.
He’s gagging around me, tears streaking hot down his face, eyes wide and wild when they flick up to mine. I hold him steady, hips grinding just enough to keep him ruined, and I let my voice drop into his bones.
“That’s it. Take it all, pup. You’re perfect like this. My gorgeous boy. My good mouth.”
He moans—actually moans—around me, the sound muffled, filthy, vibrating through my cock until my vision whites out. His throat works, desperate, worshipful, choking with every breath he doesn’t get.
“Fuck—yes,” I snarl, my chest rumbling, every word rasping against the heat of the room. “That’s mine. You hear me? Every breath, every sound—you’re mine.”
Another whimper, high and cracked, and then I lose it.
Release tears through me hard, violent. I bury myself in him, grind deep, groaning low as he swallows every drop like it’s prayer. His nails dig into my thighs, his lashes flutter, his whole body shudders like he’s coming undone from nothing but the sound of my voice praising him.
“Good pup,” I rasp, holding him steady in my grip, riding it out against his mouth. “So fucking good for me. Perfect.”
He moans again, shameless, tears spilling over as he milks me through it, worship written all over his face even as spit and heat slick down his chin.
When I finally let go of his hair, he collapses against my thigh, breathing hard, trembling from the wreckage.
I let the silence stretch. Let him drown in the sound of his own ragged gasps.
Then I fist a hand into the back of his hoodie, tugging him upright until he’s kneeling again, lips swollen, eyes glazed.
“Strip,” I say.
His breath stutters, chest jerking once, but he scrambles for the hem of his hoodie without hesitation.
“And go to the kitchen.”
His eyes flash up, desperate, confused, but the grin tugs at his lips again. “Yes, sir.”
His hoodie hits the floor, shirt dragging with it, sweatpants shoved down in a clumsy scramble until he’s bare in the dim light of my entryway. He trembles as he steps out of them, skin flushed red, bruises blooming across his ribs.
Then he walks.
Naked. Shaking.
Straight into my kitchen.