Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Icing - When a player shoots the puck from their own side of the center line past the opponent's goal line without it being touched.
Phoenix
Cole had started thrashing, not violently but desperate, and I jerked awake because he'd tangled his hand in my shirt, not letting go.
At first, I couldn't even figure out what was happening.
His whole body was locked up, sweat beading along his brow despite the chill in the room, lips parted like he was trying to get a breath and couldn't find it.
I didn't touch him, not right away. I just whispered softly, "Cole? Hey, sweetheart, you're safe. You're here, with me. It's okay."
His hand kept gripping, panic in every motion. I pressed my forehead to his, careful, so careful, and just kept repeating it. "Safe, Cole. You're safe. They're not here. They can't get you."
He whimpered, a low breathless sound, and tried to jerk his hand away.
"No," I said, gentle but firm. "Don't fight me. I've got you. I'm not leaving."
Slowly, I smoothed my palm up his arm, tracing light circles like he’d done against the back of my neck when I'd been the one spiraling. He was burning up. But it wasn't the kind of heat that melted ice—it was the heat of someone who'd run from every nightmare and finally couldn't anymore.
He muttered something, voice a hoarse scrape. Didn't even sound like words, just noise. Pain.
I pushed my other hand into his curls and cradled his head, bringing him close. "Breathe with me, okay? In. Out. Good. You're here, just me and you. No one else."
He shuddered, ribs stuttering like he couldn't pull in enough air. I pressed a kiss to his cheek, then another, and finally his jaw, letting him feel me, taste me if he wanted.
"You're not alone," I kept whispering, every time the panic tried to snatch him away. "You're not a monster. You're mine. You hear me? Only ever mine."
That finally seemed to get through. His eyes opened, unfocused at first, then clearing, pinning me in place.
"Phoenix?" His voice was wrecked. Nothing but broken glass and hope.
"I'm right here," I promised. "Not letting you go."
He made a sound that couldn't decide if it was a sob or a laugh, and then he just…melted. Right there in my hands, all the tension leaking out, leaving him trembling and wild-eyed.
I waited until I could see him again, the real Cole, and then I kissed him, soft and careful, not asking for anything. Just a touch, a promise, anchored in skin.
He made another sound, this one closer to a moan, and the heat rolled up from his chest like a living thing, hungry for touch, for comfort, for something only I could give.
"Let me take care of you," I said, still whispering, because it felt too raw for anything else. "Please. Let me make it better."
He nodded. Barely.
I slid down, slow, letting my mouth trail along his throat, following the salt of his skin until I found the old bruises and new ones on the sharp ridge of his collarbone.
My mouth barely touched, just enough pressure to say I was here, I was real, this wasn’t a dream or one of the old nightmares.
His hands curled tighter, locking around my shirt.
I didn’t rush. I was too scared I’d fuck it up and he’d slip away again, back into whatever hell his father built for him.
He didn’t shake me off.
I kissed along his jaw, light, soft, letting him get used to the weight of me.
I didn’t know what I was doing but somehow my body did—all instinct, the way he got small when he was overwhelmed, how every inch of him wanted to hide and be touched at the same time.
I mapped my mouth along the trail of sweat, tasted salt and the bitter chemical edge of adrenaline, and felt him shudder.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but he wasn’t gone.
I could see it, hear it, the way he tried to match my breaths, how each inhale got less desperate.
So I did it again. Kissed him under the ear, careful.
On the edge of his jaw, careful. Down the column of his throat, slow as I dared, because I knew how hard it was for both of us when someone touched and wanted nothing except to stay.
I whispered, “Let me,” and didn’t add all the words that wanted to spill out.
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t let go either. So I kept going. I levered myself half onto his chest, not heavy, not pinning, just enough to say you don’t have to move, I’m not going to let anyone near you tonight, nothing can get in.
Under the t-shirt he was burning up. Sweat made it stick to his skin, clinging to every dip and curve. I wanted to see him, but more than that, I wanted him to know I wanted all of him. Even the parts that jolted, that trembled, that tried to crawl away.
I tugged the shirt up, slowly so he could stop me if he needed.
He just lifted his arms a little, not even thinking about it.
It was automatic, trusting, and it made my whole chest ache.
I got the shirt off and tossed it somewhere, then just looked at him for a stupid second.
He was covered in old marks, some fresh enough they should’ve hurt, and I wanted to kill his father a little more every time I saw a bruise that spelled out years of being told he was broken.
He made a sound. Not a protest. More like embarrassment, like maybe he’d been waiting for me to flinch or pretend not to see.
So I kissed every single one.
One after another, working down his chest, letting my tongue flick over the bruises until they were wet with my spit.
He jerked when I hit a particularly sharp one over his rib, but he didn’t stop me.
I tasted him, took my time, traced the line of his sternum with my mouth until I got to the waistband of his shorts.
He was hard. I’d known, but I hadn’t let myself look, not until now. His cock was tenting his shorts, leaking, making a mess of the cotton. And he was watching me, not daring to move, like maybe if he let himself want anything at all, he’d wake up and find it gone.
I didn’t say anything. I just pressed my mouth right where the fabric was dark, and kissed him through it, soft, so soft, like it was just another ache that needed mending.
He made a noise in the back of his throat and jerked his hips before he could stop himself, and I nearly grinned because for the first time since this nightmare started, I’d managed to actually get a reaction.
A real, needy, desperate sound, not the shattered boy trembling away from his own hands.
I wanted to make it last, but I didn’t trust myself not to screw it up.
Still, I went slow. I mouthed along the shape of him, let my tongue follow the seam, slow and heavy, just to see if he’d stop me or get tense again.
Instead, he just made a messier sound, muffled and short, and his hand landed on my head, like maybe he needed something to anchor him to the room. To the bed. To me.
I got his sweats down. He didn’t help, not really, but he didn’t stop me, either.
I stripped him bare, inch by inch, and let my hands pet along his thighs, mapped the pattern of bruises and scars like it was my job to learn every single secret the world had ever tried to erase.
He was leaking all over his belly, the head flushed dark, like maybe just being touched at all was enough to tip him right over.
“You’re a mess,” I whispered, then kissed the head, tasting salt and heat.
He shuddered, then let out a hoarse, broken laugh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I said, and this time I made it clear, getting my mouth over him, deep and slow, sucking the way he liked, letting his hand tighten in my hair if he needed it. I bobbed my head, reveling in every moan and gasp, and it wasn’t long before he started to shake.
But he tried to hold back. Of course he did. Still thinking he’d break me if he let go, if he stopped being careful for five seconds. So I reached for his hand and laced our fingers together, squeezed, pulling back for a moment. “Don’t hold back,” I said. “Not with me. Not ever.”
That did it. He jerked, loud now, hips stuttering, and I took him all the way, didn’t care if it was messy because it felt right, like I could take all that pain and panic and turn it into something he never had to be ashamed of.
He came, hot and hard, and I swallowed everything, held on through every twitch and gasp, didn’t stop until he whimpered my name and collapsed boneless on the sheets.
I crawled up the bed, wiped my mouth on the back of my wrist, and watched him try to blink himself back into the room.
It was almost funny, if I hadn’t wanted to cry looking at him.
He wasn’t the superstar anymore. Wasn’t the player everyone wanted a piece of.
Just a guy, sprawled out and open, not hiding, not armored. My guy.
I nudged his cheek with my nose, careful, because sometimes you needed to be touched gently right after. “You back with me, sweetheart?”
He stared at the ceiling for a second, lashes wet, still breathing hard. “Yeah.” Then he coughed a laugh, rough around the edges. “If I’m not, don’t wake me up.”
I grinned, shifting so our hips lined up. I was hard and aching, but I didn’t let myself rush it. Not after the nightmare he’d just crawled out of. “You want anything? Water? To punch me for waking you?”
His eyes closed, just for a moment, like he was collecting up all the pieces again. “Just you,” he said, voice small.
That destroyed me a little bit. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, hugging him close, letting him hide if he needed.
“You have me. All night. All the mornings after, too. I’m not letting go.
” My hand found his curls again, softer now that the sweat was drying.
I kissed them, then his forehead, then every spot I could reach.
“You did so good. For me, for you, for both of us.”
He made that noise again. I loved it. I wanted to bottle it.
“You still warm?” I asked, checking his cheek with my wrist.