Chapter 22
MAYA
Emma's twenty-week scan ran late.
Chase had to leave early to get Ethan from daycare, which means I'm here at the arena waiting to drive Jackson home after practice. I'm sitting in the family section, which is empty except for me, watching through the glass as the team runs drills.
And watching Jackson work is doing things to me.
He's in full captain mode, commanding and authoritative, calling plays and directing traffic, correcting younger players with that voice that makes everyone listen. Even Coach defers to him on certain calls.
It's hot. Watching him take charge, watching everyone follow his lead, it's doing something to me that has nothing to do with healing or therapy or reclaiming my body.
This is pure want.
He moves across the ice with an intoxicating confidence, his body powerful and controlled, and I can't stop watching the way his muscles flex beneath his uniform, the way he commands respect with just his presence.
Every bark of an order, every sharp gesture, every moment of leadership sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Practice ends. The team starts filtering off the ice, heading to the locker room. I wait, scrolling through my phone, trying to cool down the heat building under my skin, but failing miserably.
Ten minutes later, Jackson appears in the hallway. Hair damp from the shower, dressed in joggers and a Wolves hoodie, and the sight of him fresh and clean but still carrying that authoritative energy makes my breath catch.
He spots me and his eyes darken.
"Hey," he says. "Thanks for picking me up."
"No problem. Emma's still at her appointment."
"Chase texted. Said the baby looks good."
"Yeah."
We're talking like normal people, like I wasn't just watching him command an entire hockey team and getting turned on by it, like I'm not currently imagining all the ways I want him to use that voice on me.
He moves closer. "You okay? You look flushed."
"I'm fine."
"Maya." His voice drops lower, and there it is, that commanding tone that makes my knees weak. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I just… watching you at practice was—" I stop. We're in public, and I can't say what I want to say.
Something shifts in his expression, heat and recognition flickering across his features.
"The locker room's empty," he says quietly. "Everyone's gone except the equipment staff, and they're upstairs."
"Jackson—"
"Come with me."
It's a bad idea, risky, we could get caught.
I follow him anyway.
The room smells like sweat, ice, and that distinct hockey-gear scent I’ve started to associate with him. It’s quiet, the overhead lights dim. Stalls line the walls, and his jersey—number twenty-five with the C—hangs in his stall.
The door closes behind us and locks.
"We shouldn't—" I start.
He's on me before I finish the sentence, backing me against the wall, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that's all possession and heat and everything I've been craving since I watched him take charge on the ice.
"Watching you watch me," he says against my lips. "Seeing that look on your face. You were turned on."
"Yes."
"By what?"
"You. Being captain. Everyone following your orders. It was—"
"Hot?"
"Very hot."
His hand slides up my thigh, under my skirt. "We need to be fast. Quiet. Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"Good girl."
The praise sends heat straight through me, makes me clench with want. He kisses me hard while his hand works higher, fingers finding the edge of my underwear.
"You're soaked," he says, his voice rough with desire. "All from watching me at practice?"
"Yes."
"Fuck, Maya." He pulls my underwear aside, fingers sliding through my wetness. "I want to taste you, want to make you come on my tongue right here in my locker room."
"Please."
He drops to his knees, pushes my skirt up around my waist, and pulls my underwear down and off.
"Hold onto the stall next to you," he says, looking up at me. "And be quiet."
Then his mouth is on me.
I grip the stall, biting my lip to keep from making noise. His tongue is devastating, licking and sucking with the same precision he uses on the ice, like he's studied every response my body gives him. He starts slow, teasing, broad strokes that make my hips chase his mouth.
"Jackson—" His name comes out as a gasp.
"Quiet, Stardust. Don't want anyone to hear how good I'm making you feel." He pulls back, his breath hot against my sensitive skin. "I need to take my time with you."
"We don't have time—"
"We have enough." His tongue finds my clit, circling it slowly, deliberately, building the pleasure in waves instead of rushing. "I want to savor this… want to feel you fall apart for me."
He alternates between broad strokes and focused attention, keeping me on the edge but never quite pushing me over. Every time I get close, he changes pace, changes pressure, drawing it out until I'm trembling and desperate.
"Please," I breathe, my fingers tangling in his hair.
"Please, what?" He looks up at me, eyes dark with desire and satisfaction at having me like this. "Tell me what you need."
"More. I need more."
"Like this?" He adds a finger, sliding it inside me slowly while his tongue continues its torture.
"Yes, oh god."
He works me methodically, adding a second finger and curling them to find that spot inside that makes my vision blur. His tongue never stops, varying between quick flicks and slow, deliberate circles that have me shaking.
My legs are trembling with the effort of staying upright and staying silent. The pleasure builds and builds, higher than before, more intense because he's taking his time.
"That's it," he says against me, the vibration of his voice adding another layer of sensation. "Do you feel how wet you are for me? How ready? You're going to come so hard, Stardust."
"Jackson, I can't."
"You can, baby. Come for me."
He doubles his efforts, fingers pumping faster while his tongue works my clit with perfect pressure, and the orgasm hits hard and sudden.
I press my hand to my mouth, muffling the sounds as pleasure crashes through me in waves that seem endless.
He works me through it, tongue gentling as I come down but not stopping, drawing out every aftershock until I'm boneless and gasping.
When he stands, his lips are wet, eyes dark with want. He kisses me, and I taste myself on his tongue.
"Your turn," I say, reaching for his joggers.
"Maya…"
"We have time, remember?" I drop to my knees before he can protest further. "You got yours, I want mine."
His breath catches. "Here?"
"Right here in your locker room," I palm him through his joggers, and he's already hard, thick, and straining against the fabric. "Unless you don't want me to?"
"Fuck, I want you to. I want…" He groans when I free him from his clothes, his cock jutting out. "Maya—"
"Tell me what you want," I say, looking up at him. "Captain."
The word makes his eyes darken further. "I want your mouth on me. I want to watch you take my cock right here."
"Good." I lean forward, licking a stripe up his length, and he groans. "Because I've been thinking about this since I watched you on the ice."
I take him in my mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on my tongue, the way his hands immediately come to my hair. He's trying to be gentle, but I can feel the tension in his grip, the restraint.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Your mouth feels incredible."
I hum around him, and his hips jerk forward.
I take him deeper, hollowing my cheeks, using one hand to stroke what won't fit.
Above me, he's panting, trying to stay quiet, and the power of it thrills me.
This man, who commands an entire team and whom everyone listens to, is falling apart because of me.
"Maya, I'm not going to last long," he warns, his voice strained. "You feel too good."
I pull off just long enough to say, "Then don't," before taking him back in, deeper this time.
His hands tighten in my hair as I work him, alternating between deep strokes and focusing on the head, swirling my tongue the way I've learned makes him crazy. I can feel him getting closer, his breathing harsh, his thighs tensing under my free hand.
"Where—" he starts.
I look up at him and don't pull away, making my answer clear.
"Fuck, Maya—" He comes with my name on his lips, hips stuttering as he spills down my throat. I swallow it all, working him through it until he's shaking.
When I pull off and stand, his eyes are glazed, his chest heaving.
"That was…" He can't seem to find the words.
"Good?"
"Fucking incredible." He pulls me in for a kiss, deep and thorough, despite having just come. "You're going to kill me."
"Worth it though."
"Always."
We clean up quickly, fixing our clothes and brushing off any evidence of what just happened. He checks his reflection in the small mirror by his stall, raking his fingers through his hair until he looks like the captain again and not the man who just had me pressed against the wall.
We slip out of the locker room one at a time—him first, confident and steady, then me five minutes later with my pulse still racing. By the time I reach my car, he’s already leaning against it like we’re just heading home, as if nothing happened.
The drive is quiet, but the tension lingers, warm and undeniable between us. His hand finds mine across the center console, steady and certain, like he’s anchoring us both to whatever we just stepped into.
We’re past the point of no return.
And there’s no going back.