EPILOGUE – ONE YEAR LATER
The view from the thirty-second floor of the sleek Chicago high-rise was a grid of amber and white fire.
Below, the city was alive. Traffic crawled along Lake Shore Drive, a river of headlights pushing through the October rain. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, reflecting the light pollution of three million people.
It was quiet up here. The penthouse was soundproofed, hermetically sealed against the chaos of the world. The only sound was the hum of the Sub-Zero fridge in the kitchen and the steady, rhythmic click-clack of my own anxiety.
I was kneeling on a velvet cushion in the center of the living room rug.
I had been kneeling for twenty minutes.
My knees ached, a dull, familiar burn that I had grown to associate with comfort. My hands were clasped behind my back, resting on the curve of my spine. I was naked, save for two things.
First, the heavy silver chain hung around my throat. It was the same one Jax had put on me a year ago, weighing me down with the massive championship ring that slid along the links. Inside the band, the engraving was still sharp: PROPERTY OF CARTER.
Second, the black jersey draped over my shoulders. Not the Michigan State green and white. This was new. Black and red. The Chicago Blackhawks home jersey. The name on the back was the same—CARTER—but the number had changed. #88.
The rookie number.
I shifted my weight, wincing as the plug inside me settled deeper. It was part of the ritual. Game nights meant prep. Prep meant being ready for him the second he walked through that door.
The game had ended an hour ago. The Blackhawks had won in overtime. Jax had two assists and a fight. He would be wired. He would be exhausted. He would be hungry.
My phone, sitting on the coffee table out of reach, lit up with a notification.
ESPN Alert: Carter dominates in home opener. Rookie sensation proves hype is real.
I didn't need the alert. I’d watched every second of the game on the massive 85-inch screen in front of me. I’d watched him crush a veteran defenseman into the boards. I’d watched the camera zoom in on his face as he sat in the penalty box, spitting blood and looking bored.
I knew that look. It meant he was thinking about coming home.
The elevator dinged in the hallway.
My heart rate spiked. It never got old. A year of this—of living with him, sleeping with him, traveling with him—and the sound of his arrival still sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to my groin.
The heavy mahogany door unlocked with a digital chirp.
It swung open.
Jax walked in.
He looked expensive. That was the biggest change from college.
Gone were the hoodies and the frayed jeans.
He was wearing a custom-fitted Italian suit, navy blue, cut to accommodate the width of his shoulders.
The tie was already undone, hanging loose around his neck.
The top button of his white dress shirt was popped.
He carried a leather duffel bag in one hand and his suit jacket in the other.
He looked tired. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a fresh cut on his cheekbone that had been glued shut by the team doc.
He dropped the bag. Thud.
He dropped the jacket. It pooled on the floor.
He didn't say hello. He didn't look at the view.
He looked at me.
His eyes swept over the room, taking in the dim lighting, the clean surfaces, and finally, his prize waiting in the center of the rug.
He closed the door and threw the deadbolt.
He walked toward me. The sound of his dress shoes on the hardwood was sharp and authoritative.
He stopped in front of me. I stared at his belt buckle.
"Look up," he said. His voice was gravel—rougher than usual, scraped raw from the dry rink air.
I looked up.
"Hi," I whispered.
"Hi."
He didn't smile. He reached out and placed his hand on top of my head. His palm was heavy, warm. He stroked my hair once, a possessive, petting motion.
"You watched?" he asked.
"Every shift."
"I played like shit in the first."
"You had two assists, Jax."
"Sloppy," he dismissed. "I was distracted."
"By what?"
"By knowing you were sitting here. Waiting."
He moved his hand from my hair to the collar. He hooked a finger under the steel, tugging gently. The metal bit into my neck.
"Were you good?"
"Yes, Sir."
"How long have you been kneeling?"
"Twenty minutes."
"Liar," he murmured, but there was no heat in it. "I checked the nest camera. You've been down here for forty."
My face flushed. "I wanted to be ready."
"You're always ready."
He stepped back. He started to undo his cufflinks. He tossed them onto the side table. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms. They were thicker than last year, corded with muscle and veined from the exertion of the game.
"Stand up," he said.
I stood. My legs were stiff. The plug shifted, a heavy, dragging sensation that made me gasp softly.
Jax caught the sound. His pupils blew wide, swallowing the blue.
"You're wearing it?"
"Rule Number One," I reminded him. "Availability."
"Good boy."
He reached out and grabbed the hem of the jersey. He lifted it.
He inspected me. He looked at my chest, my stomach, my hips. He checked for marks. There weren't any new ones—he hadn't touched me since the morning skate.
He dropped the jersey.
"Turn around."
I turned. I felt the cool air of the penthouse on my bare legs.
Jax stepped in close. He pressed his chest against my back. The wool of his suit trousers scratched against my thighs.
He wrapped his arms around my waist, locking his hands over my stomach. He buried his face in my neck, inhaling deeply.
"Home," he breathed.
"Welcome home."
He kissed the sensitive spot behind my ear. "I missed you."
"You were gone for six hours, Jax."
"Too long."
He moved his hands down. He gripped my ass through the jersey. He squeezed, testing the give.
"Take it out," he ordered.
I reached between us. I found the base of the plug.
I pulled.
It slid out with a wet, hollow sound. The relief was immediate, followed by the familiar, aching emptiness.
I handed it to him.
He took it. He set it on the table without looking at it.
"Bend over," he said. "Hands on the floor."
I bent at the waist. I placed my palms flat on the rug.
Jax didn't undress fully. He just unbuckled his belt. The sound of the leather sliding through the loops was loud in the quiet room. He unzipped his trousers.
He pushed his underwear down.
He stepped between my legs.
He didn't use lube. He spat into his palm, slicked himself, and pressed the head against me.
"Ready?"
"Always."
He pushed in.
It was a slow, heavy invasion. He was bigger than the plug, hotter, harder. He filled the space completely, stretching me open until I felt like I was splitting.
I groaned, my head hanging low. "Jax..."
"I've got you," he whispered.
He buried himself to the hilt. He stayed there for a long moment, just breathing, letting our bodies sync up.
This was the ritual. This was how he came down. The violence of the game, the noise of the crowd, the pressure of the contract—it all stayed outside the door. In here, it was just this. The weight of him. The friction.
He started to move.
It wasn't the frantic, desperate fucking of our college days. It was confident. Assured. He owned me, and he knew it. He didn't have to prove it anymore.
He drove into me with long, deep strokes, his hips snapping against my ass with a rhythmic thud.
"You like the jersey?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Yes."
"It looks better on you than it does on me."
He reached down and grabbed the fabric, bunching it up in his fist, pulling me back onto him.
"You know what the guys said in the locker room?" he asked, thrusting deeper.
"What?"
"They asked why I didn't go to the club. They asked why the rookie sensation goes straight home every night."
"What did you tell them?"
"I told them I have a very expensive piece of equipment at home that needs maintenance."
I huffed a laugh, which turned into a moan as he hit my prostate.
"Equipment," I gasped.
"Expensive equipment," he corrected. "High maintenance. Very tight."
He slapped my ass. Smack.
"And mine."
He picked up the pace. The friction built, hot and electric. My cock dangled, leaking onto the rug. I wasn't touching it. I didn't need to. The sensation of him inside me was enough.
Jax leaned over me, his weight pressing me down. His suit jacket brushed against my back. The contrast of the rough wool and his hot skin was intoxicating.
"I'm going to fill you up," he growled. "I'm going to leave you full so you sleep well."
"Please," I begged.
"Please what?"
"Please fill me, Captain."
The title still worked. It always would.
Jax groaned. He abandoned the slow rhythm. He started to pound me. Fast. Hard. Deep.
He grabbed my hips, his fingers digging into the bone. He drove into me with everything he had, chasing the release.
"Tom," he shouted.
He came.
I felt the pulses, hot and heavy, flooding me. He emptied himself completely, groaning my name, shaking with the force of it.
I came with him, hands-free, my body convulsing as I milked him dry.
He collapsed on top of me.
We stayed there on the rug, a heap of tangled limbs and heavy breathing. The city lights twinkled outside the window, ignoring us.
Eventually, Jax pulled out.
He helped me up. He pulled the jersey down, covering me.
He kissed me. It was a lazy, satisfied kiss.
"Shower," he said. "Then food. I ordered steaks while I was in the elevator."
"You always order steaks."
"I need protein. I'm a growing boy."
He walked toward the bathroom, stripping off his shirt as he went.
I watched him go. The scars on his back. The width of his shoulders.
I touched the metal chain at my throat.
It was cold. Heavy. Permanent.
A year ago, I thought my life was over. I thought I was ruined.
I walked to the window. I looked out at Chicago.
I thought about the parents.
It had been the one loose thread. Six months ago, back in Michigan, just before the move. We had been at his parents' house, packing up his room. We’d thought we were alone. We were saying goodbye to the bedroom where it all started.
Jax had kissed me. Slow. Tasting of morning breath and sex and devotion.
His old man had walked in. Just opened the door without knocking.
He’d taken one look at us—Jax shirtless, me with the chain around my neck and hickeys on my throat.
I had frozen. I thought: This is it. This is where he gets disowned.
Jax hadn't moved. He hadn't pulled away. He just looked at his dad and said, "Don't start."
His dad had grunted. He looked at the chain. He looked at Jax.
"About damn time," the old man had said. "Just didn't want to make it weird. We've known since you were sixteen."
He’d turned and walked out.
That was it. No explosion. No drama. Just acceptance.
They didn't give a shit. They’d been waiting for us to stop bullshitting everyone.
I smiled at the reflection in the glass.
"Tom!" Jax yelled from the bathroom. "Water's hot! Get your ass in here!"
I turned away from the window.
"Coming, Captain," I called back.
I walked toward the bathroom, toward the steam, toward the man who had broken me down and built me back up into something stronger.
I was owned.
I was chained.
I was loved.
And I was forever his.
THE END