Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Heather
The air in the bedroom was heavy, charged with a static electricity that made the hair on my arms stand up. It was the kind of silence that usually precedes a storm—thick, suffocating, and humming with potential energy.
I was straddling Jerry Vane.
The sentence replayed in my mind like a broken record, a frantic attempt by my brain to process the reality of my situation.
I was topless. He was shirtless, his torso a roadmap of violence and muscle.
His pants were unzipped, the metal teeth gaping open to reveal the black fabric of his boxer briefs and the undeniable, straining ridge of his erection beneath.
This was the precipice. We had walked up to the edge a dozen times in the last week—in the kitchen, in the car, on his desk—but we had always pulled back. We had always hidden behind the contract, the rules, the safety of "fake."
There was nothing fake about the way his hands gripped my hips. There was nothing fake about the dark, blown-out pupils of his eyes tracking the movement of my chest as I breathed.
"Heather," he rasped. His voice was a ruined thing, stripped raw by pain and desire.
"I'm here," I whispered.
I looked down at him. He was leaning back against the charcoal-gray headboard, his face pale, sweat beading on his forehead.
The bruising on his left side was terrifying—a deep, mottled purple that spread across his ribs like an oil slick.
It should have been a mood killer. It should have sent me running for an ice pack and a doctor.
But the way he looked at me...
He looked at me like I was the medication. Like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
"You have to do the work," he gritted out, his hands flexing on my waist. "I can't... I can't lift you. I can't throw you around."
"I know," I said. I placed my hands on his shoulders, careful to avoid the damaged side. His skin was burning hot. "I don't want you to move. I want you to surrender."
One corner of his mouth ticked up in a pained, wicked smirk. "Surrender isn't usually my style, Cherry."
"Tonight it is."
I leaned forward, closing the distance between us.
I kissed him, soft and slow, tasting the salt on his lips.
He groaned, a vibration that rumbled through his chest and into mine.
His tongue swept into my mouth, not demanding this time, but inviting.
A deep, languid stroke that made my core clench with a wet, heavy heat.
I pulled back, needing to see him.
"I'm going to take these off," I said, my hand hovering over the waistband of his slacks.
"Please," he breathed.
I shifted my weight, balancing on my knees on the mattress on either side of his thighs. I worked the pants down over his hips. It was a clumsy process. He tried to lift his hips to help me, but winced, a sharp hiss of breath escaping his teeth.
"Don't help," I scolded gently. "Let me."
I tugged the fabric down, revealing powerful thighs corded with muscle, terrified scars from skate blades, and a dusting of dark hair. I pushed the pants and boxers down to his ankles, and he kicked them free with a grunt of effort.
He lay there, completely exposed.
He was magnificent. It was an objective fact, like gravity. He was thick, heavy, and angrily erect, lying against his stomach.
I swallowed hard. The reality of taking him—all of him—suddenly hit me. I had read the books. I had imagined this. But the physical reality of Jerry Vane was intimidating in a way no romance novel could prepare me for.
"Scared?" he murmured. He was watching my face, reading the hesitation.
"A little," I admitted.
"Don't be," he said. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck, pulling me down until our foreheads rested together. "I won't hurt you. I'll never hurt you."
"I know," I whispered. "I'm not scared of you hurting me. I'm scared of... ruining you."
He laughed, a low, rough sound. "You can't ruin me, Heather. You're the only thing fixing me."
He kissed me again, harder this time, his thumb pressing into the soft skin behind my ear.
"Taste me," he ordered softly.
The command sent a jolt of arousal straight to my toes.
I pulled back. I moved down his body. I kissed his throat, his sternum, the center of his chest. I kissed the edge of the bruising, offering a silent apology to his skin for the pain he was in.
I moved lower. Over the ridges of his abs, which rippled as his breath hitched.
When I reached him, the scent of his arousal—musk and sex—filled my senses. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then I wrapped my hand around him.
He was scorching hot. Velvet over steel.
His hips bucked involuntarily. "Fuck," he hissed at the ceiling.
I lowered my head.
When I took him into my mouth, Jerry shattered.
His head fell back against the headboard, his eyes squeezing shut. His hands flew to my hair, gripping the strands, not pulling, just holding on.
"Jesus," he groaned. "Heather. God."
I focused on the rhythm. I focused on the texture of him, the taste of him. I wanted to worship him. I wanted to show him that he didn't have to be the Captain right now. He didn't have to be the billionaire heir. He could just be a man, receiving pleasure, existing in the moment.
I swirled my tongue, exploring him, taking him deeper.
"Good girl," he gasped. "Just like that. You're so good for me."
The praise went through me like a shot of adrenaline. Good girl. It was simple. It was patronizing. And coming from him, in that raw, gravelly voice, it was the most erotic thing I had ever heard.
I hummed against him, the vibration making his thighs tremble.
"I can't..." he choked out, his hands tightening in my hair. "Heather, stop. I can't last. I want to be inside you."
I pulled off slowly, leaving a trail of silver saliva. I looked up at him. His face was flushed, his lips parted, his chest heaving. He looked wrecked.
"Do you have...?" I started to ask.
"Nightstand," he gritted out. "Top drawer."
I reached over, opening the sleek black drawer. A strip of condoms sat there. I grabbed one.
My hands were shaking as I tore the packet open.
I moved back up his body, straddling his thighs again. I rolled the protection onto him. My fingers brushed against his skin, and he twitched, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
"Come here," he demanded.
I moved forward until my knees were bracketing his hips. I positioned myself over him.
I paused.
This was it. The point of no return. Once I did this, the line between us wasn't just blurred; it was erased. There was no going back to "fake." There was no going back to separate rooms.
"Look at me," he said.
I looked down. His gray eyes were locked on mine. They were open. Vulnerable. Intense.
"You're mine," he whispered. "Say it."
"I'm yours," I breathed.
"Take it," he commanded. "Take what's yours."
I lowered myself.
The first touch was a shock. He was so big. I gasped, my body instinctively tightening.
"Relax," he soothed, reaching up to rub his thumbs over my hips. "Slow down. Breathe."
I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. I sank down another inch. Then another.
The feeling of being filled by him was overwhelming. It was a stretch, a fullness that bordered on pain but settled firmly into pleasure.
When I was fully seated, flush against him, I let out a broken sob.
"Jerry."
"I know," he groaned. He reached up with his good arm and cupped my breast, his thumb brushing over the hardened nipple. "You feel... incredible. You're so tight."
I opened my eyes. We were connected. Chest to chest, hip to hip.
I started to move.
It was slow at first. Tentative. I had to find the rhythm that worked for us, a rhythm that gave me the friction I needed without jarring his injured ribs.
I rocked my hips, grinding down.
He hissed, his head falling back again. "Yes. Fuck. Just like that."
I placed my hands on his chest—carefully—for balance. I began to rise and fall.
The sensation was blinding. Every time I came down, I hit a spot deep inside that made my vision blur.
"Use me," he growled. His hands were on my thighs, gripping the soft flesh, guiding me. "Ride me, Heather. Harder."
I picked up the pace. The friction built. The heat in the room seemed to spike twenty degrees.
I watched him. I watched the way his face contorted—pleasure mixed with the pain of his injury. He was biting his lip to keep from crying out when his ribs protested, but he wouldn't let me stop.
"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes dragging over my body. "You're so beautiful. You're perfect."
"You're doing all the work," I panted, throwing my head back as the pleasure coiled tight in my belly.
"I'm doing nothing," he said. "I'm just lying here letting you ruin me."
He reached between us. His thumb found my clit.
I gasped, my rhythm faltering.
"Don't stop," he ordered. "Keep moving. I've got you."
He began to rub. The dual sensation—him inside me, stretching me, and his thumb working magic on the outside—was too much. It was sensory overload.
"Jerry, I'm close," I cried out. "I'm... I can't..."
"Let go," he demanded. "Come for me. Let me see it."
I drove down hard. Once. Twice.
And then the world exploded.
My orgasm ripped through me, a violent, crashing wave that stole my breath and made my vision go white. I cried out his name, my body clamping down around him in rhythmic spasms.
"Yes," he roared.
Feeling me pulse around him pushed him over the edge. He thrust up—ignoring the pain, ignoring the injury—driving deep into me. His hips snapped up, meeting me, burying himself to the hilt.
He groaned, a long, guttural sound of release. He shook beneath me, spilling himself inside me, his hand gripping my hip so hard I knew there would be a bruise there tomorrow.
We rode the aftershocks together, clinging to each other as the world slowly, piece by piece, put itself back together.
I collapsed forward.
I caught myself on my elbows before I crushed his ribs, landing softly against his shoulder. My heart was hammering against his.
He wrapped his good arm around me, holding me tight. He kissed the side of my head, his breathing ragged and wet.
"Heather," he whispered.
"Yeah?" I managed to wheeze.
"Don't move."
"I can't," I admitted. "My legs are jelly."
"Good."
We lay there in the tangle of sheets and sweat. The silence returned, but it wasn't heavy anymore. It was soft. It was satisfied.
After a few minutes, the reality of his injury started to intrude. I could feel the tension creeping back into his muscles as the adrenaline faded and the pain returned.
I pulled back carefully. "I need to get off. You're hurting."
"I'm fine," he lied automatically.
"You're grimacing," I pointed out. "And you're sweating the bad kind of sweat."
I climbed off him, my legs trembling. I grabbed the sheet to cover myself, suddenly feeling shy in the aftermath of such raw intimacy.
Jerry watched me. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with satisfaction, but clouded with pain.
I quickly disposed of the condom and grabbed a wet washcloth from the en-suite bathroom. I came back and gently cleaned us both up. He let me do it without complaint, which told me exactly how much pain he was in.
"Meds," I said softly. "And ice."
I fetched the ibuprofen and a gel ice pack I had stashed in the mini-fridge earlier.
"Sit up a little," I instructed.
He groaned as he shifted, propping himself up on the pillows. I handed him the water and the pills. He swallowed them dry.
I wrapped the ice pack in a thin towel and placed it gently against his side. He flinched, then sighed as the cold began to numb the fire.
"Better?" I asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Much," he murmured. He reached out and took my hand. "Come here. Lay with me."
I hesitated. "I don't want to bump you."
"I don't care," he said. "I can't sleep if you're over there. I need you close."
I crawled back into the bed, pulling the duvet up over us. I curled up on his right side—the good side—resting my head on his shoulder, my arm draped carefully across his stomach.
He turned his head and kissed my forehead. His arm came around me, pulling me flush against his side.
"That was..." he started, his voice thick with sleep.
"Inevitable?" I suggested.
He chuckled, a vibration in his chest. "I was going to say 'worth every broken bone'."
I smiled against his skin. "You don't have broken bones, drama queen. Just bruised ones."
"Feels broken," he mumbled. "Feels like you cracked me open."
I went still.
Cracked me open.
It was a metaphor. He meant physically. Or maybe emotionally.
"Go to sleep, Jerry," I whispered. "We can analyze the structural damage in the morning."
"Mmm," he hummed. His breathing was already evening out, the exhaustion of the game and the sex pulling him under.
I lay there in the dark, listening to the rhythm of his heart. It was slow and steady. Strong.
I traced the line of the tattoo on his finger with my own. The black band. The symbol of his refusal to be owned.
I thought about the way he had looked at me. The way he had trusted me with his body when he was at his weakest. The way he had praised me.
A cold knot of fear settled in my stomach, right next to the lingering warmth of the orgasm.
This wasn't a contract anymore. It wasn't a game.
I looked at his sleeping face. The harsh lines of "The Judge" were smoothed out. He looked young. He looked peaceful.
"I love you," I whispered into the darkness. The words were so quiet they barely disturbed the air.
I waited for the world to end. It didn't.
But the panic remained.
Because Jerry Vane didn't believe in love. He believed in leverage. He believed in control.
And I had just handed him the ultimate weapon to destroy me.
If he woke up tomorrow and decided this was a mistake... if he decided I was a liability...
I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut against the tears that threatened to fall.
I was in love with the Ice King.
And winter was coming.