Chapter 10
Max
There is a moment right before the puck drops where the entire arena goes silent. The noise of the crowd fades, the lights seem to narrow, and the only thing that exists in the universe is the black rubber disc and the ice. It’s the breathless, terrifying second between preparation and execution.
Looking down at Imogen Sterling spread out on my grey sheets, I felt that same silence. But this wasn’t a game. And the stakes weren't a win or a loss.
The stakes were absolute ruin.
She was naked from the waist up, her pale skin glowing in the moonlight that filtered through the blinds.
Her breasts were rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths.
Her nipples were tight, dark peaks against the creamy flesh, wet from my mouth.
Her eyes—those chaotic, intelligent, beautiful hazel eyes—were locked on mine, wide with a mixture of fear and ferocious desire.
I was hovering over her, my weight braced on my forearms to spare my bruised ribs, though the pain was a distant, dull roar compared to the screaming need in my blood.
"Max," she whispered. Her voice was a tremulous thread. "Stop staring at me like you're trying to calculate my structural integrity."
"I am," I rasped.
I reached out, my hand trembling slightly—a weakness I hated, a weakness she caused—and traced the line of her jaw.
"I need to know how much pressure you can take," I said. "Because I don't know if I can hold back enough."
"I don't want you to hold back," she argued, the Brat surfacing for a fleeting second. She arched her back, offering herself to me. "I'm not made of glass, Vane."
"You are to me," I murmured.
I moved my hand down her throat, over the slope of her shoulder, to the waistband of her black leggings.
"Lift your hips," I commanded.
She obeyed instantly. The sight of her immediate submission sent a jolt of dark, possessive heat straight to my groin. She was the Dean's daughter. The campus princess. She didn't listen to anyone.
But she listened to me.
I hooked my fingers into the elastic and pulled. She kicked her legs free, shedding the last of her armor. Then the panties—black lace, matching the bra I had discarded on the floor—joined the pile.
And then, she was bare.
I sat back on my heels, just looking.
She was perfect. Soft curves where I was hard angles. Smooth skin where I was scarred and tattooed. She lay there, exposed and vulnerable, her hands twitching at her sides as if she wanted to cover herself but was forcing them to stay put.
"You're beautiful," I said. The words felt inadequate, clumsy. "You're... fuck, Imogen."
She let out a shaky breath, her thighs pressing together instinctively.
"Max," she whimpered. "Please. You're too far away."
"I'm right here," I said.
I moved between her legs. I nudged her knees apart with my shoulders. She opened for me, hesitant at first, then wider, trusting me with the most intimate part of herself.
I looked down. She was flushed pink, slick with arousal.
I placed my hand on her inner thigh, feeling the muscle jump under my palm.
"I'm going to touch you now," I told her, my voice dropping to that low, authoritative register that I knew affected her. "I'm going to get you ready. You just have to breathe. Can you do that?"
She nodded, biting her lip. "Breathe. Yes."
I slid my hand up. My fingers brushed through her curls and found the heat of her.
She gasped, her hips bucking off the mattress.
"Easy," I soothed. "I've got you."
I started to touch her. gently at first. Circling. Teasing. I watched her face. I needed to map her reactions. I needed to know exactly what made her tick.
Her head fell back against the pillow. Her eyes fluttered shut.
"Max... that feels..."
"Good?" I asked. "Tell me."
"Good," she moaned. "It feels... electric."
I slipped one finger inside her.
She froze. Her body tensed around my finger. It was tight. Incredibly, dauntingly tight. The reality of her virginity hit me again, a sobering splash of cold water in the furnace of my lust.
I stopped moving. I just held her there, letting her adjust to the intrusion.
"Relax," I whispered, leaning down to kiss the sensitive skin of her stomach. "You're fighting it. Let me in, Imogen."
"I'm trying," she panted. "It’s just... weird. It’s a lot."
"I know," I murmured. "Look at me."
She opened her eyes. They were wet with unshed tears—not from pain, but from the overwhelming intensity of it.
"You're safe," I promised her. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to make you feel good. Do you trust me?"
She searched my face. She looked at the scar on my eyebrow, the slate grey of my eyes, the set of my jaw.
"Yes," she whispered. "I trust you."
"Good girl."
The praise hit her like a drug. Her muscles relaxed. Her thighs fell open a fraction wider. She melted.
I started to move my finger again, slowly, matching the rhythm of my thumb against her clitoris. I kissed her stomach, her ribs, working my way up to her breasts. I took one nipple into my mouth, sucking hard, while my hand worked magic below.
She unraveled.
Her breathing turned into jagged pants. Her hands flew to my hair, gripping tight, pulling me closer.
"Max! Max, please!"
"That's it," I praised, adding a second finger. She was wetter now, accommodating me better. "You take me so well. So wet for me."
"I need..." She tossed her head from side to side. "I need more. I need you."
"Not yet," I growled against her skin. "You're not ready."
I picked up the pace. I was relentless. I was the Warden, and I controlled the pleasure. I edged her, bringing her right to the precipice and then backing off, over and over, until she was a sobbing, writhing mess beneath me.
"Max, please!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Let me come! Please!"
"Begging suits you," I murmured, watching the flush spread across her chest. "Say it again."
"Please," she sobbed. "Please, Sir."
Sir.
Something snapped in my brain. The beast roared, tearing through the chains of my control.
"Come for me," I commanded.
I increased the pressure. I moved my hand faster.
She shattered.
She screamed my name, her body bowing off the bed, her inner muscles clamping down on my fingers in a rhythmic, crushing spasms. I watched her face contort in ecstasy, watched the way she surrendered completely to the sensation.
It was the most powerful I had ever felt. Stopping a puck in overtime was nothing compared to this.
I held her through the aftershocks, kissing her forehead, murmuring quiet praises until her breathing slowed.
She lay there, limp and boneless, her skin dewy with sweat.
"Wow," she whispered, her voice wrecked.
"Yeah," I agreed, withdrawing my hand. "Wow."
I sat back, my own erection straining painfully against the denim of my jeans. I was vibrating with need.
"Now you," she said, reaching for my belt. Her hands were clumsy, shaking.
"Let me," I said.
I stood up by the side of the bed. I unbuckled my belt. I shoved my jeans and boxer briefs down.
I saw her eyes widen as she looked at me. She took in the size, the thickness. She swallowed hard.
"That's... big," she whispered.
"I'll be careful," I promised.
I grabbed a condom from the nightstand drawer—always prepared, always controlled—and sheathed myself. My hands were shaking now too.
I climbed back onto the bed. I settled between her legs again.
I lowered myself over her, bracing my weight on my elbows. I kissed her softly, tasting herself on her lips.
"Wrap your legs around me," I instructed.
She did. Her heels dug into my lower back, right near the bruise. I flinched, a hiss of pain escaping my teeth.
"Max?" She pulled back instantly. "Your back. I'm hurting you."
"No," I growled, grabbing her hips and pulling her back into position. "The pain is fine. It centers me. Don't you dare let go."
She hesitated, then wrapped her legs around me again, gentler this time.
I lined myself up. The tip of my cock pressed against her entrance.
She was still tight, even after the orgasm.
"Look at me, Imogen," I said.
She locked eyes with me.
"I'm coming in," I told her. "It’s going to hurt a little. Just for a second."
I pushed forward.
She gasped, her fingernails digging into my biceps. Her body tried to recoil, but I held her hips firmly, anchoring her.
I entered her slowly. Inch by agonizing inch.
It was the hardest thing I had ever done. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to thrust, to bury myself in her, to claim her. But I forced myself to move at a glacial pace.
I felt the barrier. The resistance.
"Max..." she whimpered, tears leaking from her eyes.
"I know, baby. I know," I whispered, kissing the tears away. "Stay with me."
With one steady, controlled push, I broke through.
She cried out, a sharp, pained sound that tore at my heart. I stopped immediately, burying my face in her neck, holding perfectly still.
I was buried deep inside her. She was wrapped around me like a vice.
"I'm sorry," I whispered into her skin. "I'm sorry."
"It’s okay," she sniffled, her hands stroking my hair. "It’s okay. Just... give me a second."
We lay there for a long moment, chest to chest, heart to heart. I could feel her internal muscles fluttering, adjusting to the stretch.
"Max?" she whispered after a minute.
"Yeah?"
"It doesn't hurt anymore," she said. She shifted her hips slightly, testing the sensation. "It feels... full."
She tightened her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper.
A groan ripped out of my throat. "Imogen. Don't move. Not yet."
"Why?" she teased breathlessly. "Are you going to break?"
"I'm going to explode," I corrected. "You feel... god, you feel incredible."
I pulled back an inch, then pushed in again.
She sighed, her head falling back. "Oh. That’s... better."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I started to move.
Slowly at first. Long, deep strokes that filled her completely. I watched her face transform. The pain vanished, replaced by a dawning wonder. Her lips parted. Her breath hitched on every inward thrust.
"Max," she moaned. "More."
"You like that?" I ground my hips against hers, hitting a spot deep inside that made her toes curl.
"Yes. Yes."
The rhythm shifted. The primal brain took over.
I wasn't gentle anymore. I couldn't be. The friction was too good. The heat was too intense.
I began to drive into her with more force. The bed frame creaked. My bruised back screamed in protest, but I fed on the pain. I used it.
"You're mine," I growled, grabbing her wrists and pinning them to the pillow above her head. "Say it."
She looked up at me, her eyes wild. "I'm yours."
"Who owns you?" I demanded, thrusting deep.
"You do," she sobbed. "Max. The Warden. You."
"Good girl."
I released her wrists and slid my hands under her hips, lifting her to meet my thrusts. The angle deepened. It was raw. It was animalistic.
She was meeting me now, matching my pace. She was scratching at my shoulders, her nails leaving trails of fire on my skin. She was chanting my name like a prayer.
"Max, I'm close. I'm close again."
"Let go," I ordered. "Give it to me."
She clamped down around me, convulsing. The sensation of her climaxing around my cock pushed me over the edge.
I buried my face in her neck and let go.
I poured myself into her. I groaned, my entire body seizing up, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me. It was blinding. It was terrifying. It was absolute surrender.
I collapsed on top of her, my weight heavy, my heart hammering against hers like a sledgehammer.
We lay there in the tangle of grey sheets, sweat cooling on our skin, the silence of the room returning.
But it wasn't the same silence as before.
Before, the silence was empty.
Now, the silence was full of things we couldn't take back.
Imogen
I don't know how long we lay there. Minutes? Hours?
Max was heavy on top of me, but I didn't want him to move. His weight was grounding. It felt like a shield against the rest of the world.
He shifted, rolling onto his side but keeping me pulled tight against his chest. He pulled the duvet up over us, tucking it around my shoulders with a tenderness that made my chest ache.
"You okay?" he asked. His voice was deep, gravelly, vibrating against my ear.
"I think my brain melted," I whispered. "Is that a medical condition?"
He chuckled, a low rumble. He kissed the top of my head.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked, his tone turning serious.
"Only at the start," I said. "Then... definitely not."
I ran my hand over his chest, tracing the definition of his pectoral muscle, the dark ink of his tattoo.
"Max?"
"Hmm?"
"Is your back okay?"
I felt him tense slightly. "It's fine."
"You were grimacing," I said. "I saw it."
"It was worth it," he murmured. He tightened his arm around me. "You were worth it."
I closed my eyes, snuggling closer. The scent of him—sex and sandalwood and sweat—was overwhelming.
I felt safe. For the first time in my life, I wasn't performing. I wasn't the Dean's daughter. I wasn't a disappointment. I was just Imogen.
And I was his.
"Max," I whispered into the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"I think..." I stopped. The words were on the tip of my tongue. I think I love you.
It was too soon. It was too crazy. We had a deal. I was a job. He was leaving for the NHL in three months.
"I think I'm going to need a lot of ice cream tomorrow," I finished weakly.
He squeezed me. "I'll buy you the whole store."
He drifted off to sleep quickly, his breathing deepening into a steady rhythm. The exhaustion of the game and the sex finally claimed him.
I lay awake, watching the moonlight play across his sleeping face. The sharp line of his jaw. The scar on his brow. The way his lips were parted slightly.
Panic, cold and sharp, started to creep into my chest.
I had given him everything. My body. My secrets. My trust.
And he had taken it all with a possessive grace that terrified me.
I looked at the man sleeping beside me, the man who had methodically dismantled every defense I had ever built.
Oh no, I thought, a tear slipping down my cheek to wet his chest. Oh no.
I was in love with Maxwell Vane.
And when he left—because he would leave, the NHL didn't wait for art students—he wasn't just going to break my heart.
He was going to shatter it so completely that all the King's horses and all the King's men wouldn't be able to put the bratty little princess back together again.