Chapter 7
Iknew bringing him to the spa was a gamble.
Not because he’s high-maintenance—though he is.
Not because he doesn’t like to relax—though he doesn’t.
No, it’s because Damian Kade, coach of the Reapers and the man who can destroy careers with a glare, hates being touched by strangers.
Which, you know, kind of defeats the purpose of a couple’s massage.
The spa is all candlelight and plinky music, way too calm for two violent hockey husbands, and we’ve barely been on the table five minutes before I hear him sigh like someone’s murdering him with essential oils.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing.
He’s on the table next to mine, both of us face down with towels covering our asses. My massage therapist—bless her—has magic hands. She’s working into the knots in my shoulders like she’s got a personal vendetta against tension. I groan. Out loud. Long, low, maybe a little obscene.
“Pup,” Damian growls from the next table.
“What?” I moan again, just to fuck with him. “It feels good.”
“Shut up.”
I grin into the face cradle, biting down hard on the pad to keep from making more noise. But then she hits a spot on my lower back, and I can’t help it—I let out another sound, high and breathy this time. I hear Damian groan.
“Christ.”
I peek sideways under the cradle. His face is tense. Jaw locked. Fist clenched on the table like he’s ready to fight someone for having the audacity to touch him—even though the guy massaging him is barely even making contact, probably out of sheer self-preservation.
“You look relaxed,” I chirp.
He doesn’t look at me. “You sound like a porn track.”
“Maybe I’m just expressive.”
“Maybe I’m gonna drag you out of here by your towel.”
“I dare you.”
“I will.”
I grin wider, close my eyes, and moan again—louder this time, just to see if he flinches.
I think the therapist beside him stifles a laugh.
Damian growls something low and vulgar under his breath, probably imagining burying me under the massage table and doing the job himself.
Which, to be fair, I’d absolutely allow.
Their massage tables are close enough that when I stretch my fingers blindly to the side, I find him—warm skin, solid muscle, a faint sheen of oil making him slick under my touch. Damian’s bicep twitches the moment I graze it, like even half-asleep and pissed off, he still runs on instinct.
“Pup,” he growls, low and dangerous.
I pretend not to hear him. My fingers drift higher, tracing the thick line of his deltoid, slow and innocent as sin. I’m smiling into the face cradle like a goddamn choir boy, but we both know better.
“Don’t start,” he warns.
The woman working on my calves lets out a soft little laugh, trying to keep it professional. “Sir, hands on your own table, please.”
“Sorry,” I sing, not sorry at all.
My thumb presses against his skin again, kneading lazily into the edge of his shoulder, and I swear Damian makes a sound like he’s torn between snapping my wrist or snapping the table in half.
His whole body’s tense now, which probably defeats the point of the massage—but fuck, he’s sexy when he’s annoyed.
“Elias.”
I hum. “Mmm?”
“Touch me again and I swear to God—”
“You’ll what?” I whisper, dragging my fingers a little lower. “Spank me in the spa?”
His hand shoots out, swats my wrist, and I yelp, half-laughing, half-horny. The therapist working on him clears her throat loudly, but I can tell she’s grinning too.
“You two,” she says, trying to stay firm. “If I have to separate your tables, I will.”
Damian mutters, “Please do.”
I blow him a kiss he can’t see and he growls again.
It’s a miracle we’re not banned already.
The second we’re out of the massage room, Damian grabs my wrist like he’s been waiting the whole damn hour to get me alone. No words. No warning. Just a sharp, possessive tug and that look in his eyes—the one that says I let you play, now it’s my turn.
He drags me down the hallway like a man on a mission. The staff barely glance at us, probably used to couples getting handsy in the spa. But I know this isn’t about affection. This is about punishment.
The sauna door creaks open, heat spilling out like a threat. I immediately try to turn around. “Cap—”
“Nope.” He shoves me gently but firmly inside. I stagger into the heavy warmth, blinking as my skin starts to prickle. The room smells like cedar and citrus. It’s dim, steamy, sweltering.
“Damian,” I pant, already sweating. “I’m gonna fucking die in here.”
“You’ll survive,” he murmurs, shutting the door behind us.
I collapse onto the wooden bench in a dramatic heap, fanning myself like an old lady in a church pew, glaring up at him. “If I pass out, you better mouth-to-mouth me with tongue.”
He doesn’t answer. He just walks over to the little shelf at the edge of the sauna—where some sadistic genius has arranged a row of tiny bottles—and starts setting them down next to me like he’s preparing for battle.
Massage oils. The slick kind. The warm-on-contact kind. The you’re not walking straight for a week kind.
“Sir…” I whimper, eyes wide as I watch him pick one up and tip it slowly between his fingers, testing the weight, the glide. His eyes are glinting in the steam, hair sticking to his forehead, skin already glowing like a fucking god of punishment and sweat and pleasure.
“Mmm… yes, pup?” he says, too soft, too smug.
I shift on the bench, sweat sliding down my spine in rivulets. My towel feels like a noose. My knees are already trying to spread open on instinct.
Damian takes his time coming closer, the bottle loose in his hand like he knows exactly what it’s doing to me.
The sauna heat is already wrecking me—skin slick, breath shallow, head light—but the way he watches me while he pours the oil into his palms is what really does it.
He rubs his hands together, the faint scent blooming in the steam, and his eyes never leave my face.
I swallow hard, knees parting without permission as my body gives me up before my mouth can.
He steps in between my legs and I feel smaller instantly, pinned on the narrow bench by nothing but his presence.
His fingers hook into the edge of my towel and tug, baring me to the heat and to him, and I make a sound that’s halfway between a whine and a plea.
The oil’s still warm on his hands when he reaches between my thighs, slick and sure, touching me like he owns every reaction I give him.
I shudder, hips twitching, the bench creaking under me as I try not to melt straight into his grip.
Before I can beg, before I can even breathe properly, he leans in and kisses me.
Slow. Deep. Distracting on purpose. His mouth steals the air from my lungs while his hand keeps working, gentle enough to lull me and firm enough to remind me exactly who’s in control.
I cling to him, fingers curling into his shoulders, sweat and steam and oil blurring everything until all I know is his mouth and his hands and the way he’s smiling into the kiss like he’s already won.
His mouth stays on mine. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was trying to be sweet. But I do know him. I know that when Damian Kade kisses like this, he’s distracting me. He’s luring me into softness so he can wreck me harder.
And holy fuck, it works.
His hands are still between my legs, one curled around my cock in a loose, teasing grip, the other sliding lower with slick precision.
His thumb brushes just under the head, barely there, and my hips jerk against the bench.
I gasp into his mouth, but he swallows it greedily, groaning low in his chest like I’m the one teasing him.
Then his other hand shifts—right there—and I actually choke on my own breath.
His fingers circle and press, slow and hot and merciless.
I try to break the kiss, try to tell him I can’t take both, not like this, not here in the fucking sauna where I’m already lightheaded and overheating, but he doesn’t let me.
He deepens the kiss instead, tongue sliding against mine while his fingers start a rhythm that makes my entire spine try to arch off the bench.
My fingers scrabble for his shoulders, nails dragging through sweat and oil as I writhe.
He’s going so slow it’s cruel, deliberately holding back while my whole body strains for more.
My moans are muffled by his mouth, my whimpers swallowed, my knees falling open wider and wider until I’m spread for him completely and absolutely ruined.
When I finally manage to tear my lips from his, I’m gasping, trembling, sobbing out a “Cap—please—fuck, please—”
And he just hums like it’s music. “Love that sound,” he whispers, lips brushing my jaw. “Do it again.”
I don’t mean to. But I do. And it only makes him smirk wider.
He keeps kissing my jaw, my neck, my shoulder, like he's got all the time in the world to ruin me—and he does. His fingers glide slick and slow between my legs, circling and pressing until I’m shaking under him, barely able to breathe.
Every time I whimper, he praises me. Quietly.
Lazily. Like I’m doing this for his pleasure.
“Look at you,” he murmurs against my throat, voice all rough. “Falling apart just from my hands. My pretty little husband…”
I shudder. My hands are gripping the bench now, knuckles white, legs spread so wide I’m going to pull something.
The steam makes everything worse—hotter, heavier—like I’m suffocating on him.
I feel slippery, feral, like I could come just from this.
From the slow way his thumb rolls against my rim.
From the obscene rhythm of his other hand.
From the way his mouth moves against my skin like a fucking curse.
“Cap,” I gasp. “Please—please, I—”
He doesn’t let me finish. He shifts just enough to press deeper, fingers curling until he finds that spot inside me, and my vision blacks out at the edges. My whole body jerks.