Chapter 17 #3
"Yes—mark me, Jane."
She scratches harder. Claiming me the way I'm claiming her. Both of us leaving evidence. Both of us refusing to let this be something that only happened in our heads.
I reach around, find her breasts, palm them roughly while she's still moving. She arches into my hands, grinding down.
"West—I'm close—I'm so close—"
I feel it. The way she's tightening. The way her movements are getting erratic. Uncoordinated. Desperate.
I grip her hips. Stop her completely.
"No."
"What?" She's panting. Trembling. "But I—I need—"
"Not yet." My voice is rough. Final. "You don't come this time."
"West—please—"
"No."
I lift her off me. She whimpers at the separation—shaking, denied, soaking wet—and the sound of her frustration is the most erotic thing I've ever heard.
"That's not fair—"
"Stand up."
"I can't—I need—"
I sit up. Cup her jaw. Tilt her face until her eyes meet mine. She's flushed from hairline to collarbones, lips bitten red, pupils blown so wide there's barely a ring of brown left.
"You'll come when I let you. Not before." I brush my thumb across her lower lip. "Stand up."
She does. Legs trembling. Still wanting. Still mine.
Good.
I follow her up. Because what comes next, what I’m about to show her—
She turns around suddenly and pushes me back.
Hard. Both palms flat against my chest. I stumble back a step. Surprised.
Not from the force. From the shock of watching a woman who, eight days ago, had never been touched like this—taking control like she was born for it.
"Sit." Her voice is different. Not asking. Not pleading. Commanding.
"Jane—"
"Sit. Middle of the bed. Now."
I sit. Because in twelve years of professional hockey, no one has ever dropped me with a look. And this woman just did it barefoot and shaking.
She drops to her knees between my legs. Eyes locked on mine. Her hands slide up my thighs—slow, deliberate—nails trailing faint lines on my skin.
“You denied me.” Her fingers close around me, confident as she strips the condom off and wipes me with a quick, wicked little swipe with the bedsheet. “I’m not working around that.”
She smiles—dangerous, gorgeous—and then she shows me exactly what she means.
She takes me in her mouth.
No teasing. No warm-up. Just wet heat and suction and the sudden, pressure of her throat working around me. My hands fist in the sheets.
"Holy—Jane—"
She pulls back. Gasps. Takes me again. Deeper this time—her jaw stretching around me, eyes watering but determined. She's not asking permission. She's not looking for instruction.
She's commanding this.
Her hands grip my thighs for leverage. Her head bobs—rhythmic, relentless—and she hollows her cheeks on the upstroke, sucks hard enough that my spine tries to leave my body.
"That's—you don't have to—"
She pulls off just enough to speak. Her lips are swollen. Her voice is rough. "I want to. Stop talking."
Then she takes me again. Deeper. Harder. The vibration of her moan around me shoots straight through my nervous system like a power surge.
I thread my fingers through her hair. Not controlling. Just holding on while she destroys me.
She takes me so deep I hit the back of her throat and I feel the constriction, the flex of muscles she's still learning to use, and my vision whites out at the edges.
"Jane—I'm going to—"
She doesn't stop. Doesn't pull back.
I'm right there. Right on the edge. About to—
She pulls off. Gasps. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
Then stands up. Points at the wall.
"There. Now."
"What—"
"I want you to take me against that wall. Hard." Her chin lifts. The bracelet glints on her wrist. "Don't make me ask twice."
I stand. Lift her. Pin her against the wall in one movement—the same wall where I caged her twenty minutes ago, but now there's nothing between us. No fabric. No pretense. Just skin and need and the desperate geometry of two bodies trying to fuse.
Her legs wrap around my waist. She reaches between us, guides me to her entrance. Her eyes are blazing.
"Do it."
I thrust into her. One stroke. Burying myself completely.
She cries out—loud, sharp, cracking against the walls of the casita—and her nails rake down my back.
I pull out and drive back in. The wall shudders behind her.
"Yes—like that—"
I'm holding her up with one arm locked under her thigh, the other hand braced against the wall.
Taking her with everything I have. Every thrust drives her back against the plaster. Desperate. Primal.
The controlled discipline that's defined me for three years—gone. Burned off. Replaced by something I stopped trying to control eight days ago.
I shift my grip. Free one hand. Reach between us. Find her clit.
She gasps when I touch her—still swollen from the orgasm, still sensitive from the denial—and her whole body jolts.
"Yes—there—"
"When you're in Boston—" Thrust. Hard. Fingers circling her clit. "And I'm in New York—"
"West—"
"I'm going to call you." Another thrust that makes the wall creak. "And I'm going to tell you to touch yourself right here—" I press harder. "Exactly like this."
"Yes—"
"You're going to remember how this feels." My voice is wrecked. Barely mine. "How deep I am right now. How I make you come."
My fingers work faster. Matching the desperate rhythm of my hips. Her legs tighten around me, ankles locked at the small of my back, pulling me deeper.
"I'm close—don't stop—"
I feel it building in her—the trembling, the way her walls flutter and clench, the way her breath comes in sharp, rhythmic bursts that match the pace I'm setting.
"Come for me, darling."
She breaks.
My name tears out of her—raw and ragged and loud—and her entire body seizes. Clenching around me so hard I see stars behind my eyelids. Her nails dig into my shoulders deep enough to draw blood and I don't care. I want the marks. Want the proof.
The sensation destroys me.
"Jane—get ready—"
One more thrust. Buried deep. And I'm gone—groaning into the curve of her neck, pulsing inside her, holding her against that wall like she's the only solid thing left in the world.
We're both shaking. Both breathing like we just sprinted the length of the island.
I hold her there. Still inside. Still connected. Her forehead drops to my shoulder. Her breath is hot and damp against my skin.
Then—carefully, slowly—I lower her to the floor.
Her legs buckle immediately.
I catch her. She grabs my shoulders and her elbow catches my jaw.
"Sorry—"
"That's the second hit I've taken today."
She laughs. Breathless, barely upright. "You're comparing me to Blake?"
"Blake didn't make my legs shake."
Her laugh deepens. I lift her. "Last one. Gentle this time."
"I can't feel my legs."
"I know." I press my lips to her temple. "Trust me."
***
I carry her to bed. Lay her down on her side. Then climb in behind her.
Pull her back against my chest. Her body molds to mine—familiar now, the shape of her fitting the shape of me like something designed rather than discovered. Both of us on our sides. I'm still hard—enough—but this isn't about that anymore.
This is about holding her. Being close. Making this last.
I enter her from behind. Slow. Careful. Gentle.
She sighs. A soft, exhausted sound that goes straight to the center of my chest and stays there.
"Okay?"
"More than okay." Her voice is sleepy. Sated. The voice of a woman who's been thoroughly ruined and knows it. "Don't stop."
I won't. Not yet.
I move slowly. Lazy thrusts. No urgency. Just the feeling of being inside her. Connected. Close. The slick slide of skin. The rhythm of her breathing deepening against the pillow.
My hand slides up to cup her breast. Not rough this time. Tender. Reverent. My thumb brushes over her nipple with the kind of patience I didn't know I possessed.
These hands have fought. Have bled. Have gripped a stick so hard the tape split. And right now, they're the gentlest they've ever been.
She shivers.
"Cold?"
"No. Just—" She presses back against me, fitting closer. "You."
Earlier I spanked her. Denied her. Took her against a wall hard enough to rattle the frame on the dresser. Now I need to remind her I can be this too. Soft. Careful.
Loving.
Even if I can't say the word.
"I could stay inside you all night," I murmur against the curve of her neck. Feeling her pulse beat slow and steady against my lips.
"I wish you could."
The weight of tomorrow crashes over both of us. Planes. Airports. Distance. Real life waiting like cold water on the other side of this door.
"Me too."
I keep moving. Slow, rolling thrusts. My hand drifts down from her breast—over her ribs, the dip of her waist, the soft swell of her hip—then between her legs. Finding her clit. Circling gently.
"West—I don't know if I can—"
"Shh." I kiss the spot behind her ear where her pulse thrums. "Just feel it. No pressure."
But her body responds anyway. Building slowly. Softly. A completely different kind of climb than the others—no urgency, no desperation. Just warmth gathering. Expanding. Like sunrise instead of lightning.
I keep moving inside her. Keep circling with gentle, patient pressure. Kissing her shoulder. The nape of her neck. The ridge of her spine.
"That's it. Just let go."
She does.
Quietly this time. No screaming. No thrashing. Just a soft, shuddering release that ripples through her entire body like a wave moving through still water. She clenches around me gently—rhythmic, involuntary—and sighs my name like it's the answer to a question she's been asking her whole life.
I stay inside her after. Don't move. Just hold her while she comes down, feeling her heartbeat decelerate against my chest, her breathing slow and deepen.
She's completely spent. Her body goes limp in my arms—trusting, defenseless, entirely mine.
After a long moment, I carefully pull out. She makes a small sound of protest.
"Too tired..." Her eyes don't even open. "Can't move..."
"I know, sweetheart. Let me take care of you."
I get up. Bathroom. Warm cloth. My reflection in the mirror catches me—nail marks down my shoulders, scratches across my chest, a bruise forming on my collarbone where she bit me during the wall. Evidence. Beautiful evidence.
When I come back, she hasn't moved. Still lying on her side. Breathing slow and deep.
I clean her gently. Between her legs. Down her thighs. She's too exhausted to do anything but let me—a level of trust that makes my throat tighten.
When I'm done, I toss the cloth aside and climb back into bed. Pull her against me. Tuck her into the curve of my body. She fits right. She always has.
"Thank you," she mumbles. Already half asleep.
I kiss her hair. "Sleep."
She does. Within seconds, her breathing evens out. Her body goes completely slack against mine.
I stay awake.
She trusted me with her first.
Not casually. Not carelessly.
I’m not going to let this turn into a story about a week on an island.
I’m not going to be a memory.
I’m going to be the beginning.
Outside, the sky has gone the color of a bruise—deep violet bleeding into indigo at the edges.
The ceiling fan turns overhead, stirring air that still smells like us—salt and sex and the fading sweetness of coconut lotion.
The ocean keeps its rhythm beyond the window. Constant. Patient. The only thing on this island that doesn't have a departure time.
In a few hours, this ends.
Not us—I refuse to believe that.
But this. The bubble. The borrowed time. The version of us that exists in palm trees and salt air and a casita that isn't ours.
She stirs in her sleep. Presses closer. Her hand finds mine on her stomach, fingers lacing through mine, and even unconscious, she holds on.
The bracelet on her wrist catches the growing moonlight.
Jan 24, 2026. Us.
The day I caught her at the pool. The day my hands found her waist and something inside my chest cracked open and refused to close.
I tighten my arms around her.
Not letting go. Not yet.
Not ever.
Stars appearing one by one through the window, and I watch them multiply and think about distance. Boston to New York. New York to wherever I land. The gap between what we built here and what survives the real world.
But her hand stays in mine. Even in sleep.
And the three words I haven't said press against the inside of my ribs like they're trying to escape through bone.
The moonlight brightens. Time slips away.
But for now—this moment—her warmth against me, her breathing steady, her fingers threaded through mine—
I love you.
This is enough.