Chapter 6
Steam And Surrender
~IRIS~
Never in my twenty-four years had I scaled a drenched Alpha built like Matteo Santori.
His shoulders alone could block out arena lights, slick with water that carved glistening trails over ridges of muscle earned from years of carving ice and throwing checks.
The man was a goddamn monument, and right now, he was mine to climb—legs locked tight around his waist, arms slung around his neck like I had any intention of letting go.
The shower’s icy cascade hammered his back instead of mine, but he didn’t flinch.
Water sluiced over the dark ink curling along his ribs, over the sharp cut of his hips, turning the already sinful landscape into something obscene. His mouth claimed mine with the kind of hunger that suggested he’d been starving for this since the moment I’d scowled at him in that mop closet.
Lips firm, demanding, tasting faintly of the peppermint gum he must have chewed between drills and the lingering edge of that blood-orange brightness now tempered by raw need.
I moaned into the kiss, the sound vibrating between us as my back met the cool tiles. The contrast—chill stone at my spine, furnace heat of him pressing forward—sent sparks racing down every nerve.
His hands gripped my thighs, holding me steady as if I weighed nothing, thumbs digging in just enough to promise bruises I’d wear like badges under my gear tomorrow.
He kissed like he played: relentless, creative, always one step ahead.
Tongue sweeping in to tangle with mine, teeth grazing my lower lip in a way that pulled another helpless sound from my throat.
The tension from the ice had coiled between us all morning—every stolen glance across the rink, every chirp, every time his scent had wrapped around me like a dare.
Now he was cashing in, and I was more than happy to lose this particular overtime.
Breathless, he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against mine.
Water dripped from his dark lashes, hazel eyes gone molten gold at the edges.
My legs squeezed tighter around him, heels digging into the small of his back, and a low chuckle rumbled through his chest—rich, taunting, the kind that made my stomach flip in the best worst way.
“So, Pinky,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough over the steady patter of water, “you like handing over the reins, or do you prefer calling every shot?”
I smirked, dragging my nails lightly down the back of his neck just to feel him shiver.
“Pick your poison, Santori. I’m versatile.”
He hummed, the sound vibrating against my collarbone where his lips brushed next.
“So you’re saying you like a man who knows how to lead.” His hips rolled once, teasing, pressing the hard line of him against my core through the last barrier of his soaked boxers. “With reason. Or maybe… just for me?”
The arrogance should’ve grated. Instead, it curled warm and low in my belly.
“With reason,” I shot back, nipping at his jaw. “Don’t let it go to your head, Twenty-One. Or maybe do. I like watching you preen.”
Another chuckle, this one darker.
“We’re on borrowed time before some nosy bastard comes looking for their star winger. Clock’s ticking, O’Shea.”
I grinned, wicked and unrepentant, grinding down against him just enough to make his breath hitch.
“Then you’d best speed up the process, Captain’s pet project.”
Matteo’s eyes flashed with pure delight.
“Support yourself for a second, Trouble.”
I tightened my arms around his neck, core clenching in anticipation as he shifted. One hand stayed anchored under my thigh, the other hooked into the waistband of his drenched boxers.
He shoved them down just far enough. His cock sprang free—thick, veiny, flushed dark and already glistening at the tip. The sheer sight of it, heavy and insistent against my inner thigh, sent a fresh rush of slick flooding between my legs, mixing with the water still streaming around us.
He stroked himself once, twice, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving my face. Then he pressed me back against the tiles, lowering me just enough to slide that hot length along my entrance, coating himself in my arousal.
The friction dragged a gasp from both of us.
“Last chance to bail, Pinky,” he warned, voice strained, forehead pressed to mine again. “Say the word, and I’ll set you down, get you fed, pretend this never happened.”
I laughed, breathless and bright, the sound echoing off wet tile.
“You think I’m a quitter? After what you saw on the ice today?”
His grin turned feral.
“From what I saw, hell no. But if you pull that skull-save shit without eating again, I’m gonna be pissed.”
I rolled my eyes, even as I rocked against him, chasing more of that delicious pressure.
“But you’re fine with something as strenuous as fucking me on an empty stomach? Hypocrite.”
Matteo barked a laugh that dissolved into a groan as he notched himself at my entrance.
“That’s gonna be real short-lived, sweetheart. We’re definitely doing lunch after this. Multiple courses. I plan on keeping you vertical long enough to watch you demolish a plate of something that isn’t disappointment.”
“Tease,” I accused, but the word melted into a moan as he pushed in—slow, relentless, stretching me open inch by veiny inch.
We both cursed in unison.
He was big, filling me in a way that bordered on too much, my walls fluttering and clenching around the invasion. The locker room’s sterile chill—cedar blocks long faded, faint floral ghosts in the grout, the sharp mineral bite of old pipes—faded beneath the overwhelming scent of us.
His burnt-sugar and blood-orange deepened into something darker, smoke and spice and pure Alpha rut-edge that made my head spin. My own frosted-strawberry sweetness sharpened, cutting through the steam like candy left too close to a flame.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he gritted out, burying his face in my neck. “Like you were made for this. We you waiting for fate to bring you right to me, Pinky?”
I grinned against his damp hair, even as my body adjusted, quivering around his length.
“Did you think I’d give myself to just anyone? I’m picky, Santori. Very.”
He groaned, the sound vibrating straight through me, and kissed me hard—deep, devouring, tongues sliding as he held perfectly still, letting me adjust.
The wait was torture and bliss, my pussy pulsing around every ridge and vein until the stretch bloomed into pure heat.
When he finally moved, it was heaven.
Long, rolling thrusts that built steadily, hips snapping up to meet me as I rocked down. Water pounded his shoulders, sluicing between our bodies where we joined.
We tried for quiet—really, we did.
But every thrust punched a whimper or moan from my throat, and his low growls answered like they were tuned to the same frequency.
He broke the kiss to rest his mouth against my ear.
“You’re gonna be a new addiction, Pinky. One I don’t want to quit.”
I clenched around him deliberately, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Challenge accepted. But I don’t lose either, remember?”
His laugh was ragged.
“Neither do I.”
The build is almost unfair.
As if he knows my body—knows exactly what every stuttered breath and every bite of my lip means, how the tension whiplashes through me, tightening, winding, drawing me closer and closer to a peak I’m barely prepared to handle.
He watches my face as he moves inside me, reads every microexpression like a playbook, and when my eyes go wide and glassy, the cocky bastard actually grins.
Then he shifts his angle—just slightly, like he’s tweaking a hockey stick mid-play—and drives deeper, harder, until each thrust hits a spot so perfect I swear I see the universe flicker out behind my eyelids.
He drags every last whimper out of me, building the tempo until I’m clutching at him, nails carving crescent moons into his rain-slicked shoulders.
The ache at my core goes incandescent, almost unendurable, and every muscle inside me contracts as if I could physically anchor all of this inside me forever.
The steam soaks through my hair, beads along my temple, and I’m not sure if the wetness between us is water or sweat or something elemental; like we’re two meteorites slamming together and vaporizing on impact.
Even through the haze, I smell our combined scents, sharp and sweet and dizzying, like sugared citrus and wild strawberries and the chemical spark of ozone before a thunderstorm.
There is no outside world.
There is only Matteo: his body, his focus, the way he seems to know exactly when I’m about to come undone and teeters me right at the brink, just to watch me squirm.
I try to clamp down on the urge, force myself to hold back even as the pleasure builds, but my hips buck helplessly, chasing every snap of his movement, and my throat gives up these tiny desperate sounds that I’ll never admit to making.
He leans in, mouth right at my ear, and groans as if he’s the one being tortured. His hands shift, one arm bracing under my ass to keep me anchored, the other splayed firm over my lower back, pinning me so there’s nowhere to run except straight over the edge.
It’s obscene, the way he plays with my willpower, makes me want to give in when every instinct says to fight for the upper hand.
He never breaks eye contact, even when my head tips back and my jaw goes slack, and it becomes a silent game—how long can I hold out before he completely wrecks me?
The answer is: not long…but I’m sure going to try.
I feel my body start to tremble, a delicious, violent shudder that starts at my knees and ripples up my spine, and Matteo drinks it in, eyes dark and greedy.
“Are you gonna wait for me, Pinky?” he rasped, voice pure sin.
I gritted my teeth, fighting the wave, thighs trembling around his waist. He praised me through it.
“Good girl, just like that, fuck you feel incredible”.
Each word winding me tighter until I was shaking with the effort.
He drove in deep, curses spilling from his lips.
“Almost there… few more strokes…” It’s a warning, a threat, a promise. His words are jagged, barely more than a snarl in my ear, and the way he fucks me—each precise, hungry thrust—strips the breath from my lungs and the thoughts from my skull.
My muscles spasm in violent anticipation; my whole body is a hair-trigger, a livewire stretched to the point of snapping. I’m suspended between agony and ecstasy, every nerve ending melted into one pulsing, singular need.
My hands scrabble for purchase on the slick muscle of his shoulders, nails biting deep, and I realize I’m not just holding on for dear life—I’m anchoring us both to this moment, refusing to let either of us come up for air until we’ve burned every last bit of oxygen out of the room.
His mouth finds mine again, crushing and clumsy, all teeth and tongue and desperate, half-muffled groans.
The taste of him—clean sweat and mint, a tang of blood from a lip he must’ve bitten through—is dizzying.
He’s so deep inside me it’s almost painful, but I want more, god, I want all of it, I want to be filled until there’s nothing left of me but this.
The wet slap of skin on skin, the obscene squelch of our bodies grinding together, the sharp, sweet reek of sex and pheromone haze—it’s a symphony, a sports arena roar, a disaster in slow motion.
I feel my orgasm build, then spiral, then threaten to swallow me whole.
Still, he won’t let up. He fucks me harder, chasing his own finish line, but his eyes are locked on mine, pupils blown wide, like he needs to see the exact second I break.
“Cum with me,” he growls, and that’s the kill shot.
My insides seize, a cataclysmic clamp around him, and then I’m gone—shattered in a detonation of light and heat, crying out so loud it echoes off cinderblocks two rooms down.
My vision whites out, ears ringing, and I’m dimly aware of Matteo’s answering shout as he slams in and holds, pulsing inside me. I feel every spasm, every hot pulse of him, as if our bodies are welded together at the core.
I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t even process the aftershocks as they rip through me, one after another, liquid and electric and almost too much.
I cling to him, boneless and trembling, my face mashed into the side of his neck, and he’s shaking too, arms clamped hard around my waist to keep us upright. The spray from the shower mists over us, cooling our skin in contrast to the fevered slickness between our thighs.
For long moments, only the drip of the shower and our ragged breathing filled the stall. He held me close, forehead to mine once more, the water cooling on our overheated skin.
“Oh, I’m gonna fight every universal deity to make us endgame,” he whispered, voice thick with something that felt dangerously like promise.
I laughed into the crook of his shoulder, tasting salt and citrus and him.
“You may be biting off more than you can chew, Twenty-One.”
Matteo chuckled, the sound warm and fond as he pressed a kiss to my temple.
“Maybe. But that ain’t gonna stop me from trying.”
We shared a look then—raw, unguarded, the kind that stripped away the chirps and the gear and the arena bullshit.
He leaned in, kissing me tenderly this time, slow and sweet like a secret.
When he pulled back, that trademark grin was back, eyes sparkling.
“Lunch on me, Pinky. We gotta celebrate.” He winked.
I really didn’t know what I had just signed myself up for.
But deep down, I realize I may just like where this is going.