34. Ivy
Ivy
By the time the car pulls up outside his apartment, my pulse is racing. His is too; I can feel it in the way he stands just a little too close as we step out onto the sidewalk.
The building hums with quiet life as we enter.
The elevator ride is short, the soft whirring of the mechanics providing a rhythmic soundtrack to the heat pulsing between us. We face each other in the small space, just a few feet apart, and suddenly every inch of air matters.
“Iveline,” he says, his voice low enough to vibrate through the soles of my feet. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to forget every line we’re not supposed to cross.”
I swallow hard, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Maybe I’m tired of lines, Callahan.”
His breath catches.
I see his hands twitching, his fingers itching to trace the lines of my body.
I can’t look away, and neither can he.
When the elevator stops, I step out into the hallway, my heels clicking a sharp, frantic rhythm against the floor.
My skin feels electric, humming with a need that makes it impossible to stand still.
I don’t stop until I reach the door, spinning around to find him already there, crowding into my space until the heat coming off him is all I can feel.
The cool grain of the door bites into my shoulder blades.
“This is a career-ending mistake. It’s a violation of every protocol we’ve both spent years upholding. It is the definition of unprofessional.”
The words are brittle, snapping like dry glass in the air between us. My back is flat against the wood, the vibration of his heavy footsteps through the floorboards traveling straight up my spine.
I’m looking for a reason to stop, scanning the familiar lines of his face for a flicker of doubt, but there is none.
“They’ll ruin us if they find out. You know that. My father, the board, the press… they’ll tear us apart.”
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink.
He steps further into my space, his shadow swallowing me whole, tall and predatory. He plants a hand on the door beside my head, the thump of his palm vibrating through my skull.
“You want to talk about professionalism?” His voice is a low, dangerous rumble. “Then stop acting like a coward and look at me. Look at what you’re doing to me, Iveline. Look at how much I’m shaking just being this close to you.”
He doesn’t wait for permission. He catches my wrist, his grip firm and searing, and drags my hand down. He pins my palm flat against the hard throb of his cock through his suit pants.
I gasp, a sharp, broken sound catching in my throat.
“Don’t pretend you’re surprised,” he whispers, breath unsteady. “You’ve been pushing me to this edge all damn season.”
He slides the key into the lock. The click echoes in the hallway like a gavel.
He stalls for half a second—a final, silent heartbeat for me to walk away.
If I say his name now, he’ll stop. He’ll let me go and we’ll go back to being the Captain and the Coach, two ghosts haunting the same ice. But I stay silent. My fingers curl instinctively into his shirt, bunching the fabric until my knuckles go white.
The door clicks open.
The apartment is dim, washed in the amber glow of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Callahan doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He simply watches me, his gaze peeling back every layer of defense I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting.
“You look…” His voice is a low, roughened rasp. “…insane.”
I smirk, even as my knees feel like water. “Insane? That’s a compliment, right?”
He doesn’t smile. Instead, he closes the distance in two heavy strides.
His hands find my waist and haul me forward until my chest is crushed against his, the air leaving my lungs in a startled huff. My hands fly up to his shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard muscle there.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand three feet away from you and not be allowed to touch you? To watch you move and have to pretend I’m not dying to put my hands on you?”
His hand tangles deep into my hair, his fingers threading through the strands at the base of my skull. He tilts my head back, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a reverence that makes my eyes flutter shut.
“You spend all day telling men where to stand,” he whispers against my ear, his breath warm on my skin. “But in here? I’m going to show you exactly how much you’re worth. I’m going to worship every inch of you until you finally believe it.”
He lets out a low, guttural sound and his mouth crashes onto mine.
His tongue slides against mine, and I meet him with a ferocity that shocks me. The control I’ve clung to for years vanishes. I’m clawing at him, pulling him closer, my tongue tangling with his as I taste the bourbon and the desperation.
He spins me, my tits pressing into the cool wall while he grinds his heavy, aching dick against my backside. He finds the zipper at the back of my dress. The metal teeth part with a sharp, hushing sound. The fabric falls away, pooling at my feet, leaving me in nothing but black lace.
I can hear his breath, ragged and ruined, right against my ear.
“You have no idea,” he says, his hands sliding down to bunch the lace of my panties. “I’ve hallucinated this. I’ve woken up in hotel rooms with my sheets soaked because I was dreaming about the way you’d look spread out like this.”
He turns me toward him and lifts me, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, my heels digging into his lower back. He carries me toward the bedroom and lays me back against the sheets, hovering over me like I’m the only prize that matters.
He strips with an impatient, violent energy and then he’s back, skin on skin.
I reach out, my fingers trembling as I trace a jagged scar over his ribs. He winces, a sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth.
“Does that hurt?”
“Everything hurts right now,” he groans, leaning down to press his face into the hollow of my neck. “But this… this is the only thing that makes it stop.”
He moves lower, his lips trailing a path of liquid fire along my collarbone, his stubble grazing my skin with a delicious, stinging friction.
When he hooks his calloused fingers into the silk waistband of my lace panties, he pauses, the tension in the room thickening until it feels like a physical weight. His knuckles dig into the prominent jut of my hip bones with a possessive, bruising force that makes my breath hitch in my throat.
He drags the lace down slowly, his eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that feels more intimate than the nakedness he’s exposing. As the fabric hits the floor, he sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed.
When he reaches out to nudge my legs apart, his hands are trembling. He stares at me and lets out a sound that’s half groan, half sob.
“Look at this,” he mutters, his voice a gravelly wreck. He uses his thumbs to pull me open, his fingers parting my pussy to expose my clit, already glistening for him. “You’re fucking dripping for me. My sophisticated, brilliant coach is a total mess.”
He nudges my legs further apart, his gaze raking over me with an unvarnished hunger that makes my blood hum.
His hand slides up, his palm cupping me fully. I hear the wet, slick sound of his fingers sliding against my pussy, and I let out a sharp, broken gasp.
“Fuck,” he whispers, watching the way my hips hitch upward into his hand. “You’re making a fucking mess of my hand, Ivy.”
He doesn’t stop. He works his thumb in slow, agonizing circles against my swollen clit, while two of his long fingers curl and slide deep inside me. He finds exactly where I’m most sensitive, hooking them upward, stretching me until I’m forced to realize just how much I’ve been craving this.
I arch off the bed, my spine curving like a bow, a broken, jagged sob escaping me as the composed Ice Queen melts into a desperate woman who just wants to be consumed.
“Tell me what you need, Ivy,” he commands gently, his fingers beginning a devastating, rhythmic pump inside me that mimics the act I’m craving. He watches the way my face twists with pleasure, his thumb never ceasing its relentless friction. “I want to hear it. Don’t go silent on me now.”
“You,” I gasp. My fingers tangle desperately in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, trying to pull his face toward mine, but he resists, staying anchored between my thighs. “I need you, Cal. All of you. Please, I’m begging.”
“What a good girl,” he murmurs against my thighs, and the praise hits me harder than any physical touch, sending a fresh wave of moisture between my thighs.
He settles between my knees, his chest heaving, and uses his tongue to trace a slow, agonizingly wet line from the inside of my thigh up to the very edge of my pussy. I try to close my eyes, to lose myself in the sensation, but his hand suddenly clamps firmly over my jaw, forcing my head up.
“Eyes on me, Iveline,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I want you to watch exactly what I’m about to do to you.”
I’m paralyzed, my breath hitching in a series of broken gasps as he stares me down. He leans in, his tongue slowly licking a stray drop of moisture off my skin, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Sit still for me,” he breathes against my damp skin, his thumb pinning my clit with just enough pressure to make me whine. “Don’t you move a muscle until I tell you to.”
He begins to lick me then—long, slow, predatory strokes that are rhythmic and demanding. Every time I try to arch away or hide my face in the pillow, his grip on my thigh tightens.
“I said watch,” he commands, pausing just long enough to look up at me. My mouth is hanging open, my dignity long gone, and my face is a mask of pure, helpless wanting.
A slow, devastatingly sly smirk spreads across his lips, slick with the evidence of how much I want him. He looks at my trembling lips, then back at the wreck he’s made of me.