Chapter 5

Evelyn's POV

I had to stop, and when Liam looked up at me, sweat was dripping down his face and splashing onto the ice beneath his skates. For some reason, the sight made me think of last night—how his sweat had fallen onto me in the same way, tracing the same arc as he moved above me.

My heart began to race, and I found myself pressing my thighs together without meaning to.

He stood on the ice in his skates, and I had to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes, which were bright and glittering under the rink lights.

"Are you here to see me?" he asked, leaning against the boards and unwinding his wrist guard slowly, wrapping it around his fingers one loop at a time. "Or are you here to watch us train?"

"I came to see how the team's training is coming along," I said.

It wasn't a lie—I used to love this sport deeply, once upon a time.

"Is that so." He smiled, a slight curve at the corner of his mouth.

We stood half a meter apart with the boards between us. Then he closed his fist around the guard, looked up at me, and said with unexpected seriousness, "Professor, I finished that essay today."

"Good."

"I wrote about hockey," he continued, his gaze holding mine, "but when I finished, I realized I was actually writing about you."

His eyes were deep blue, like water moving beneath a layer of ice. I looked down, feeling heat spread across my face.

His hand came up and pressed against the small of my back through the boards.

He hadn't taken off his gear yet, and his glove still dangled from his left wrist, so what I felt wasn't just the warmth of his palm but also the rough leather edge of his hockey glove dragging against my skin through the fabric.

I was wearing a thin sweater, and when that leather pressed against me, my entire lower back went numb.

"Liam..."

"Let's go somewhere else."

His fingers tightened, stroking the curve of my back through my clothes.

I sucked in a breath as a tingling sensation spread through my body. By the time I came back to myself, I had already followed him through the side corridor and into one of the recovery rooms.

The room was small—just a therapy table, an ice pack rack, and a full-length mirror. He locked the door behind us with a smooth flick of his wrist and pressed me back against the mirror.

The mirror was cold against my back; his body was burning hot. The hem of his training jersey was soaked through with sweat, and through the damp fabric I could feel the hard ridges of his abdomen, each one defined and solid as ice.

"I played well today," he said, his voice low and pleased. "Before the scout left, he told me my speed was point-three seconds faster than last month."

After he said this, he looked down at me with an expression of almost naked pride, like a young animal that had just finished a successful hunt.

"So you have to reward me."

"I never agreed to reward you..."

Before I could finish, he turned me around and pressed against me from behind, forcing me to look at myself in the full-length mirror. In the reflection, he stood behind me in his training gear, his ice skates making him even taller than usual. His chin rested on top of my head, and his hands slid down from my waist.

"Professor," he said, watching my eyes in the mirror, "did you come to watch my training because you wanted to see my rhythm on the ice, or because you wanted me to... do to you what I did last night?"

My breathing went ragged.

"Answer me, Professor. I want to know."

Even as he spoke, his hands didn't stop moving—they had already slipped under the hem of my skirt, his fingertips hooking the edge of my underwear.

"I... came to watch you train," I said through clenched teeth.

"Really?"

He laughed softly, and then the cold toe of his skate nudged my foot aside. His knee pushed between my legs, pinning my entire body against the mirror.

"Why aren't you wearing the stockings I gave you? Professor, did you throw them away?"

I was about to answer when I heard rustling sounds from my bag, which had fallen to the floor. He laughed, his breath hot against the back of my neck. "Professor, you still have them in your bag. I can see them. You can lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me."

I couldn't put words to what I was feeling—shame and desire and the terrible sensation of being seen through, all tangled together with a hunger for more. It felt like something inside me was collapsing, or like ice breaking open from underneath. He pressed one of my hands flat against the mirror, and I felt the cold glass and the heat of his palm covering it at the same time.

His other hand came around to the front and undid the top two buttons of my blouse, his fingertips grazing my collarbone and trailing downward. In the mirror, my eyes were already glazed, and he stared at me like I was something precious he was admiring.

He lowered his head, his nose brushing against the shell of my ear, and his voice dropped so low it was almost drowned out by the distant sound of the arena announcements. "When you were sitting in the stands, all I could think about was how you looked on your knees on my bed last night."

My whole body shuddered, and I instinctively tried to close my legs, but his knee was still wedged between them.

"I never lose focus when I'm playing," he murmured against the side of my neck, kissing me there in soft, coaxing touches. "But today, with you sitting there, I almost fell on the ice. Professor, what am I supposed to do about that?"

I pressed my lips together and turned my head to the side without thinking.

He laughed quietly and suddenly dropped to a crouch.

I looked down and saw his hair plastered to his forehead in damp strands, but his eyes were impossibly bright. Both of his hands slid up under my skirt and began pulling my underwear down, inch by inch. When he reached the bend of my knees, he caught the fabric between his teeth and dragged it the rest of the way down until it pooled on the floor.

My legs were so weak I could barely stand. My back was the only thing holding me up against the mirror.

He pressed me against the glass again, and the toe of his skate nudged my ankle aside once more, forcing me to spread my legs wider. When his fingers touched me, I heard myself make a sound I didn't recognize.

"Professor, do you want this? Just say you want it, and I'll give it to you."

"I... I don't..."

He smiled and watched my face carefully. I turned my head away, but he used his free hand to grip my chin and turn me back toward him.

"Really? Then why are you getting wetter?" He raised his hand in front of my face, and I watched as milky fluid slid down the veins on the back of his hand. I swallowed involuntarily, and I heard him laugh softly before he said, "Professor, now I understand."

The world spun.

He lifted me up, my back still pressed against the mirror, and my legs wrapped around his waist without conscious thought.

I felt him push inside, inch by inch, filling me completely.

He thrust into me, steady and deep, and each movement brought a satisfaction so complete it felt almost unbearable.

His arms locked around me like iron, pinning me between the mirror and his chest. The glass fogged over with a thin layer of condensation, and I couldn't see my own face clearly anymore—only the tight line of his jaw and the muscles in his shoulders flexing with each thrust.

Then he stopped.

"Say it. Tell me you want me to go deeper."

I shook my head and bit down on my lip.

He didn't push. He just stayed there, buried inside me but motionless, and then slowly pulled out partway and stopped again.

I bit down harder, refusing to give him the words.

Liam waited for a moment, then sighed and leaned down to kiss my lips. I turned my head away, but he caught my lower lip between his teeth—it hurt—and in that split second of distraction, he slammed into me so hard that my vision went white. I screamed, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth.

He set a rhythm that was almost brutal, and occasionally his skates scraped against the floor with a sharp, grating sound that mixed with his ragged breathing.

The last shred of my self-control dissolved.

From somewhere outside, I could faintly hear the sound of water running in the locker room and the murmur of his teammates talking. My entire body went rigid, and I bit down on the web of his hand. He let out a muffled groan, but it only made him move harder.

I didn't know how much time passed before I heard myself cry out with a note of desperation in my voice, my whole body convulsing.

Only then did he finally bury himself as deep as he could go and collapse against me, panting.

"Professor," he said, his voice hoarse and amused, "will you come to every game from now on?"

I pushed at him weakly, but he didn't budge. Instead, he caught my hand and pressed it against his chest.

He lifted his head and looked at me with absolute seriousness. "I can feel what you're feeling, Professor. Don't lie to me, okay?"

I looked away and said nothing.

Outside, the lights in the training facility went out one by one until only the small emergency light above us remained, casting a warm yellow glow over our tangled bodies.

He used the hem of his training jersey to wipe between my legs, then helped me to my feet.

My hands were still trembling slightly.

"I'll take you home," he said.