Page 80 of Puck Tease
"Yeah," I said, a soft sigh escaping me. "I'm ready."
He leaned over and kissed me. It was quick, firm, a possessive pressure that lingered on my lips.
"Good," he said, a wicked glint returning to his eyes. "Because I left the plug at the apartment, and I'm itching to see you wear it while I unpack."
I laughed, a light, disbelieving sound that bubbled up unbidden. I couldn't help it. "You're insatiable."
"I'm dedicated," he corrected, his hand squeezing my thigh.
The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the traffic. I looked out the window as the city of St. Paul, the site of our victory, slowly disappeared behind us.
I thought about the blackmail, the cold, gnawing fear it had instilled. I remembered the nights spent crying in the dark, wishing for something I couldn't have, a freedom, a love that felt impossible. It felt like a different lifetime, a fading nightmare.
I looked at Jax. He was scrolling through his phone, his thumb moving rhythmically, deleting hate comments with a bored, almost indifferent expression.
He was a monster. He was a champion. He was mine. The knowledge settled deep in my bones, a fierce, absolute conviction. And as long as I was his, safe in his orbit, nothing else mattered.
The season was over. But our game?
Our game was just getting started.
EPILOGUE – ONE YEAR LATER
The view from the thirty-second floor of the sleek Chicago high-rise was a grid of amber and white fire.
Below, the city was alive. Traffic crawled along Lake Shore Drive, a river of headlights pushing through the October rain. Above, the sky was a bruised purple, reflecting the light pollution of three million people.
It was quiet up here. The penthouse was soundproofed, hermetically sealed against the chaos of the world. The only sound was the hum of the Sub-Zero fridge in the kitchen and the steady, rhythmicclick-clackof my own anxiety.
I was kneeling on a velvet cushion in the center of the living room rug.
I had been kneeling for twenty minutes.
My knees ached, a dull, familiar burn that I had grown to associate with comfort. My hands were clasped behind my back, resting on the curve of my spine. I was naked, save for two things.
First, the heavy silver chain hung around my throat. It was the same one Jax had put on me a year ago, weighing me down with the massive championship ring that slid along the links. Inside the band, the engraving was still sharp:PROPERTY OF CARTER.
Second, the black jersey draped over my shoulders. Not the Michigan State green and white. This was new. Black and red. The Chicago Blackhawks home jersey. The name on the back was the same—CARTER—but the number had changed.#88.
The rookie number.
I shifted my weight, wincing as the plug inside me settled deeper. It was part of the ritual. Game nights meant prep. Prep meant being ready for him the second he walked through that door.
The game had ended an hour ago. The Blackhawks had won in overtime. Jax had two assists and a fight. He would be wired. He would be exhausted. He would be hungry.
My phone, sitting on the coffee table out of reach, lit up with a notification.
ESPN Alert: Carter dominates in home opener. Rookie sensation proves hype is real.
I didn't need the alert. I’d watched every second of the game on the massive 85-inch screen in front of me. I’d watched him crush a veteran defenseman into the boards. I’d watched the camera zoom in on his face as he sat in the penalty box, spitting blood and looking bored.
I knew that look. It meant he was thinking about coming home.
The elevator dinged in the hallway.
My heart rate spiked. It never got old. A year of this—of living with him, sleeping with him, traveling with him—and the sound of his arrival still sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to my groin.
The heavy mahogany door unlocked with a digital chirp.
