I pull him closer.
His lips trail away from mine, down my cheek, to my jaw. Then the sensitive skin just under my ear. I let out a moan when his teeth scrape my throat. I find the hem of his shirt and force it up, sliding my hands up his abs.
Yep, I was right earlier—they’re defined enough to have their own zip code. I pinch his nipple, and he lets out a hoarse laugh.
“Naughty.” He drives harder into me, enough that my body scoots back on the chipped, painted wood. He pulls me right back into him, and his hands start wandering. He gets under my shirt, then my bra, and palms my breasts. “So fucking perfect. Your tits are fantastic.”
He lowers his head and shoves my shirt up the rest of the way, forcing me to lean back. He bites my flesh.
“God, more,” I groan. I tense around him.
I need this pain to ground me.
“Grey. Harder. Fuck.” Every word is on a pant. I just want more viciousness from him. I put my hands over his wrapped ones and press down. His body ripples, answering the involuntary spike of pain, and he growls.
He picks me up in one move and lays me down on the ice.
Cold seeps into me, almost burning, and I arch away from the sensation. But he’s right there, already between my legs and driving back into me. Pushing me into the ice. The sensation is like needles stabbing into me everywhere it touches. My ass, my shoulders, my head. My hair is fanned out, and the sweat that collects on the nape of my neck immediately induces chills.
But after a minute, all I can focus on is Greyson.
The feel ofhim, hot against my cold body. The friction of his cock going in and out, his lips on my skin. Always moving. Breast, throat, collarbone. He trails kisses, soft in contrast to the hardness of the ice. His forearms are braced on either side of me, his hands curled in my shirt.
He shifts to the side and slips his hand between us. He touches my clit, soft at first, then harder. He tweaks it, and I almost scream.
“I want to hear you,” he says in my ear. “I want anyone who lingers here to know exactly who’s fucking you.”
I’m silent.
He twists, a new angle, a new punishment. Harderandfaster. “Say my name.”
“Fuck off.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
His hand leaves my clit, and I’m left gasping for air. His orgasm comes swiftly, out of nowhere, and he stills. Buried in me.
In the back of my head, I know I should be worried. Birth control doesn’t protect me against everything.
He lifts his head, and I slowly open my eyes. My vision has adjusted. Moonlight comes in through skylights and high windows. There are faint emergency lights outside the rink, just barely visible from here.
The cold hits me, and I shiver.
He slips out of me and scoots back on his knees. He grips my knees and widens my legs as far as they can go. My ankles are still trapped together by my jeans, stuck on my boots.
When he runs his finger from my slit up to my clit, my lips part.
“Here’s a little challenge for you, Violent.” He toys with my clit again, analyzing my reaction.
I squirm. I want to get off, I’mright there, on the edge, but he pulls away before I can get there. Again. And again. We go through this for fucking eternity, until I’m desperate enough to do it myself.
So I do.
I touch myself while he watches, while I shiver and moan and try not to let him see all of me. I fucking hate it. Where did my self-control go? Where did my will? But his gaze combats the cold, and I know just how to take myself there.
In seconds, I’m floating.
He thrusts two fingers inside me, and I gasp at the additional sensation. I clench around him, startled, but my orgasm keeps coming. He strokes deep inside me. I shudder. I keep shuddering. My vision flickers.
“Your cunt looks like it was made to hold my cum,” he says eventually.