Filed to story: Addicted To My Hockey Stepbrother
“Don’t you dare.”
His hand slid down. Under my dress. Up the inside of my thigh. His fingers found the edge of my underwear and he didn’t tease, didn’t hesitate – pushed the fabric aside and touched me like he already knew the map.
My head hit the door. “Oh my God-“
“Not God.” His thumb circled slow, devastating, while two fingers slid inside me. “Just me. Eyes open.”
I forced my eyes open. Those grey eyes locked on mine – watching, studying, cataloguing every twitch and gasp like my body was a language he was already fluent in. He curled his fingers and I choked on a moan.
“There it is,” he murmured. “Good girl.”
My spine arched off the door. Used it – pressing deeper, harder, his thumb working a rhythm that made my vision blur while his mouth dropped to my collarbone and bit down. Hard enough to mark. Hard enough that I’d find it tomorrow and press my fingers into it like proof.
“Still with me?”
“Yes – fuck – yes-“
“Good. Stay.”
He kept his fingers inside me while his other hand reached into his back pocket. Foil packet between his teeth. He held my gaze while he freed himself – and I looked down, because I couldn’t not. Thick and hard and straining, and I wanted him so badly my thighs were shaking.
He rolled the condom on one-handed, fingers still buried in me, still moving, still drawing sounds out of me I didn’t recognize. Then he pulled his hand away and I whimpered at the loss, and he lifted me.
My legs wrapped around his waist and my back pressed flat against the door and he pushed into me in one long, slow, devastating stroke that forced every molecule of air from my lungs.
“Fuck.” His forehead dropped to mine. His jaw was clenched. His arms were shaking – and I could feel the tattoos under my fingers where I gripped his biceps. “You feel – Christ.”
He pulled back. Drove in again. Harder. The door rattled in its frame.
“Hold on to me,” he said, and I did – holding on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid. He fucked me against that bathroom door like he was trying to burn something out of both of us. Every thrust pushed me up the wood, my dress bunched around my waist, his hands gripping my thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints I’d find tomorrow and trace in the mirror.
He talked the entire time. A filthy, continuous stream that should have embarrassed me and instead turned my spine to honey.
“So fucking tight. You have any idea what you look like right now?”
I couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. He shifted the angle – tilted my hips, drove deeper – and hit something that turned every nerve ending in my body incandescent.
“There.” He watched my face like it was giving him everything he needed. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? I can feel you squeezing me.”
“Don’t stop – please, please don’t-“
“Wasn’t planning on it.” His thumb found my clit again, pressing in tight circles while he fucked me at a pace that was just the right side of brutal. “Look at me when you come. I want to see it.”
I forced my eyes to his. Grey and molten and wrecked – the first sign that the control was costing him, that he was unravelling too.
It wasn’t too much. It was exactly enough. It was everything I didn’t know I was starving for – to be pinned and filled and taken by someone whose grip left bruises and whose voice in my ear made me forget my own name. To come apart in the hands of someone who didn’t treat me like I was fragile. Who fucked me like I could take it.
I could take it.
When I broke, I broke hard. The orgasm ripped through me – not a wave, a detonation. My whole body seized around him, clenching, pulsing, and I buried my face in his neck and bit down to keep from screaming because we were in a bar bathroom and there were people thirty feet away and I didn’t care, I didn’t care. Wave after wave until I was shaking and boneless and clinging to his shoulders like they were the last solid thing in the universe.
He kept moving. Slower now, deeper, letting me ride it out while my body clenched and fluttered around him. Then his rhythm broke – hips stuttering, fingers tightening on my thighs – and he came with one sharp exhale and a whispered fuck that sounded more like a prayer than a curse.
Stillness. Breathing hard. My back against the door, legs still wrapped around him.
He reached up. Pushed the hair off my face.
“Better than crying?” he murmured.
“Infinitely.”
Something flickered in his expression. Gone before I could name it.
I left first. Fixed my dress in the mirror. I didn’t ask his name. Didn’t offer mine. Walked out of the bathroom, down the hall, through the bar. The cold hit me like a slap and I welcomed it.
At the door, I turned back.
He was at the bar again. Leaning on one elbow. Drink in hand. Watching me go with an unreadable expression.
I turned away. Pushed through the door into the February cold.
My phone buzzed in my clutch. Then again. And again.
Fourteen texts from Caleb.
I stood on the sidewalk in heels that were killing me, in February, with bite marks on my collarbone and a stranger’s fingerprints still burning on my thighs. I opened my phone. Looked at Caleb’s name fourteen times in a row.
Deleted them all.
Three days later, I still couldn’t stop touching the bruise on my collarbone.
It had turned purple, then blue, then a sick yellowish green that I covered with concealer every morning and checked every night like a secret I was keeping from myself. The bite mark sat just below my collarbone – low enough to hide under a crew neck, high enough that anything with a wider neckline was a confession.
