Todos os capítulos de The Pucking Ice King : Capítulo 41 - Capítulo 50

Logan’s phone beeped in the late afternoon light, and the whole room dropped ten degrees before he’d even read it. Mother. He was still on the bed, propped against a mountain of pillows, his injured shoulder locked in the black sling. But the moment his eyes found the text, the muscle along his jaw went rigid enough to see from across the room. “There will be dinner at the estate tomorrow night.” He read it flat, like a verdict. Then he looked up, and whatever softness had been left over from the morning was gone. “They want to discuss something. You’re coming with me.” I froze, a compression shirt still clutched in my hands. Since the lockdown started, this penthouse had been the whole of my universe — safe, and airless, in exactly the way a nice cage always is. Leaving it should have felt like relief. It didn’t. “Me?” I kept my voice soft, the compliant register he needed to see. “Your parents think I’m the PR handler who cleaned up your press crisis, Logan. If they see

Morning didn’t soften him. It never did. I was already dressed when Logan woke — jeans, a plain shirt, hair scraped back, nothing he’d bought me. He noticed before he was even fully upright, his eyes moving from my face to my clothes and back, the sleep clearing out of them fast, replaced by something sharper. “Where do you think you’re going.” Not a question. I kept folding the black silk dress over my arm anyway, treating it like laundry instead of a costume, refusing to let my hands shake while I did it. “Nowhere. I’m allowed to wear my own clothes in my own—” I caught myself before cage made it out. “In this apartment.” He sat up slowly, favoring the shoulder, the sling creaking with the movement. Even injured, even half-asleep, he filled the room the way other men needed a stage to. “Come here.” “No.” The word sat in the room longer than either of us expected. I watched his jaw work once, twice, and something in him shifted— the way he did with referees when a call

I turned the screen toward him and watched. For a long moment Logan didn’t move. His eyes moved across the documents — the draft merger language, the quiet notes about “transition timelines,” the carefully worded suggestions about removing “me” Something cold settled into his face. Not surprise. “How long have you had this,” he said. “Since this morning. Lena walked in here and handed me the rest of it herself.” “She came into this house,” he said. His voice was too quie. “While I was gone. And she told you that you were temporary.” I kept my hands flat on the table. “She did.” “What else did she say.” “That your parents are already discussing how to get rid of me before I trap you with anything. That she’s been patient for years and she’s not planning to stop now.” I made myself hold his eyes. “That you break things when you love them, Logan. Her word, not mine.” Something flickered across his face at that — gone before I could name it. He closed the laptop with o

The thick, brutal stretch of him punched the air from my lungs. Logan buried himself to the hilt in one savage thrust, filling me so completely that my body locked around him. A broken sound tore from my throat. He didn’t give me time to adjust. His hands clamped down on my hips hard enough to bruise and he dragged me up only to slam me back down onto his cock again, and again, the wet sound of it echoing inside the quiet truck. “Fuck—look at you,” he growled against my mouth, already kissing me again. His tongue stroked against mine in the same relentless rhythm as his hips, claiming every sound I tried to make. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. So fucking mine.” I clung to his shoulders, nails digging into the hard muscle beneath his shirt. Every pull of his hands forced me to take him deeper. The angle was merciless—his cock dragging against that spot inside me that made my vision blur. My bare breasts bounced with every thrust. He broke the kiss only long enoug

The private salon smelled like polished wood and money. Every worker was dressed in crisp black and white, moving quietly through the room as though even their footsteps had been trained to respect the wealth surrounding them. Logan’s hand stayed firm on the small of my back as he guided me toward the velvet chairs like he already owned the room. And I let him. The jeweler greeted him by name. Of course he did. Who in this city didn’t know Logan McAllister? Before Logan could say a word, one of the workers appeared with a tray of rings. Heavy platinum bands. Large diamonds. Pieces that looked less like jewelry and more like declarations of wealth. Logan glanced through them, dismissed the first tray with a slight shake of his head, then pointed to three different pieces. The worker immediately brought them closer. Logan picked one up and held it toward me. “This will look beautiful on you, ma’am.” I nearly rolled my eyes. Of course it would. A famous athlete ha