The Hockey’s Plaything
Tears threatened, not of sorrow but of something more complicated, fear tangled with the raw ache of being seen.
He circled me, slow, deliberate, like a hunter considering prey. My skin prickled under the weight of his gaze.
“Tell me,” he said at last, “has anyone touched you before?”
I shook my head, the word stuck in my throat. His eyes darkened.
“A virgin,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Untouched, unbroken. Mine to shape.”
The word mine sank deep into me, frightening and thrilling all at once.
His fingers grazed my jaw, lifting my face until I was forced to meet his eyes. I gasped at the intensity there, fire hidden beneath ice.