12. Henry

12

Henry

T he rink was quiet when I arrived, the air crisp and biting. I spotted Liam by the side entrance, hunched over, trying to shield a cigarette from the wind. I raised an eyebrow as I walked over.

"So much for quitting," I said, pulling my bag higher on my shoulder.

Liam exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Needed something to calm the nerves. Big game tomorrow."

"Coach won't be happy if he catches you."

He shrugged, flicking the cigarette to the ground and grinding it under his heel. "I'll take my chances. It's my wife I'm more worried about." He paused. "Speaking of, how was the Imprinting Ceremony? Heard it was quite the event."

I felt a rush of heat at the memory. "Freya's mine now."

Liam's eyebrows shot up. "Just like that? She's cool with it?"

"Doesn't matter if she is or not," I said, my voice hardening. "It's done."

He shook his head slowly. "I'm glad I don't have to deal with that shit."

"You mean lucky. You wanted your wife."

"She didn't always want me." He flicked the butt to the floor.

"Yeah, well, I doubt I'm ever going to want Freya, and there's no way in hell she'd ever want me." I moved towards the locker room door, feeling Liam's gaze follow me.

Inside, the familiar smell of sweat and ice filled the air. I began changing into my gear as more of the team trickled in, their chatter filling the space.

I tuned them out and focused on lacing up my skates, tightening each lace with precision. My thoughts drifted back to Freya and our argument after the ceremony. Her eyes had been blazing with anger and defiance. It wouldn't be easy, but it was necessary.

I thought about how she felt under my touch, her body warm and yielding. My fingers knew exactly where to press, how to draw those sweet sounds from her. Her core had been so wet, so pious, as if she were built to respond to me and only me. It was like playing an instrument I’d known all my life.

The thought of taking her twisted something deep inside me. What would it feel like to truly claim her, to have her in every sense of the word? To make her submit completely? The idea sent a shiver down my spine, a dangerous mix of desire and frustration.

But I banished the thought away, shaking my head as if that could rid me of the images. It didn’t matter what she felt like, what she tasted like. She was a pain in my ass, and that wasn’t going to change.

Keaton plopped down next to me on the bench, interrupting my thoughts, already half-dressed for practice. "Hey, Wolfe, you have another cigarette? And no bullshit. I can smell the smoke on you."

"Fuck off," Wolfe muttered from the floor, strapping on his gear. He didn't even look up.

I couldn't help but smirk. "Always a charmer, Wolfe."

He grunted in response, and I turned back to my own equipment. I finished tugging on my pads, the familiar weight grounding me. My helmet came next, the cold plastic pressing against my forehead as I snapped it into place. I grabbed my stick, its worn handle fitting perfectly into my gloved hand.

Stepping out of the locker room, the transition from warm air to the biting chill of the rink was instant. The ice stretched out before me, an expanse of white that held all the promise of speed and control. The sounds of blades scraping against ice and pucks clattering against boards filled the arena.

I stepped onto the ice, feeling the smooth surface under my skates. I pushed off with one foot, gliding effortlessly forward. The cold air bit at my exposed skin as I picked up speed, circling the rink in long, powerful strides.

The puck felt solid and responsive against my stick as I began my warm-up routine. Stickhandling drills came first, weaving the puck back and forth between cones set up by the coaching staff. Each movement was precise and controlled, muscle memory guiding me.

Next were sprints. I dug into the ice with each stride, feeling the burn in my thighs as I pushed myself faster and faster down the length of the rink. My breath came in steady puffs, visible in the frigid air.

After a few laps, I paused at center ice to catch my breath. Around me, teammates were doing their own drills or chatting idly with each other. The camaraderie was palpable, even amidst our individual routines.

Taking a moment to focus, I practiced shots on goal. The satisfying thunk of puck hitting net resonated each time I scored. My hands knew exactly where to aim and how hard to hit.

As I settled into a rhythm, everything else faded away—Freya's defiance, Wolfe's questions—all that mattered was the game ahead.

Practice was intense, just the way I liked it. I pushed myself harder, faster, trying to lose myself in the rhythm of the game. Each drill demanded focus. Each movement required precision. My body responded to the commands, a well-oiled machine honed over years of dedication.

Coach Morgan’s whistle cut through the air, signaling a change in drills. We shifted into passing exercises. Keaton and I worked in sync, our sticks moving fluidly as we sent the puck back and forth across the ice. His eyes met mine, a silent understanding passing between us. We didn’t need words; our chemistry spoke for itself.

The puck glided smoothly along the ice as I passed it to Keaton. He received it effortlessly and sent it back my way with a flick of his wrist. The repetition was comforting, grounding me in the moment.

Morgan’s voice boomed across the rink. “All right, scrimmage time! Let’s see some fucking hustle!”

We split into two teams, anticipation crackling in the air. The puck dropped, and we surged forward. The game was fast-paced, bodies colliding as we fought for control. I felt alive out there, every nerve ending firing as I navigated the chaos.

I intercepted a pass and took off down the ice, weaving between defenders with practiced ease. The goal loomed ahead, and I could hear my teammates shouting encouragement behind me. I wound up for a shot, feeling the power surge through my muscles as I released the puck.

It sailed past the goalie’s outstretched glove and into the net with a satisfying thud. My team erupted in cheers, and I couldn’t help but grin as we skated back to center ice.

The rest of practice flew by in a blur of drills and scrimmages. By the time Coach Morgan blew his whistle to signal the end, my legs were burning and my jersey was soaked with sweat.

We gathered at center ice for a quick debrief. Morgan ran through our strengths and areas for improvement, his voice carrying authority.

“Good work today,” he said finally. “Rest up and be ready for tomorrow’s game.”

With that, we dispersed to the locker room. The atmosphere was lighter now, filled with post-practice banter and laughter.

I peeled off my gear and headed for the showers, letting the hot water wash away the sweat and tension from my muscles. My teammates had already filtered out of the locker room, their laughter and banter fading into silence.

The thought of going back home to Freya twisted my gut. Just the idea of seeing her again set my nerves on edge. She had this infuriating way of getting under my skin, pissing me off and igniting something deep inside me at the same time. I couldn't figure out what was worse: my desire for her or my anger at her.

I tried to push her out of my mind, but she lingered there like a shadow. The memory of our argument after the Imprinting Ceremony replayed itself in my head. Her eyes had been blazing with defiance, her words sharp and cutting. It was like she took pleasure in challenging me, in pushing every single one of my buttons.

But there was more to it than just anger. When I thought about how she felt in my arms, her body warm and yielding, it sent a jolt through me. I couldn't deny the pull she had on me, no matter how much I wanted to.

The hot water pounded against my back, steam rising and swirling around me. I let my head fall forward, eyes closed, as I thought about Freya. Her fiery spirit and sharp tongue haunted my thoughts, a constant reminder of the challenge she posed. It was infuriating and intoxicating all at once.

In my mind's eye, I saw her standing there, eyes blazing with defiance, daring me to break her. The thought of taming that wild spirit sent a shiver down my spine. What would it be like to see her submit to me? To see that fire in her eyes dim and transform into something softer, something more pliant?

The idea of bending her to my will was a potent one. I imagined her in front of me, not fighting, but yielding. Her breath would come in soft gasps as she surrendered to my touch. She’d look up at me with those wide eyes, no longer filled with defiance but with need.

I felt myself growing hard at the thought, the steam from the shower wrapping around me like a shroud. My hand moved almost of its own accord, sliding down my body until it found what it sought.

I leaned back against the tiled wall, letting out a slow breath as I began to stroke myself. The water cascaded over me, masking the sound of my breathing as I lost myself in the fantasy.

In my mind, Freya was on her knees before me, lips parted slightly as she waited for my command. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in a wild cascade, framing her face perfectly. I could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed heavily, anticipation written all over her features.

I imagined guiding her hands to where I wanted them, watching as she obeyed without question. The thought of having that kind of control over her was intoxicating. My strokes grew faster as the fantasy played out in vivid detail behind my closed eyelids.

I could almost feel the warmth of her breath against me, hear the soft sounds she’d make as she gave herself over to me completely. The tension coiled tighter within me with each passing second.

My grip tightened involuntarily as I pushed myself closer to the edge. The fantasy consumed me entirely now—every defiant look she’d ever given me melting away into submission.

In that moment, there was nothing else—just the image of Freya finally tamed and the overwhelming sensation building inside me.

What would it feel like to push inside her wet folds for the first time, for her warmth to encase my cock?

I clenched my teeth, trying to focus on the water cascading over me. The steam did little to clear the vivid images from my mind. I remembered what she felt like around my fingers, the way her body responded to every touch. But it wasn't good enough. I wanted more… needed more.

I kept stroking myself to images of her lying beneath me, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she looked up at me, wanting and willing and hating herself for it.

The thought of finally pushing inside her, feeling her wet heat envelop me, sent a shiver down my spine. My strokes grew faster, more urgent. I imagined the tightness of her walls gripping me, pulling me deeper with each thrust.

Her moans would be soft at first, growing louder as I took her harder. The way she’d arch her back, her nails digging into my shoulders as she lost herself in the pleasure. It was an intoxicating thought, one that drove me closer to the edge.

I could almost hear the sounds she'd make, feel the way her body would tremble beneath mine. The fantasy consumed me entirely now—every touch, every sensation magnified in my mind.

The tension coiled tighter within me with each passing second. My grip tightened involuntarily as I pushed myself closer to the edge. The fantasy was so real I could almost taste it.

My breaths came in short, ragged bursts as I imagined taking her completely, owning every part of her. The thought of claiming her in every sense of the word sent a surge of pleasure through me.

In that moment, there was nothing else—just the image of Freya finally submitting and the overwhelming sensation building inside me.

And then release—swift and shattering—ripped through me like a storm.

I imagined feeling her shatter around my cock, her body trembling and tightening just for me. The thought of how wet she’d be—only for me—drove me wild with need. She belonged to me; every part of her was mine to claim.

Possessiveness surged through me as I pictured thrusting into her, feeling every inch of her give way under my control. She’d whimper and moan, completely at my mercy, knowing she existed solely for my pleasure.

The intensity built within me until there was no turning back.

The climax hit me like a tidal wave, pulling me under with its intensity. My body tensed, every muscle locking in place as pleasure surged through me. I bit back a groan, the sound escaping as a low, guttural noise. My hand moved faster, riding out the waves of sensation that left me breathless and shaking.

As I came, the hot water cascaded over my body, mingling with the release that coated my hand. The steam enveloped me, creating a cocoon of warmth that seemed to amplify the pleasure. My vision blurred momentarily, and all I could do was ride out the storm until it finally began to subside.

My breaths came in ragged gasps as I leaned back against the cool tiles, trying to regain some semblance of control. The lingering aftershocks coursed through me, leaving my legs weak and unsteady. For a few moments, I let myself bask in the aftermath, eyes closed as I caught my breath.

But then, reality came crashing back in with brutal clarity.

The anger returned, sharper and more potent than before. How could she make me feel this way? How could someone like Freya have such a hold on me? It was infuriating—maddening—that she had this power over my thoughts and desires.

I clenched my fists, feeling the anger coil tighter within me. She was supposed to be mine to control, mine to claim. Instead, she defied me at every turn, challenging my authority and making me question everything.

The memory of our argument played in my mind again. Her fiery spirit and sharp tongue had pushed every single one of my buttons. And yet... despite the rage she ignited in me, there was something else—a dark desire that I couldn't shake.

I turned off the shower abruptly, stepping out and grabbing a towel. The cold air hit my skin like a slap, but it did nothing to cool the anger simmering beneath the surface.

Freya's face lingered in my thoughts as I dried off and dressed quickly. The anger mixed with something deeper—something more primal—that left me unsettled and restless.

I needed to figure out how to deal with her... before she drove me completely insane.