Chapter 10

Riley

"Take a seat," Amelia says, guiding me toward a plush chair in the corner of her bedroom. The scent of lavender and vanilla competes with the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I perch on the edge, my muscles tensing as she pivots gracefully, her ponytail swishing, and closes the closet door behind her.

The walls are a soft shade of eggshell, adorned with black and white photos of random things and not people that could be her family. Her space is intimate but not too revealing, much like the woman herself.

Minutes stretch longer than a final period in overtime. I tap my foot impatiently, trying to ignore the need clawing at my insides. This isn't the ice rink where I know every play; this is her arena, and I'm just a rookie here.

The closet door swings open. Amelia steps out, and it's like the entire world goes into a slow-mo replay, one where you can see the winning puck slide into the net. She's clad in lingerie that makes my mouth go dry—lace and silk hugging every curve like they're meant to be there.

"Wow," escapes my lips before I can think. It's not eloquent or profound, but sometimes, it’s all that’s needed.

Her hazel eyes lock onto mine, a smirk playing on her lips, and it's clear she knows the effect she has. She's power-play personified, and I'm defenseless against her.

The lace on Amelia's outfit is a midnight black web, clinging to her like she's the centerpiece of an erotic art exhibit. Red ribbons criss cross over her hips, drawing my gaze down to where they tie in a bow just above her ass. It's not just sexy; it's a goddamn masterpiece.

"Amelia," I breathe out, her name a prayer of lust on my lips. She's a vision, all smooth skin and dangerous curves wrapped up in something that screams sin.

There's no hiding my reaction—my dick strains against my jeans, hard and insistent. She catches the shift in my posture, her eyes flashing with triumph with a hint of wildness.

"Riley, I'm going to put on a fashion show for you," she says. "But I want you stroking your cock the entire time. Can you do that for me?"

"Fuck, yes," I say, more growl than words. Her command sends a surge of heat straight to my groin, and I shuffle slightly, adjusting myself to accommodate the increasing tightness.

Amelia turns on her heel, a wicked glint in her eye, and struts back to the closet. The string thong she's wearing is more suggestion than garment, leaving nothing to the imagination as it digs into the soft flesh of her ass cheeks. Each step she takes is an invitation, and I'm RSVPing 'hell yes' with every fiber of my being. I love every sway and bounce that sends my heart racing like a slapshot in overtime.

"Keep your eyes peeled, Riley," she tosses over her shoulder.

"Wouldn't dream of looking away," I call after her, but she's already disappeared behind the closet door.

The minutes stretch out, each second ticking by painfully slow. I waste no time unzipping my pants, liberating my throbbing cock from its denim prison. My hand wraps around my length, and I start stroking—firm, slow, each movement synced with the pounding of my heart. I'm playing solo here, but Amelia's the one setting the pace, the scene, the whole fucking game.

I zone in on the task at hand, my grip steady, my mind filled with images of what's to come. My breath hitches when I hear the soft rustle of fabric from within the closet. She's coming back.

"Ready for round two?" Amelia's voice is playful, but there's an edge to it that tells me she's not just putting on a show; she's embodying it, owning it.

"More ready than you can imagine," I answer with a shaky tone.

The click of the closet door signals her return, and I swear my pulse spikes like I'm in sudden death overtime. Amelia steps into view, and damn if she isn't the embodiment of every fantasy I've never admitted to having.

She's draped in black lace, a bodysuit that hugs her curves tighter than gloves on a goalie's hand. The plunging neckline dips low, teasing the swell of her breasts, while delicate straps criss cross over her flat stomach, drawing my eyes down to where the lace ends and leaves nothing to the imagination.

"Keep stroking that cock," she purrs, her hazel eyes locked onto mine with intensity. "Because I have one more outfit to show you."

"Can't wait," I rasp, my voice betraying how close I am to the edge. My hand moves over my length with practiced precision, but each stroke is a battle against the pleasure threatening to crash over me.

I focus on the rhythm, breathing through it, like a player steadying himself for a penalty shot. Inhale. Stroke. Exhale. Hold back. Amelia circles me slowly, a predator in lace, before she disappears behind her closed closet door again, and I think this game we're playing is far more exhilarating than any I've faced on ice.

My head's thrown back, resting against the chair, a makeshift sanctuary in the midst of Amelia's naughty fashion show. The hushed slide of fabric on skin signals her return, and instinctively, my eyes snap open, hungry for the next reveal.

Holy shit.

There she stands, a vision straight out of every hidden desire I've even had. Crotchless panties cling to her hips, framing her in a way that makes my mouth water. They're an intricate pattern of lace and straps, promising everything while obscuring just enough to drive me insane with want.

But it's the bra—or what passes for one—that really knocks the air from my lungs. It's as if someone took the concept of 'support' and twisted it into a carnal challenge. Black silk outlines her breasts, but the centers are cut out, exposing her nipples proudly standing at attention. The sight is so fucking erotic, it's like a punch to the gut, sending a jolt straight to my already throbbing cock.

"Jesus, Amelia... you're trying to kill me here," I manage, the words scraping out of my throat. My hand hasn't stopped moving, but each stroke now feels like it's etched with the image of her in this sinfulness.

"Better keep up, Riley," she teases with a wicked glint in those hazel eyes. "You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?"

"Never," I grunt, quickening my pace to match the racing of my heart. Every part of me is attuned to Amelia, from the scent of her arousal mingling with the faint hint of her perfume, to the soft sound of her breathy chuckles as she watches me struggle to obey.

The restraint it takes not to launch out of this chair and take her is monumental, but this game we're playing has rules, and I'm determined to see it through. For her. For us. Because when this tension finally breaks, I know it'll be nothing short of Earth shattering.

Yet when Amelia does a sexy little dance right in front of my view, turns and bends all the way forward to expose her ass and wet pussy folds to me, I lose it. I surge to my feet, muscles coiled tight, and close the distance between us in one long, hungry stride. My hands are on her before my brain catches up, scooping her up with ease. Her small gasp is drowned out by the pounding of blood in my ears.

Another stride and we're at the bed, the back of my knees hitting the edge. I sit down hard, pulling her onto my lap, and she's there, all heat and want, sinking onto me. Our groans mingle as I fill her completely.

"Fuck, Princess," I rasp, my head falling to her shoulder. The sensation of her tight, wet warmth enveloping me is intoxicating. I pause for a split second, just to savor it, because being buried deep inside her is the kind of victory I've never experienced.

Gripping her hips, I start to move, pulling back just to slam into her again. Amelia's body yields to my rhythm, her softness clashing with my hard, forceful thrusts. She throws her head back, that wild auburn mane cascading down her back. "Harder, Riley," she gasps out, and damn if that's not music to my ears.

"Fuck, yes," I grunt. I hold her down to my lap, pinning her to me because this is the kind of control I crave, matching the push and pull of our bodies to the pounding of my heart. Every thrust is a battle for release, and I'm here to win.

I chase the sounds slipping from her lips, each moan spurring me on. It's primal, this need to drive her over the edge, and I pour every ounce of strength into it. Amelia's fingers claw at my shoulders, her nails digging in, marking me, owning me in a way no one else has.

"More... please," she breathes, her hazel eyes glazed with that lust-fueled haze. It's a look I'd fight to see again and again, the kind of victory I don't just want—I need.

I don't let up, not even as her body starts to tremble. Amelia's orgasm hits her hard—intense, unexpected, earth-shattering. She clenches around me, a vice of heat, and I can feel her come dripping down, slicking my thighs with every pulse of her pussy.

"Riley..." Her voice is a whisper, but it echoes through me. It's the sound of her unraveling because of me. For me.

I've never felt more alive, more in control. She's my victory lap, my name on the Championship Cup of life.

"I've got you," I grunt, my own orgasm barreling down on me.

Her response is drowned out by our combined moans, the room filling with the sounds of our release. I let go, spilling myself deep inside her, marking her as mine.

We're both breathless, panting against one another.

Amelia's hazel eyes meet mine, and we share a look—a look that says more than any post-orgasmic conversation ever could.

I collapse back onto her bed with her laying on my chest, still inside her. We're a sweaty, sticky mess, but damn if it isn't the best I've ever felt.

"Well, Coach..." I say between breaths, managing a smirk. "I'd say that was one hell of a workout."

Amelia's laughter fills the air, light, airy. Her fingers playfully swat my chest as she looks away, cheeks flushed, but her smile... it's brighter than any championship banner ever could be.