The Ice Melts for Him

The rink was freezing, but between my legs… it was the exact opposite.

The second he stepped onto the ice, something inside me clenched and started pulsing. That slow, deep throb I get only for him - the one that turns into a wet, needy ache before I can even pretend to control it.

I stood right at the glass, thighs pressed tight, feeling the heat spreading through my cunt each time his skates cut across the rink. His body moved with that lethal mix of force and grace, every stride a reminder of how he fucks - deep, deliberate, claiming.

Every time he leaned into a turn, his hip flexed just right. His ass tightened under his gear. And I imagined him thrusting into me with that exact same power… my back arched, my nails digging into anything I could reach, begging him not to stop.

My panties were already soaked. Not damp, fucking soaked! The kind of wet that makes fabric cling and rub in the most sinful way.

When he lined up for a face-off, he bent forward and my breath caught. That position.

The tension in his thighs. The brute strength coiled in his body.

A pulse of heat shot straight through me. I squeezed my legs together, but it only made everything slicker, hotter, messier. Fuck. I wanted him to skate off the ice, grab me by the waist, push me hard against the wall, and drag those soaked panties down with one hand.

At one point, he skated past me full-speed, and the wind of it hit my chest.

I swear my clit throbbed. Hard. Like it knew exactly who was out there and exactly what he could do to me.

He scored a goal, and the crack of the puck hitting the net made me gasp. My nipples tightened instantly, pushing through my bra, brushing fabric in a way that sent another rush of heat into my dripping cunt. God, I could feel myself leaking. Actually leaking.

The buzzer went. He didn’t go to his team. He came straight for me.

He stopped so close the spray of ice hit my thighs, sticking to my heat-wet skin.

His eyes dragged down my body, slow, hungry, knowing.

Like he could see everything - the flush on my cheeks, the way my chest rose too fast, the way my hand was gripping the glass because my knees were starting to weaken.

He leaned forward on his stick. Helmet still on. Cage between us. Voice low enough to melt every last bit of restraint I had.

“You’re wet,” he growled. Not a question. A statement. He fucking knew. I swallowed. “Dripping.” His breath hitched - almost unnoticeable, but I felt it like a spark straight to my clit. “Show me,” he said. My heart slammed. “Not here.”

That smirk! Fuck. That filthy, cocky smirk he gets when he’s already decided what he’s going to do to me. “Changeroom,” he said. “On your knees. Panties off. Ready for my cock the second I walk in.” My whole body tightened. My cunt clenched so hard I almost whimpered. “All right,” I whispered, voice shaking with want. “I’ll be waiting. Wet and open for you.”

He pushed off backward, eyes locked on mine, like he was skating away from me only because he wanted me desperate by the time he got there.

And he got his way. I was already shaking. Already dripping...already his.