Chapter Text
She swore practice was never going to come to an end. The rest of the team had long departed, but she had been requested to stay behind, courtesy of their head coach.
Alex felt her hips screaming and hamstrings biting. The frigid air of the arena, compounded with the merciless layer of ice seemed to penetrate each bit clinging to her body. She shivered, despite the thick breezers wrapped around her hips and thighs. The chest pad protecting her torso. The pads blocking her legs from assault. The gloves snuggled comfortably around her hands. The closed cell foam usually blocked the chill which clung to every surface, but today, Alex couldn't stay warm. Her black base layer betrayed her, the breath stealing air seeping inside, hugging her lungs and heart before slithering up her throat with its icy tendrils.
“Fucking pain in the ass,” she muttered as her opponent lined up, stick resting comfortably in raven covered hands. Maybe it was the company. Their forward, David Seigel, exercised great restraint as the irritation lingered just beneath the surface. He slightly shook his head at Alex who rolled her eyes. The center, Chris Stone, raised an eyebrow at this. He shot a brief look at Seigel who only shook his head.
“Koch, stop daydreaming!”
The razor sharp words snapped from her coach's lips, resonating through the empty rows of seats then echoing off the walls of the center concourse. She rolled her eyes again from behind the mask, tapping her stick in a show of defiance which only served to annoy the older man. Seigel snickered, keeping eyes trained down on the slick surface, but the burning stare directed towards him could've melted the thickest ice.
“You trying to get extra drills, Seigel? Because I can stay here all night.”
Coach Remmick Mayne, former Forward for Edmonton turned head coach after the career ending meniscus tear in Game 3 of Stanley Cup Finals. Or as Alex like to say, Coach Pain in the Ass. He had been nothing short of such, at least where her performance was concerned. Sure, he had been hard on the guys when they screwed up or made some dumb shit move, but it was her he focused his ire on. The extra drills, longer practices after the guys had finished for the day. The hardened stares of displeasure or irritation. Or both depending on his highness's mood.
“If you hadn't been daydreaming, Alexandra, that game winning goal wouldn't have slid between your damn legs into the net!”
His face darkened, intent as clear as the florescent lighting screaming down at her. Alex crouched, stick across, positioned in front. Her posture stiffened, eyes laser pointed on the rubber puck smoothly gliding towards her. Remmick had perfect control, effortless strides in each click of the blade as it cut across to the immaculate symmetry of his hips and legs, propelling him closer towards her. His cerulean rings burning in cold fury as his pace quickened, arms staying down. He was going for a close shot. Like the one that cost them the game. The shot she allowed to slide between her legs as he put it. Bastard had a way with words.
Remmick's nostrils flared, eyes meeting hers, cutting through the protective grid of her helmet. The frozen daggers pierced her chest, causing her body to shudder. Her peripheral vision catching the abrupt shift in his position, arms lifting, stick striking rubber and ice. A slap shot was it? The sharp smack of wood to rink raced through the air, puck sailing inches above. Alex's right arm instinctively shot out, glove catching rubber at 85 mph. Her eyes never straying from his, keeping track move for move. Remmick came to a stop, a fine mist gathering between them. Alex straightened, each vertebrae cracking in place. Her left arm snapped, the glove collapsing to the ice. Her free hand reached up, tugging the mask off which stood between them. Thick locks of chocolate restrained in a messy bun. Several wayward strands curled along her jaw, screaming for him to reach out and tuck them behind her ear. Her skin glistening from perspiration, casting a younger aura about her despite being 25. Alex looked small in the layers of gear, almost child like. It would've been enduring if this was college league.
“Are we done?” The usually soft Louisiana accent cutting every syllable. “Because I am.”
Remmick moved closer, jaw ticking as he bore down on his goalie. Neither budging, refusing to yield to the other. Seigel and Stone became witnesses to the battle of wills emerging. Alex straightened her posture, chin lifted until her eyes bored straight into his. Remmick matched her energy, closing the remaining space, eyes hardening, daring her to continue this little show.
“No.”
“Excuse me?” Her eyes narrowed to chilly daggers, matching his frigid intensity. Seigel and Stone were quickly forgotten as they watched them face off. They should just fuck and get it over it already, Seigel thought to himself.
“I said, no, we are not done. Your blocking is shaky. It's the hesitation in your movements. It's as if at times, you're scared of that puck, like it has goddamn teeth. What passed for blocking in the minors, doesn't mean shit here, Alexandra, in case you forgot where you are.”
Alex shifted her shoulders back and down, inches from the man who had infuriated her since the day she set skate on the ice. The hot puffs of his breath coated her face as she stood toe to toe with him.
“I haven't forgotten where I am, Coach,” she nearly spat the last word. Her rage simmering, ready to explode like a caldera. “I belong here.”
“Then prove it,” Remmick's voice dropped to a whisper despite Seigel and Stone standing over 30 feet away. “Show those fans who come to see you that you mean it. Make those dicks who wish for nothing more than to see you fail eat their words. Shows those fucks who cat call and jeer you what you're truly made of. Prove to me you're deserving to be here.”
“I fought like Hell to be here. Every game I'm having to prove myself. Why? Because I wasn't born with a goddamn dick.”
Remmick snorted. Foul words from a pretty mouth. A pretty mouth that could be put to better use. Alex rolled her eyes and shook her head. Christ, he was obnoxious.
“Fine,” Alex huffed, displeasure on full display. She grabbed her bottle, squeezing the Gatorade into her waiting mouth then slammed it on the top of the net. Her head did a quick shake as she bowed to their coach's will. “I won't quit, I'll stay.”
“Good,” Remmick gave a short nod, victorious in this the latest of their ongoing battle. “Seigel can practice his shots. His percentage at the blue line is horrible. I still don't understand how he made it past high school hockey. You will practice your butterfly until you can block every shot he makes. Stone, I want you to aim higher. Our goalie needs all the practice she can get.”
Alex huffed, wishing she could check that arrogant Irish man into the wall. Her eyes trailed him. His demeanor towards them was one that he couldn't be bothered by their supposed lackluster performances. Seigel did great on the blue line. Sure, he was small at 5'5”, but he always played his heart out every single fucking game. And yeah, he ran his mouth like it was an Olympic sport, spending more time in the penalty box than on the ice last season. His assists were the top of the team, not to mention the power play goals under his belt. Fans loved him. He never said no to an autograph or photo with a fan. Donated to every animal rescue group in the metro. To Remmick Mayne, those deeds meant shit. The man hungered for a shot in the playoffs. He longed to be back in that frenzy. The crowds going ballistic, standing when there was a breakaway shot or that game winning crossed the red line. The thrill of the hunt. He craved a win. But he wasn't going to get there with the motley crew dropped in his damn lap.
“Hey,” Seigel slid up beside her. “What the Hell's his problem today? Someone switch his coffee to decaf? Someone piss in his coffee? You piss in his coffee? Piss in his whiskey?”
“Jesus, David,” Alex groaned.
“What? It seems every time he speaks to you, he acts as if it's beneath him to be coaching a......*gasp* woman. Just because you have a set of tits and a-”
“Social time is over ladies! Seigel! Get your ass back here and start drilling or I'm benching your ass tomorrow night and putting Walker in!”
Stone snickered, but low enough their coach's ears couldn't pick it up. Remmick's voice climbed several octaves, signaling to Seigel he better heed and listen. As he skated away, he craned his head back.
“Blues City after this?”
“Damn right!” He couldn't see the grin beaming from behind the mask but felt it.
Alex smacked her stick across the front of her each shoulder, one of her little quirks. Casting a short nod in Seigel and Stone's direction, she leaned over, her stick faithfully seated in her right glove, eyes honed on the tiny but mighty frame as he picked up speed, but just enough to take his shot. The first shot she blocked, legs dropping to the ice, knees closed, deflecting the puck with the stick to the right.
Remmick kept his arms crossed, hat down low to shield his eyes as they focused on her while she dropped over and over, stick hand still but serving its purpose. Stone lobbed mid to high strikes, keeping her on her toes. One ricochet off the pipes, striking the glass to the left. Another found its way into her non-stick glove. Ever since that day the owner called him in, breaking the news they were calling Alex up from the minors. He had scoffed at the idea. A distraction is what she'd be. The goalie on roster, Adair, was doing the job just fine. It would create unwelcome scrutiny and diversion for his team.
“Mayne, she's being called up. She arrives next week. Alexandra can be rough around the edges, but she's a helluva goalie. You remember that shot she blocked in the playoffs against Lehigh Valley. Threw herself on that puck. Look, I know you're not exactly excited about this, but, you'll see. Fans are excited about this.”
“A woman is a distraction, Gill.” Remmick adamantly shook his head.
“That's your argument? She's gonna be in layers and a mask, Remmick. I wouldn't say her uniform is going to be detracting from the game. Or the players. Or is there some other reason you're against this?”
“It's not that, Gill. I looked at her record. She's shaky in the playoffs. I can't afford to have a goalie who gets the jitters when they're needed the most.”
“Which is why you're the coach that can do the job,” Gill rose from his desk. The Armani suit immaculate against his solid frame. Not a single threat out of place. His steely gaze locked on Remmick, the message clear. “Remember when you were feeling dejected after your injury? Losing that ability to be on the ice, to feel the power in the stick. I saw you still had that spark. In the last two seasons, the team has made it to the first and second rounds of the Cup playoffs. Back in your element.”
Gill's word was final and there wasn't a damn thing Remmick could say or do to get him to budge.
Remmick shook his head and lifted his gaze. Seigel was circling the goal with puck comfortably in his control; an extension of his body. Alex gliding left then right, following her partner, looking more like she was floating across the frigid surface. Her arms leveling without thought, legs shutting like a gate, blocking the shot.
“Denied, bitch!”
Seigel laughed, collecting the puck before trying again, flipping it with his stick with ease before returning to business. Alex relaxed in her stance, body shifting back into game mode. Her shoulders slid back, pulling away from her ears. When she got tense, those pensive shoulders would practically kiss the bottom of her mask.
“You get this shot, I'll buy you a few rounds next night we have off.”
“You're on!”
“This is gonna go well,” Stone hollered.
Alex blocked all intrusive thoughts from her mind; objective was to block those pucks. Her hips began to ache again; a common ailment among goalies. The demands of flexing, twisting and weight added to an already stressed body. Some of her favorite goalies all had the same issues. Holding the same position which strained the fallible chords of tendon and muscle. Every goalie she followed growing up experienced the same ailment. She was gonna hit the Ibuprofen hard after this.
The sudden jolt against her mask sent Alex sailing back into the net. Her arms sought purchase, only to strike the pipes before her back bounced on the ice, landing flat, face fixed on the inside of the net. The thick barriers of her gloves cushioned her wrists, keeping them firm against the pipes. A ringing began to sing in her hearing, drowning out the angered screaming coming their way.
“Stone, are you trying to fucking kill my goalie?!” Remmick hurried over, a sense of urgency settling in his gut. Stone was kneeling beside Alex, beside himself over his actions. His fingers slipping and struggling to dislodge the puck, lodged in the grid of her mask. How in the Hell did that damn thing start out parallel only to fly in a vertical direction and land where it did?
“Shit, Alex, I'm sorry!”
“Good work, Skippy,” Seigel glided behind him.
Alex sat up, silent as her mind wrapped around the fact the puck was wedged in her damn mask. She wasn't injured, just shocked. This would have definitely made it on the Sports Center reel; only, this wasn't game night. This would make for a great laugh for the rest of team though.
“Alexandra,” Remmick's knees slid along the ice, blocking the sharp jolt from his old injury, mind in damage control mode, his hands already looking her over. “Are you alright?” His tone was softer but still held firm. The deep accent prominent when he displayed any emotion. The ringing subsided, but she wasn't about to let him know that.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Stunned me more than hurt me.”
He examined the puck, seeing half of it breaching the protective barrier. His hands already moving forward, gently tugging the mask up and off her head. A part of her damned the layers which separated his fingers and her shoulder, wanting those long digits to burn across her skin. Their eyes caught in a brief exchange, an uncertain feeling traded between them; one that didn't go undetected. From beneath the bill of the black cap, deep blue seas captured in a tight pair of rings locked with cutting sapphires that sparkled against the strong lighting overhead. Alex felt a heat creeping up her neck, fanning out as blush across her cheeks. Her pulse quickening at the proximity of their bodies. His cologne danced across her nose, exciting to her senses. She couldn't put her finger on it, but the feeling rising it wasn't unwelcome. Rather, the delectable trails caused her stomach to flutter. Remmick's breath had hitched. This was the closest he had been to her since she arrived. His own uncertainty spreading out like ivy, covering his skin in a light blush.
They didn't move, a sudden shift would shatter this serene moment between them.
“Alright, practice is over for today. Go home,” Remmick abruptly withdrew without so much as another word or look, leaving Alex feeling conflicted. Her stomach churned and mind twisted. What had just happened?
“Hey, you okay down there?” Seigel was snapping his fingers inches from her face. Her gloved hand swatted his annoying fingers aside.
“Fine,” she muttered shifting her body around on her knees, Seigel helping her to her feet. He swiped her mask off the ice, puck still wedged.
“Since I got the puck in the net, you still owe me a few rounds.”
“Puck in the mask does not count as a goal, David.”
“I think it does.”
“You also think Elvis is still alive,” Stone chimed in.
“He is damn it!”
“Keep telling yourself that, David,” Alex sighed as they departed the rink.
As the trio exited the rink and towards the locker rooms, chatting about everything and anything, they were unaware of the heavy stare trailing them.
Remmick lingered in the shadows, watching them interact. Alex and Seigel were like brother and sister, trading banter and having each other's backs. Stone was there for the ride. Seigel surely has some record for having served multiple penalties for going against opposing team members who went after her: charging, holding, high sticking, hooking, slashing, elbowing, fighting major, fighting minor and kneeing. He never struck to injure, only to warn. Though, one fight had broken out which involved his goalie. Alex had been on the receiving end of a slash and her temper got the better of her. Stone and Seigel had to jump in, pulling her off the 6'3” defensive player. Fought with the tenacity of a bobcat, earning her a penalty that Stone served. She had been called for tripping Harrison a few times. Her defense had been he didn't see her stick but the coach knew better.
Wait, Remmick blinked and shook his head. His goalie? No, Alex wasn't his. Why did he entertain that? Alex was nothing more than a piece on his chessboard. A feisty chess piece. A feisty chess piece with sharp eyes that would cut him deep when the cold anger raged. Deep in an exciting way. A way that made his chest tighten and heart sprint.
He waited until the doors to the lockers rooms closed to leave. Remmick had to get out of there before his mind decided to conjure more of these sudden intrusive sentiments. An unwelcome feeling had started to take root in the lower depths of his body. One Remmick refused to entertain.
“I wish you two would fuck and get it over with.”
Alex choked on her tea, an ice cube ejected from her mouth, flying across the table, the glass clinking before landing harmlessly on the table. Seigel flashed a wide shit eating grin, his front incisor missing, compliments of last week's fight at Chicago. Stone laughed with a mouthful of meat and bread.
“Jesus, David, can you be any more obscene? I mean more than usual?”
“Please,” he leaned back in his seat. They chose to sit outside as the October weather had turned favorable in the city. The leaves were turning, gone the deep evergreen as red, yellow and orange crowned the skyline and parks. In the far distance, the Arch stood watch along the Mississippi. The Gateway to the West as it was christened.
A few fans waved and said hello as they strolled by, respecting their privacy and space.
“While you're all gussied up in your battle gear, I've seen our dear fearless leader watching you.”
“David, everyone is watching me. Whether it's practice or game day.”
“Okay, when you're coming in, all dolled up, usually in one of those power suits, I've caught him checking you out. Your hair all perfect, draped across your shoulders. That look of determination crossing your eyes as stroll by the cameras. His eyes drifting from those pent up shoulders nestled in that blazer to that little sweet ass.”
“Ewww, David.”
“I'm not the only one who's noticed.”
“I caught him sizing you up after you left the locker room during practice last week. Remember? Your hair was all damp, those boot cut jeans sitting in all the right places, accentuating EVERYTHING and the ringer tee to top it off.”
“You're both so gross,” she dug into her sandwich. The classic roast beef. Nothing short of culinary perfection. After today, this was badly needed. But the dynamic duo seated across from her were going to spoil this bit of heaven if they continued their damn antics.
“Then why are your cheeks red?” Stone playfully teased.
Alex rolled her eyes and swallowed her food before giving him the pleasure of an answer. He wasn't going to let this go.
“We just got out of practice and I took a hot shower. There, mystery solved, Sherlock.”
“Uh huh,” Seigel raised an eyebrow. “You tell yourself that.”
“Shut up and eat.”
Seigel started at his sandwich. He tried multiple delis around town but Blues City couldn't be beat. When Alex had first arrived, he brought her here. It was their go to at least once a week. On occasion, Adair would join them or maybe one of the other players. As they dined in comfortable silence, a familiar figure crossing the street caught Stone's eye.
“Jerk alert,” Stone muttered, quoting The Goonies, one of his favorite movies.
“Well, look who's coming this way,” Seigel's lips split into a devious grin. Alex cringed in her seat, not needing to look over her shoulder to see who it was. She wished she could curl up into a ball and hide at that very moment. The whiff of the familiar cedar cologne teased her nose, igniting the fluttering in her stomach once again.
“David, Christopher, Alexandra,” Remmick approached their table. He was still clad in the same pants and sweater he had on during practice along with the same black Blues cap. His hands dug deep in the pockets, gaze on table. Alex gave a short smile, averting her eyes away from the man standing inches from her. The man who danced in her subconscious when she slept. Seigel continue to beam, basking in watching her squirm in her seat. She put her glass to her lips, hoping it would block the deepening blush kissing her cheeks and neck.
“Coach,” Seigel gave an over friendly smile. “What brings you here on this beautiful October day?”
“I overheard you and Alexandra mentioning Blues City. Sounded good for a post practice meal. One of the few places I truly enjoy in the city.”
“You should join us, Coach. No need to dine alone,” Stone threw gas onto the fire, earning a death stare for his effort.
Remmick shrugged, “I don't know Christopher. I have a lot of work to do before the game tomorrow.”
“Nah, take a spell, Boss. Enjoy your meal, don't inhale it, like I know you do at your desk.”
Seigel could see the gears turning in his head. He was considering it......
Alex silently prayed he would decline.
“Very well,” Remmick's attention turned to Alex, who was slowly sipping her tea, hoping to avoid any conversation with the man. “Alexandra.”
“Sure, no need to be alone,” she felt her chest constricting at the idea, cursing Seigel and Stone in silence. “There's plenty of room.”
“Very well,” Remmick turned and headed inside, leaving Alex, Seigel and Stone alone. Once the coach was indoors, Alex's head whipped towards Seigel, nostrils flaring and eyes seething.
“You're a dead man.”
“Now what did I do? All I did was invite our coach to join us,” Seigel feigned innocence. “No need to be rude. I mean, the man is alone.”
Alex's voice dropped to a dead threat. “You goddamn know what you're doing, David.”
Seigel simply shrugged and dove back into his meal.
Several minutes later, Remmick was seated next to Alex, savoring an Italian sandwich. Her calf accidentally brushed across his, sending tiny jolts up her spine. Her face kept the stoic expression but her eyes were betraying her. Remmick didn't reveal his reaction to this discretionary contact but hoped she would “accidentally” brush her leg by his again. The metal grated chairs were tight to start with, creating this incidental intimacy. Their thighs grazed again when Alex would shift in her seat, the heat simmering between them despite the chilled October air.
“So, Chicago is gonna use their first string tomorrow night. Guess they're still smarting about being shut out of the playoffs last season. Gonna try to make us pay,” Seigel's attempt at small talk was shop talk.
“Their captain is still rather pissed about me snagging the puck and scoring that winning goal. He's gunning for me. That's the thing about hockey: grudges get donkey punched then tucked away for the next season.”
Alex slid her hand over her face as Remmick raised an eyebrow.
“You have a way with words, Stone,” their coach sighed and slowly shook his head.
“That's what my grandma told me!”
Remmick turned to Alex. She had been rather silent since he sat down. The faint pink still tinging her cheeks and across her neck in erratic splotches.
“Alexandra, you're quiet over there. Are you alright?”
No, I'm not alright. You're sitting right next to me.
Her hands slowly lowered as she swallowed what food remained in her mouth. Felt like a rock going down her throat and landing in her stomach.
“Just the game tomorrow, that's all. Can't let those goons get to me. Harrison already tried taking me out once before. Told me my ass belonged in a kitchen making him a sandwich after he slammed me against the net.”
“You didn't tell me that,” Remmick's jaw ticked and eyes lowered to angry slits. Alex felt her breath hitch at this small display.
“It was an afterthought. He's an asshole anyway. Made it clear on his thoughts about me or any female playing professional. Pearline offered to show him a Massachusetts welcome when she read that. Told her he wasn't worth the energy.”
“Still, totally uncalled for.”
The shift in his eyes speaking more than his lips. A hardness bit around the edges, something dangerous lingered in his words.
“Don't worry about me, I'm fine,” Alex dismissed the concerns. “Besides, David returned the favor.”
“Yeah, he's an assbag. I heard most of his own teammates despise him.”
“David,” Remmick sharply chided.
“No, Hossa and I caught up after the game. He's the one who told me.”
“David Seigel, team gossip queen,” Remmick rolled his eyes. Alex giggled as Seigel reveled.
“At your service, Coach.”
The remainder of the meal was in an awkward silence. Alex focused on keeping her mouth occupied with her meal. Stone and Seigel traded knowing looks between bites and drinks. Remmick kept his eyes down, anywhere but on her. Alex wanted to shrivel into a ball and disappear. From the corner of his eye, Remmick could see her fidgeting in her seat, attempting to mask any reaction to this closeness between them. The tiny crack in the side of his mouth vanished as fast as it appeared.
Alex headed for her car, thankful that tense meal was over. All she wanted was to go home and collapse in bed. Her hips were achy, but nothing that Ibuprofen, stretch bands and a heating pad couldn't subdue. As she slid in the seat and shut the door, Alex sat in the dark, mind thrust into that dangerous place. Her thoughts drew back to earlier. The way Coach's voice rumbled ominously when she mentioned what happened at the Chicago game. He didn't speak like that or carry that tone in his voice with the others. If he was worried about her well being, he could stop. She held her own just fine.
Seigel and Stone were not helping the situation. Teasing her with such juvenile observations of Remmick checking her out like some hormonal crazed teenage boy. Were they stuck in the 10th grade?
Still, his tone and words, not to mention that sultry Irish brogue went straight between her legs. No, Alex shook her head. There was a line between coach and player. That line could not be crossed, sat on or walked on. It would mean her career. Not to mention he was over a decade older than her. Her last relationship had ended horribly to say the least. Since then, Alex had not been interested in any men. Sure, she had a few one night stands but nothing solid. Hockey was her life. Tomorrow, she would suit up and show that fucker Harrison what she was made of.
She was thankful she took that ice cold shower after practice. It smothered the embers that had been threatening to become a full on fire only for those dying sparks to be reignited during dinner. It was still burning as she put her truck in gear and started down McNair towards home. A cold shower was not going to remedy this.
Remmick flopped on his sofa. Hat tossed to the side, blinds drawn, blocking the burning gaze of the setting sun. His mind darting from thought to thought, attempting to get a grasp on what exactly happened. He sank deeper into the overstuffed cushions and scrubbed a hand over his face, unsure if he was reading too much into the subtle touches and stolen glances.
“She's not my goalie,” he snapped at himself. “She. Is. Not. My. Goalie.”
He repeated the mantra, voice rising with each syllable, yet his hand was sliding down the front of his pants, the stiff bulge pressing against the zipper. His eyes slowly fluttered shut, fingers ghosting across the tent that stood prominent. The gentlest pressure forced a small gasp from his lips. A tiny twitch, an encouragement for him to continue. Abs rolling, bumping the hypersensitive bundle against his hungry fingers.
“She is not my goalie,” his hands acted on their own accord, unfastening the button and dragging the zipper down. His fingers breached the elastic waistband, his palm greeted by the solid erect member resting against the wiry bed of curls. His strong fingers fiercely gripped himself, hips lightly bucking up. Remmick's mind betrayed him, casting those deep buried fantasies of her on knees, her lips latched around him to the forefront of his mind. That wicked tongue slipping along the underside, the faint scraping of teeth. Remmick's hand and wrist quickened, pumping hard and faster, the visions of his goalie driving him mad. The living room a symphony of whimpers, pants and cries as Remmick felt the flames licking between his legs, his body teetering on the brink. How he craved for her to be the source of those sounds instead of his own. Hips rocking with a feverish pace, erratic snaps thrusting his weeping member into the calloused circle. His skin beaded with sweat, mouth dropped wider as the thick warmth spilled across his hand. His hips slowed to slow long thrusts, falling into rhythm with his hand. Remmick's mind was spinning, euphoria clouded any coherent idea or thought.
He sat there, breath hitched and pulse slowing. The evidence of his self-denial smeared on his hand and stained his boxers, cooling to a pearl tinted mess across his fingers and lower abs.
“Fuck.”
Remmick groaned and slumped in the cushions. He was gonna need a long cold shower.