Lost Her On The Ice, Now He Was Begging novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Hands Against the Wall

The general manager gives Axel six weeks, and in the Zamboni bay Kaisa pins his hands to the wall and makes him come.

On the fourth morning the general manager was waiting in the stands.

Gordon Ketterman sat alone in the first row in a camel coat, with a paper cup of coffee balanced on his knee.

He had hired me over the phone.

I had not met him in person until I came off the ice.

"Ms. Lindqvist." His voice was soft, almost kind. "I hear the captain's first step is already two tenths faster."

"One tenth," I said. "Maybe a bit more."

"Still. Remarkable." He smiled at Axel, who had stopped at the boards behind me with his chest heaving. "Six weeks, Axel. Trade deadline is the twenty-eighth of February. If your numbers aren't where they were before the knee, I'll move you to whoever will take your contract."

"I know the date, sir."

"I hope you do. It would be a shame for a captain to finish his career somewhere warm."

He looked at me then.

It was a short, pleasant look, and it went straight through me.

"I trust old friends work well together," he said.

I did not tell him we weren't friends.

I said, "We're making progress," and he nodded and left, and the smell of his coffee stayed behind.

Axel's hand closed on my elbow.

"He wants me gone," he said, low.

"I know."

"He hired you because he thinks you'll finish me."

"I know that too," I said. "So I guess I'm going to have to be better at this than he thinks."

I pulled my arm free.

I did not let go of his eyes.

"Zamboni bay," I said. "Two minutes. Don't ask why."

The bay was a long, damp garage at the back of the building.

The big resurfacer sat parked in the corner under a yellow light.

The driver left at seven.

I had checked the schedule on the first day.

I heard the door close behind Axel and the bolt slide shut.

I turned around.

He stood just inside, in his practice pants and an undershirt that clung to him.

He looked at me the way he had in the skate room, waiting to be told what he'd get.

"Against the wall," I said.

He went.

He put his back against the cold cinder block.

"Hands over your head. Palms flat."

He lifted his arms and set his hands against the wall above him.

The stretch pulled the undershirt up and showed me a strip of his stomach, ridged and dark with hair.

I stepped in until I was an inch from him.

"You move them," I said, "and I stop."

"I won't."

"I know you won't."

I put my palm flat on his stomach, under the cotton, and felt his abs flinch.

I dragged my hand down.

At the waistband I stopped and looked up at him.

He had his head tipped back against the wall and his eyes shut.

His throat worked.

"Look at me," I said.

His eyes opened.

I unzipped him.

I'd seen him a thousand times, and I still had to bite back a sound.

He was hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip.

When I pulled the waistband of his briefs down, he sprang free against my wrist.

He hissed through his teeth.

"Kaisa."

"Eyes on me."

I wrapped my fingers around him.

He was so hot I felt it in my teeth.

I stroked him slowly from base to head, with a firm grip, and his hips jerked toward my hand before he could stop them.

"Ah," he said. "Fuck."

"Hands."

He pressed them flat against the wall again, fingers curled.

I took my time.

I'd had a lot of time to remember what he liked.

A twist at the top.

A tighter squeeze at the base.

My thumb across the slit, spreading the wet, until the head slid slick under my palm and his breath came out in short, shaking pulls.

"Please," he said. "Please touch me."

"I am touching you."

"Let me touch you."

"No."

"Kaisa, I'm begging you."

"I like it," I said. "Keep going."

His laugh was a ragged, desperate thing.

"You always did," he said.

"Shut up."

I sped up my hand.

The wet sound of it filled the bay, filthy and loud against the concrete.

His thighs shook.

His knuckles had gone white against the wall, and his head was back, and the cords in his neck stood out.

He said my name over and over.

He said please.

He said, "I'll do anything you want," and I believed him, and that was a terrible thing to believe.

"Look at me when you come," I said.

He did.

His eyes were wet, and fixed on mine, and the moment he went over, his whole face broke open.

He came in hard, hot pulses across my wrist and over his stomach, groaning low in his chest.

His hips kept driving into my hand until he was spent.

I worked him through it.

Gently, until he flinched.

When I let go, he sagged against the wall, panting, his hands still obediently flat above his head.

I wiped my wrist on his undershirt.

"You can put your arms down," I said.

He did.

He didn't zip up.

He reached for my waist, and then stopped, and held his hands out, palms open.

I stepped into them.

I don't know why.

His arms came around me, big and trembling, and he put his face in my braid.

"I wasn't supposed to leave that bench," he said.

I went rigid.

"That night," he said into my hair. "I wasn't supposed to leave it."

"Who told you?"

"I can't. Not yet."

I pushed back out of his arms.

I had been so careful, and my voice still cracked.

"That's not an answer."

"I know."

"Then you better find one," I said, "before I stop being this patient."

I left him in the Zamboni bay with his pants open and his heart showing on his face.

Outside, the sun was coming up over the parking lot.

I stood in it and shook.

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