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„Du warst so ein braves Mädchen. Jetzt komm.“ Er hat nie nach Bildern gefragt. Hat mir nie seinen Namen gesagt. Er hat mir einfach nur gesagt, was ich tun soll—wie ich mich berühren soll, wann ich aufhören soll, wie ich atmen soll. Und ich habe zugehört. Jedes einzelne Mal 😮‍💨. Ich sollte doch klug sein. Kontrolliert. Perfekt. Aber unter seinem Befehl war ich nichts als Verlangen und Hitze und Bedürfnis. Er ließ mich mich sicher fühlen im Loslassen. Bis zu dem Tag, an dem ich meinen bewerteten Ordner öffnete und mein Höschen zwischen den Seiten fand… und aufsah, nur um meinen Professor dabei zu erwischen, wie er mir zusah, während ich zerbrach 🔥. Kapitel 1 [Sichtweise Sophie] „Ahh…“ Das Geräusch entweicht meinen Lippen, bevor ich es zurückhalten kann. Ein Stöhnen. Sanft. Getimt. Abgemessen. Fast wie ein Reflex. Nicht, weil ich etwas fühle. Nicht, weil ich es will. Sondern, weil ich es soll. Ethans Gewicht drückt auf mich, seine Brust feucht an meiner, seine Stöße mechanisch wie ein Körper im Autopilot. Er beginnt immer langsam, als glaube er, es würde sich zu etwas aufbauen – tut es nie. Der Raum ist dunkel, aber ich halte die Augen offen, fixiere den Deckenventilator über uns, während er knarrend langsame Kreise dreht. Ich versuche, die Umdrehungen zu zählen. Alles, um mich zu erden. Ich denke nicht an Ethan. Ich denke an meinen Vibrator – den rosafarbenen, den ich in meiner Sockenschublade verstecke. Ich denke daran, wie es sich anfühlt, wenn ich es selbst mache. Wenn ich die Kontrolle habe. Wenn niemand über mir keucht, als würde er eine Stechuhr bedienen. Ethan stöhnt, tief und müde, und verlagert sein Gewicht. Missionarstellung. Immer Missionarstellung. Er versucht nie etwas anderes. Ich kenne diesen Rhythmus wie meine Westentasche. Quarterback-Rhythmus. Vorhersehbar. Alles Kraft, keine Finesse. Früher war er der Goldjunge unserer Highschool – Letterman-Jacke, Grübchenkinn, stolze Eltern auf den Tribünen. Und ich war wohl das kluge Mädchen, das an seinem Arm gut aussah. Wir sind seit der elften Klasse zusammen. Damals schien das genug. Gewollt werden. Ausgewählt werden. Aber jetzt? Jetzt liege ich reglos da, starre ausdruckslos, während er sein Ding macht, in dem Wissen, dass ich nicht kommen werde. Wieder einmal. Es ist seit Jahren so. Ich will schon seit einer Weile mit ihm Schluss machen, aber er ist so… vertraut. Seine Stimme, seine Hände, sogar der Geruch seines Parfums – irgendwas von Axe, immer ein bisschen zu stark. Ich hasse Veränderungen. Schon immer. Aber heute Nacht versuche ich es. Ich umfasse sein Kinn und spüre, wie sich dort Schweiß sammelt. „Schatz, kannst du... ein bisschen härter?“ flüstere ich. Er antwortet nicht. Bewegt sich einfach weiter, wie ein verdammtes Metronom. „Was, wenn wir...“ Ich winde mich unter ihm, winkle meine Hüften an, versuche, ihn zu lenken. „... es mal von hinten versuchen?“ Er hält inne. Nur für einen Moment. Dann, mit einem kurzen Schnauben: „Nein. Warum an etwas rütteln, das funktioniert?“ Mein Magen zieht sich zusammen. Funktioniert für wen? Ich beiße mir auf die Lippe, bemühe mich, nicht zu seufzen. „Klar. Ja.“ Ich versuche, die Stimme in meinem Kopf zum Schweigen zu bringen. Die, die ihn immer mit den Männern in den Büchern vergleicht, die ich heimlich unter der Bettdecke lese. Bücher, in denen das Mädchen gegen die Wand gedrückt wird, immer wieder heftig kommt und dabei seinen Namen keucht. Wo Kontrolle eine Waffe ist und Hingabe verdient werden muss. Ich sage mir, ich soll aufhören, diesen Mist zu lesen. Diese düsteren Liebesromane sind Fantasie. Fiktion. Sogar gefährlich. Aber Gott, wenigstens lassen sie mich etwas fühlen. Ich presse meine Hand gegen seine Brust, um ihn zu stabilisieren. Er grunzt, genervt. „Was jetzt?“ Ich zögere, bevor ich schließlich sage: „Was, wenn du... mich würgen würdest?“ Er hält inne. Eiskalt. „Also, nicht fest“, füge ich schnell hinzu, meine Stimme ganz klein. „Nur ein bisschen. Das ist so ein Ding. Manche machen das manchmal...“ Schweigen. Dann verzieht sich sein Gesicht vor Ekel. „Was zum Teufel stimmt nicht mit dir?“, sagt er scharf, zieht sich mit einem schmatzenden Geräusch aus mir zurück und rollt sich von meinem Körper, als wäre ich ansteckend. Ich blinzele ihn an, wie vor den Kopf geschlagen. Meine Hände tasten hektisch nach dem Laken, bedecken meine Brust, obwohl wir das schon hundertmal gemacht haben. „Ethan—“ „Du hast gerade echt die Stimmung gekillt“, sagt er und greift nach seinem Handy auf dem Nachttisch. „Willst du jetzt beim Sex misshandelt werden? Jesus, Soph.“ „Ich habe nicht ‚misshandelt‘ gesagt“, murmele ich. „Es ist... es ist nur so ein Kink, weißt du. Es ist nicht so—“ „Oh, also stehst du jetzt auf so abgefuckten Scheiß?“, unterbricht er mich und steht auf. „Was, willst du jetzt, dass ich dir ins Gesicht schlage? Dir in den Mund spucke? Soll ich dich gleich noch eine verdammte Schlampe nennen?“ Die Vorstellung, dass Ethan das wirklich mit mir macht, hat mich gerade feucht werden lassen. Scheiße. „Das habe ich nicht gemeint“, flüstere ich und schrumpfe in mich zusammen. Meine Wangen brennen. „Gott, deshalb schaue ich keinen Porno mit dir“, schneidet er mich ab und beginnt auf und ab zu gehen. „Du bekommst diese Ideen in deinen Kopf von TikTok oder irgendeinem billigen Schmuddelbuch, von dem du denkst, ich weiß nicht, dass du es liest, und plötzlich soll ich was—dich dominieren?“ „Ich...“ Ich klammere mich fester an das Laken. „Ich komme in letzter Zeit selten, Ethan. Ich dachte vielleicht—“ „Wow.“ Er wirbelt herum. „Also ist das jetzt meine Schuld?“ „Nein! Ich habe nicht—“ „Du hast Probleme“, fährt er mich an. „Vielleicht solltest du mal darüber nachdenken, warum du überhaupt auf so einen Scheiß stehst.“ Die Worte treffen wie Eiswasser. Ich sitze da, nackt und bloßgestellt, und sehe zu, wie er seine Boxershorts vom Boden aufhebt. Sein Rücken ist mir jetzt zugewandt, die Schultern angespannt, voller verletztem Stolz. „Ich stehe auf gar nichts“, sage ich, kaum hörbar. „Ich versuche nur herauszufinden, warum ich nichts fühle.“ Er erstarrt mitten im Schritt und seine Stimme wird gefährlich leise. „Nichts?“ Ich sollte zurückrudern. Mich entschuldigen. Es wieder gut machen wie immer. Aber irgendwas reißt in mir. „Nichts“, wiederhole ich, diesmal lauter. „Drei Jahre, Ethan. Die letzten verdammten drei Jahre habe ich es nur vorgetäuscht, weil du mich nie gefragt hast, ob es mir überhaupt Spaß macht.“ Langsam dreht er sich um. Sein Gesicht ist ein Sturm. „Also hast du mich die ganze Zeit belogen?“ „Hast du dich selbst belogen?“, schieße ich zurück und überrasche uns beide. „Hast du wirklich geglaubt, diese kleinen theatralischen Stöhner wären echt? Dass ich jedes Mal exakt nach zwei Minuten wie ein Uhrwerk komme?“ Sein Kiefer arbeitet. „Du benimmst dich wie eine Zicke.“ „Nein, ich bin ehrlich. Endlich.“ Ich stehe auf, halte immer noch das Laken fest. „Weißt du, woran ich denke, wenn wir Sex haben?“ Er antwortet nicht. „An meine Einkaufsliste. An meine Soziologie-Hausarbeit, die ich bis Montag abgeben muss. Ob ich das Glätteisen ausgemacht habe.“ Meine Stimme wird stärker. „An buchstäblich alles, außer an dich!“ „Fick dich, Sophie.“ „Hast du schon. Wie immer schlecht.“ Die Stille dehnt sich zwischen uns wie ein Abgrund. Er starrt mich an, als hätte ich einen zweiten Kopf bekommen. Als ob das Mädchen, das jahrelang nachgiebig und lieb war, plötzlich Fangzähne hätte. „Weißt du was?“, sagt er und zieht sich seine Jeans an. „Du hast recht. Das ist total beschissen. Wir sind total beschissen.“ „Endlich etwas, worin wir uns einig sind.“ Er schnappt sich mit scharfen, wütenden Bewegungen seine Schlüssel von meiner Kommode. „Ruf mich nicht an.“ „War auch nicht vor.“ Die Tür knallt so heftig zu, dass meine Bilderrahmen klirren. Wird sie jemals jemanden finden, der wirklich weiß, was sie will? 🤔 Lies Bitte härter, Professor, jetzt! 🔥

I was supposed to be the straight one. The angry one. The broken one. The son of a closeted gay man rotting in a prison cell. I spent twenty-one years making sure I'd never become my father. Then my mother married Cade Ellory's father. Five girlfriends couldn't fix me. Two ED pills couldn't fix me. The girl on Tinder I'd been sexting for two weeks couldn't fix me. The only thing that's ever made my body work is the stepbrother who's hated me since high school — and who got hard the first time I beat him bloody on a bathroom floor. The bathroom we now share doesn't fully lock. Read Hurt Me Like You Need Me now 🔥

"We're both drunk. And your first time… Fuck, Adison… Your first time shouldn't be because I'm jealous and possessive and completely out of control." "What if that's exactly what I want?" "Adison," His voice cracked. "What are you—" "Showing you what I want." Third button. Fourth. "Since apparently words aren't working." The shirt fell open. Burgundy lace underneath—that bra I'd packed thinking I'd never have reason to wear it. Guess I'd been wrong about that. His eyes went dark. Pupils blown wide. Breath coming faster. I trailed my fingers down my stomach. Slid them under the hem of my skirt, and watched his control fracture in real-time. I let my nails scrape lightly over my skin, teasing, like I was just stretching—but we both knew better. My skirt was already bunched up around my thighs, and I caught the exact moment Jake’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His veins popping like he was trying to strangle the damn thing instead of driving it. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice rough like gravel scraped raw. His jaw clenched, eyes darting to me for a split second before focusing back on the road. “You’re killing me…” “Good,” I purred, sliding my hand lower, between my legs. “Maybe you deserve it.” My thighs parted just enough to give him a glimpse, the barest flash of my lace panties, damp and clinging to me. He groaned, a sound so fucking primal it sent a shiver down my spine. I let my thighs fall open completely and my fingers dipped beneath the lace, brushing against my slick folds. I gasped softly, just loud enough for him to hear, and watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. “Princess…” he hissed, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“Does it bother you,” he asked, “when I touch someone else?” I had a girlfriend. He knew that 😔. And yet Blaze watched me like I already belonged to him. When I kissed her, it wasn’t desire—it was defiance. And he saw right through it 😡🔥. The jealousy in his eyes scared me… because part of me wanted it. Wanted him to care. Wanted him to fight for me the way no one ever has 🖤. I was supposed to be straight. Supposed to be normal. But nothing feels right when he’s near ❤️‍🔥. Chapter 1 Asher’s POV The transfer students file into the arena one by one, and I couldn't care less about any of them. My skates are already laced, my stick taped fresh this morning, and my mind locked on one thing only—the captain title I've been chasing for three goddamn years. Coach Wellington hinted that today's scrimmage would seal the deal. Three years of six AM practices, bloody knuckles, and muscles screaming for mercy. Three years of being the first one on the ice and the last one off. This is my moment, and nothing is going to take it from me. I stretch my shoulders, rolling the tension from my neck, when a laugh cuts through the noise. Not just any laugh. A laugh I'd recognize anywhere, even after all this time. My heart slams to a stop. I turn, and there he is. Blaze Wilson. Messy hair falling into warm brown eyes, that same easy confidence radiating off him in waves. Taller now, broader in the shoulders, but unmistakably him. The boy who learned to skate because I dragged him onto frozen ponds when we were ten. The boy who cried when his family announced they were moving across the country. "Promise me we'll meet on the same ice again someday." His hand was gripping mine so tight it hurted. "Promise me, Ash." I promised. I meant every word. For years, that promise fueled me through brutal mornings and aching muscles. Every time I wanted to quit, I remembered his face. I never imagined it would come true like this. Blaze walking into my arena, wearing my school's colors, grinning at me across the rink. "Ash! It’s you!" He closes the distance between us in long strides, and his face breaks into that smile I remember. The one that used to make everything feel okay. "Told you we'd end up here!" My chest floods with something warm and unfamiliar. My best friend is back. We're finally on the same team, same ice, same dream. "Blaze." His name feels strange on my tongue after so long. "I can't believe you're actually here. When did you… How—" "Transferred last week. Wanted to surprise you." He throws an arm around my shoulders, squeezing briefly. His grip is stronger than I remember. "Missed you, man. We've got a lot of catching up to do. You have no idea how long I've waited for this." I want to grab him, ask about everything I've missed, tell him how much those childhood memories carried me through lonely nights when hockey felt pointless. The words pile up in my throat, but before I can say anything, Coach Wellington's whistle pierces the air. "Alright, listen up!" His voice echoes through the arena, cutting through conversations. "Today's scrimmage determines your positions going forward. I need to see what you're made of. Everyone on the ice in five!" The transfer students scramble to gear up. Blaze squeezes my shoulder one more time before stepping back, that grin still plastered on his face. "See you out there, Ash. Try to keep up." I watch him go, something uneasy stirring in my gut. Try to keep up. What does that mean? He's competing for captain too? The scrimmage starts, and I throw myself into every play with everything I have. This is what I've trained for. Every drill, every sacrifice, every moment of pain—it all comes down to this. I push harder, faster, determined to prove I deserve that C on my jersey. Then I noticed Blaze. He moves across the ice with a fluidity that makes my stomach drop. Every pivot, every shot, every defensive read comes to him effortlessly. Naturally. The techniques I spent years mastering through blood and repetition, he executes without even trying. I steal the puck from a defender and drive toward the goal, legs pumping, vision tunneled on the net. But Blaze appears out of nowhere, checking me clean off my line with a hit that rattles my bones. The puck lands on his stick, and three seconds later, it's buried in the back of the net. "Nice try." He skates past me, close enough that I catch the scent of his cologne beneath the ice and sweat. He winks. "Almost had me there." My jaw tightens so hard my teeth ache. Almost. The story of my goddamn life. The scrimmage continues, and every minute makes it clearer. Blaze isn't just good—he's extraordinary. He reads the game three moves ahead, anticipates passes before they happen, commands the ice without raising his voice. The other players gravitate toward him instinctively, following his calls, trusting his decisions. I trained for years to be this good. Sacrificed parties, relationships, sleep. And he just... is. By the time Coach blows the final whistle, my lungs burn and my legs shake. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking through my jersey. But the physical exhaustion is nothing compared to the cold dread pooling in my chest. "Gather around!" Coach Wellington waits until we form a loose circle. His eyes scan the group, landing briefly on me before moving to Blaze. "Solid performance today. Exactly what I needed to see." I straighten my spine, ignoring the tremor in my muscles. This is it. Everything I've worked for. "We need a new captain who can take us to championships," Coach continues, his voice carrying across the silent arena. "Someone who can lead on and off the ice. Someone the team will follow into battle." My heart pounds against my ribs. Three years. Three years of being overlooked, of waiting my turn, of proving myself over and over. "Based on today's performance..." Coach pauses, and the silence stretches. "Blaze Wilson will lead this team." The words hit me square in the chest, knocking the air from my lungs. For a moment, I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything except stare at the ice beneath my skates while the arena spins around me. All teammates clap and cheer. Someone slaps Blaze on the back. He accepts it all with that easy grace, nodding to the team, smiling that perfect golden-boy smile. Then his eyes find mine across the circle. He winks. Actually winks, as if this is just another game we're playing. Maybe for him it is. I search his face for something—an apology, hesitation, acknowledgment that he just took everything from me. But there's nothing. Just confidence. Just that charm that everyone falls for without question. The warmth I felt earlier twists into something bitter. Something sharp and ugly that digs between my ribs and refuses to let go. "Ash!" Blaze skates toward me, still grinning. "We should celebrate later, yeah? Captain's gotta buy the first round, right? Let me take you out, catch up properly. It's been way too long, man." I stare at him. At this boy who learned to love hockey because I loved it. Who promised we'd share the same ice someday. Who just waltzed back into my life and stole the only dream I had left without breaking a sweat. My hands curl into fists at my sides. The childhood friend I missed for years suddenly feels like a stranger wearing a familiar face. Like an enemy. "Congratulations, Captain." The words come out flat. Dead. Nothing like how I imagined this reunion would go. Blaze's smile falters, confusion flickering in his brown eyes. "Wait, wh– Ash, come on. Don't be like that. We're on the same team now. Isn't this what we always wanted?" What we wanted. As if anything about this is what I wanted. "I have to go." I turn before he can see what's cracking behind my eyes. "Early class tomorrow." "Ash, wait—!" But I'm already walking away, the sound of his voice chasing me across the arena. I don't look back. If I do, he might see it—the devastation, the betrayal. The bitter realization that promises made at ten years old mean nothing when natural talent trumps years of sacrifice. Chapter 2 Asher’s POV Sleep doesn't come that night. By morning, I give up trying. The arena is empty at five AM. Just me, the ice, and the echo of my skates cutting through silence. I've been here for an hour already, running drills until my muscles scream and my lungs burn with cold air. If I can't be captain, I'll be undeniable. I'll be so damn good they'll have no choice but to finally notice me. My stick connects with puck after puck, sending them into the net with satisfying thuds. Sweat drips down my spine despite the chill. This is what separates me from everyone else—while they sleep, or party, or fuck, I work. Yesterday replays in my head on a loop. Coach's voice announcing Blaze as captain. The way my stomach dropped. The way Blaze winked at me across the circle, oblivious to the devastation written across my face. The doors bang open around six-thirty, and voices flood the space. I don't look up. Don't acknowledge the teammates filing in, the shuffle of gear bags, the lazy morning chatter. I focus on my form, my speed, my precision. Everything I can control. Then I hear him. Blaze's laugh carries across the rink, warm and easy, and my jaw tightens on instinct. I glance over despite myself. He's surrounded by teammates already, slapping shoulders, cracking jokes, radiating that effortless charm that makes people gravitate toward him. One day as captain and he owns the room. I turn back to my drills, grip tightening on my stick. Skates whisper across the ice behind me. Close. Too close. "Nice moves," he says. The way he says it—slow, deliberate—makes something twist in my gut. I ignore it. "Don't you have a team to lead, Captain?" "I'm leading right now." He tilts his head, studying me with those warm brown eyes. "Showing up early to check on my hardest-working player." "I don't need checking on." "Sure you don't." His grin widens. "That's why you've been out here since before dawn, running the same drills over and over. Totally normal behavior." "It's called dedication. You should try it sometime." "Ouch." He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt. "That one actually stung, Ash." Coach Wellington's whistle saves me. We gather at center ice, and I position myself as far from Blaze as possible. It doesn't matter. I feel his gaze on me the entire time Coach explains today's formations. The drills are brutal. Exactly what I need. I throw myself into every play, pushing harder than anyone else. But Blaze matches me at every turn. Faster. Smoother. Reading the ice three moves ahead while I'm still processing the first. "Partner drills!" Coach bellows. "Carpenter, Wilson—you're together." My stomach drops. Blaze skates over, looking far too pleased. "Lucky me." "Shut up and run the drill." We move through the formations, bodies forced into close proximity. Pass, receive, pivot, repeat. His stick brushes mine. Our shoulders collide on a turn. Every point of contact sends unwanted awareness sparking through my nerves. During a brief pause, Blaze leans in. His breath ghosts against my ear, warm in the frozen air. "Why do you tense up? Every time I get close." I jerk back, pulse spiking. "I'm not—" "Relax, Ash." His voice drops lower, teasing, almost intimate. "I don't bite. Unless you ask nicely." Heat crawls up my neck. "Touch me again and I'll break your stick over your head." Something sparks in his eyes—not anger, but delight. "You can try. But we both know you'd fail." That's it. I slam my shoulder into his as I skate past, hard enough to make him stumble backward. Childish? Maybe. Satisfying? Absolutely. His laugh chases me across the ice. "There he is. Missed that fire!" I don't respond. Can't respond. Because if I open my mouth, I'll say something that reveals how much he gets under my skin. The rest of practice passes in a blur. By the time Coach calls it, my body aches and my mind is in chaos. In the locker room, I peel off my gear in silence. Around me, teammates cluster around Blaze. Everyone hangs on his every word, captivated. One day. That's all it took for him to become everyone's favorite person. Three years of me building respect on this team, and he waltzed in and surpassed it without trying. I grab my bag and escape. The cold air outside hits my face, and I exhale slowly. “Rough day, baby?” I turn. Amelia stands by the entrance, bundled in her oversized jacket, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. "Something like that." I close the distance, and she rises to press a kiss to my cheek. "Want to talk about it?" "Not really." She doesn't push. That's one of the things I appreciate about my girlfriend—she knows when to let things go. Her fingers thread through mine, and for a moment the chaos in my head quiets. I have this. I have her. I don't need Blaze's friendship or approval. We start walking toward the parking lot. She's talking about something—her classes, maybe—but my mind drifts. "Ash." She tugs my hand, pulling me to a stop beside her car. "You haven't heard a word I said, have you?" "Sorry. Just tired." She sighs, stepping closer, arms looping around my neck. "You're always tired lately." Her fingers play with the hair at my nape. "You know how long it's been since we've actually spent time together? Real time?" "I know. I'm sorry." "Three weeks, Ash." She rises on her toes, lips brushing my jaw. "Three weeks since you've touched me properly. I miss you." Her voice drops. "I miss your hands on me. Miss feeling you against me." She kisses me—soft at first, then deeper. I kiss her back because that's what I'm supposed to do. Because she's my girlfriend and she's beautiful and any normal guy would be dragging her into the backseat right now. But my mind won't quiet. Won't stop replaying brown eyes tracking me across the ice. I pull back gently. "I'm really tired today, Ames. Practice was brutal." Disappointment flickers across her face. "It's always practice." "I know." I press a kiss to her forehead. "After the season settles down, I promise. I'll make it up to you." "You mean after you figure out whatever's going on with the new transfer?" She says it lightly, but there's an edge underneath. I freeze. "What?" "Blaze." She tilts her head. "You've mentioned his name like six times since he got here. More than you've talked about anyone on the team in three years." "Because he's annoying. He stole my captain position. Of course I'm going to talk about him." "Mm-hmm." She doesn't look convinced. "Just don't let him get in your head, okay?" "He's not in my head." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "If you say so." She drives off. I stand alone in the parking lot, her words echoing. You've mentioned his name like six times. Have I? Maybe I've been so focused on how much he irritates me that I haven't noticed how much space he's taking up in my thoughts. Then I feel it. That prickling awareness at the back of my neck. I glance over my shoulder. Blaze stands at the arena doors, arms crossed, still in his practice gear. He's not smiling anymore. That easy charm is stripped away, replaced by something I can't read. Something that makes my chest tight and my throat dry. Our eyes lock. One heartbeat. Two. I force myself to turn away. Walk to my car. Don't look back. But I feel his gaze burning into my back the entire way. I tell myself I don't care what Blaze thinks. Tell myself that look meant nothing. I'm still telling myself that hours later, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by brown eyes that see too much. What starts as a stolen title turns into a rivalry that refuses to stay professional. 😈 Read Score Me, Captain now! 🧊

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