DIRTY LITTLE ROOMMATE: Claimed by the Hockey Captain

"Ah!" My hips snap upward, arching off the mattress as a hot, wet mouth slams hard against my soaking p***y. The heavy, distorted bass of a Chase Atlantic track thumps in the back of my mind, slow and sensual, perfectly syncing with the rhythm of his tongue sliding deep into my slick folds. He grips my thighs with bruising force, his palms digging into my skin, claiming me with a grip that promises permanent marks. "f**k," I gasp, my voice breaking as I hook my fingers into his dark hair, yanking his head closer until I’m squirming uselessly against his lips. He eats me out like a starving animal, his tongue flicking relentlessly against my c**t, swallowing every sharp, humiliated moan I let out. When he finally drags his face up my stomach, his lips are glistening with my juices. He smirks—that arrogant, dangerous tilt of his mouth—and those piercing hazel-grey eyes lock onto mine, stripping me bare. I snap my eyes open. My chest heaves as I stare wildly at the cracked white ceiling of my bedroom. The heavy bass vanishes, replaced by the quiet, annoying hum of my space heater. Slowly, the reality of my body sets in. My inner thighs are burning. My shirt is bunched up around my waist, and my underwear is soaked, clinging to my skin with embarrassing evidence of what just happened. I roll onto my side, bury my face into my pillow, and let out a long, muffled groan. "f**k my life," I curse into the cotton. This is the fourth time this week. Four nights in a row of my brain betraying me with the exact same filthy scenario. And the worst part? It’s always him. My roommate. I drag myself out of bed before my mind can replay his smirk again. I head straight into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and turn the shower dial all the way to freezing cold. I stand under the icy spray, shivering until the throb between my legs finally dulls to a manageable ache. Twenty minutes later, dressed in an oversized black pullover and denim jeans, I pull my hair up with a claw clip and step out into the hallway. The apartment is quiet and the air smells like clean laundry, cedar wood, and fresh coffee. I walk into our tiny kitchen and stop at the counter. Resting on a paper towel is a plate covered in aluminum foil, alongside a sticky note written in lazy handwriting: Eat up. I lift the foil. Two scrambled eggs and two crispy strips of turkey bacon, cooked just the way I like them. It’s his turn on the breakfast rotation today. Despite his arrogant attitude, the guy actually knows how to cook. I eat standing up, jamming my AirPods into my ears and letting Maroon 5's Sugar blast at maximum volume to drown out the lingering memory of his phantom mouth on my skin. By 11:00 AM, I’m sitting in the back row of my Media Communications lecture, staring blindly at the professor’s slideshow presentation. My notebook is open, but instead of taking notes on digital PR strategies, I’m just tracing random ink lines onto the margins, completely out of it. "You look like you got hit by a bus," my friend Lia whispers, leaning over from the desk next to mine. "Thanks, Lia. Appreciate the love," I mutter, pulling my sweater sleeves over my hands. When class finally ends, we step out into the chilly autumn air. Lia and our other friend, Maya, fall into step beside me as we head across the brick quad. I bite the inside of my cheek, unable to keep the question locked in my head any longer. "Hey... quick hypothetical question for you guys." Maya glances up from her phone. "I love hypotheticals. Shoot." "If you keep having... intense, explicit dreams about someone you see every single day, what does that mean?" I keep my voice flat, like I’m asking about a boring science theory. "Is it just a psychological glitch, or does it mean your brain is trying to tell you something?" Lia stops in her tracks. A wild, evil grin spreads across her face. "Explicit dreams? As in wet dreams, Rhea?" "It’s a hypothetical," I lie instantly, feeling heat crawl up the back of my neck. "Bullshit!" Maya laughs, elbowing me hard in the ribs. "Rhea Davis is having dirty dreams! Who is he? Is it someone from our department? Is it that guy with the arm tattoo from the library?" "No one," I deflect quickly, picking up my pace to hide my flushed cheeks. "Forget I asked. It was literally just a weird sleep study I read online." We turn the corner toward the center of campus, heading past the Golden Spoon Cafe. Even in the freezing weather, a small crowd of girls is gathered near the outdoor patio, giggling and whispering among themselves. I don't even need to look to know why they're standing there, but my eyes betray me anyway. Standing in the middle of the crowd, leaning casually against a brick pillar with a black coffee cup in his hand, is Carter Fitzroy, forward of the ice hockey team. Beside him is Sebastian Russo but everyone calls him Bass, the team's star goalie, who is grinning and showing Carter something on his phone while two sophomore girls hang on his every word. Carter is the senior co-captain of the Kingsley hockey team, and on this campus, he might as well be royalty. He’s built like a brick wall—broad shoulders, a wide chest, and long, muscular legs that look lethal on the ice. He’s wearing his dark green Kingsley athletic jacket over a gray hoodie, his messy dark brown hair swept back lazily. His jawline is sharp, shadowed by a light dusting of stubble, and his eyes look unbothered by the girls swooning around him, yet he has that signature smirk plastered to his face. He looks untouchable. Drop-dead gorgeous, arrogant, and out of reach for anyone who isn't in his inner circle. "God, Fitzroy is literally a hottie," Lia sighs, clutching her textbooks to her chest as we walk past the patio. "Look at him. I swear, if he even looked in my direction, I’d lose my mind. Imagine what a guy like that does to a girl behind closed doors." I keep my head down, staring straight ahead at the pavement, my jaw clenched. You have no idea, my brain whispers against my will. By 4:00 PM, my feet are sore, and my mind is fried. All I want is to lie down in my bed, turn off the lights, and rot in peace. I pull out my keys and unlock the wooden door to off-campus apartment 3B. The old brick building on Oak Street is quiet this time of day, tucked away in an alley far enough from campus to keep us invisible. The moment I step inside, the familiar scent of clean cotton and cedar wood wraps around me. The low hum of the television echoes from the living room. I drop my tote bag onto the entryway bench and kick off my sneakers. I walk down the short hallway, turning the corner into the living room, and pause. Sprawled out across our worn leather sofa is Carter Fitzroy. He’s wearing absolutely nothing except a pair of low-waisted grey sweatpants that hang dangerously low off his hipbones, exposing the sharp V-cuts of his lower abs and his bare, muscular chest. His arms are stretched out over the back of the couch. His messy dark hair is pushed back with a black headband. And stuck over his face is a wet, white hydrating sheet mask. He’s watching an episode of Love Island, lazily chewing on a piece of turkey jerky. Hearing my footsteps, he tilts his head back. His cool, hazel-grey eyes peer at me through the cut-out holes of the white mask. He reaches up with two fingers, peeling down the bottom corner of the mask to reveal his sharp jaw and full, annoying lips. "You're late," his voice comes out, deep, raspy, and carrying that faint, smooth British accent. "I started the show without you." I stand there, my heart doing a familiar flip in my chest as the memory of my morning dream crashes back into my brain with full force. Yes. That's right. Carter Fitzroy—the god-figure, arrogant hockey co-captain half the girls on campus are dying to get near—is my roommate.