Reckless on Ice

5. Take off your clothes

ASHLEY

“I’m wet, damn it!”

I pushed Langley away, peeling myself off his back as I looked down at my soaked shirt. Jesus. It’s clinging to me.

Beckett just snorts, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his drenched hair, sending stray drops flying. “Thank you so much, Beckett. You saved me from being the headline in the newspaper tonight."

Whatever.

I ignored his sarcastic remarks, shoving past him as I stumbled into the dorm. What the—

Oh. Oh.

My brows furrow as I take it all in.

It’s messy. Lived in. Smells faintly like aftershave and something distinctly Beckett—warm, sharp, stupidly familiar. There’s hockey gear everywhere—a few sticks leaned haphazardly against the wall, a pair of skates’ half out of a duffel, a jersey draped over a chair. One bed is unmade, blankets half-kicked off, definitely his.

But those frames are—

“Wait.” My head snaps to Beckett. “Those are—”

Beckett doesn’t even look at me. Just shrugs off his soaked hoodie, peeling it over his head in one smooth motion, leaving him standing there, shirtless, like that’s a normal f*****g thing to do.

I turn around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

Jesus Christ. Did he always have that much muscle?

No. Shut up, brain.

“I’m talking to you,” I snap, my voice slightly higher than normal. “Those are my—”

“Stolen pictures?” I hear the smirk in his voice. “You want to borrow them?”

I glare at the floor. Because I cannot look at him right now.

“Langley.” I dragged his name out, slow, scolding.

I hear movement—footsteps padding toward the bathroom, the rustling of a towel, the rush of water as he probably wrings out his hair. A second later, something soft smacks me in the face.

A towel.

He threw a f*****g towel at me.

I ripped it off my head. “Are you serious?”

Beckett leans against the bathroom doorframe now, freshly towel-dried hair, another towel slung around his neck, watching me like he has all the time in the world.

“Huh.” He lifts a brow. “Careful, Cupcake. You’re wet.”

I lunge. He dodges.

“Damn it, Langley!”

I whip the towel at him. Hard. He just laughs, catching it with zero effort before tossing it right back at me.

I dodge. Barely. It lands on my shoulder, wet and gross and disgusting.

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.” I fling it back at him, hitting him square in the chest.

He grins. “Hey, careful.” He shakes his head like a dog, sending water droplets flying everywhere. “You’re gonna slip.”

I scowl, wiping my arm down aggressively. “You’re disgusting.”

“No, I’m not.”

I huff, gripping the towel tighter, drying my arms aggressively before turning toward the bookshelf just to avoid looking at him. "Since when are you hanging my stolen shots on your wall?"

Beckett hums. "Since when do you care?"

I shot him a glare over my shoulder. “Since you suddenly have a whole f*****g gallery wall dedicated to me, apparently.”

His smirk twitches.

I threw the towel at his face. Hard. He catches it midair like it’s nothing, brows lifting in amusement. “You’re really trying to start something right now, Cupcake?”

I scowl. “I’m trying to dry off, but a certain dumbass won’t let me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Beckett shook his head. I thought he was going to dry himself off when he suddenly appear in front of me.

I jerk back, eyes wide. “What the hell are you—”

“Hold still.”

Before I can protest, he drops the towel over my head, gently scrubbing at my hair, fingertips brushing my scalp, slow, firm, too f*****g careful for someone who is usually reckless as hell.

I swear I stop breathing. Swear my pulse forgets what it’s supposed to be doing.

Beckett is close and he looks so f*****g serious right now. I don’t know what to do with that. So, I do what I always do. I get annoyed. “You’re gonna rip my scalp off,” I mutter, shifting under his grip. I need to get it together because this reminds me of something.

Of before.

Of late-night games and stolen hoodies. Of him pressing a towel against my hair and muttering, “You’re annoying,” even though his hands were gentle.

I cleared my throat, forcing out a breathless scoff. "You do realize this is my hair, right? Not a hockey stick?"

Beckett’s mouth twitches. "Could’ve fooled me."

I rolled my eyes, reaching up to snatch the towel from his hands. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you," Beckett tilted my chin up using his finger, causing me to hold my breath, "are such a brat."

My lips part. I don't even mean to. It's just that---he’s right there. His gaze drops to my mouth, and suddenly I feel like an i***t for the butterflies going wild in my stomach.

“Beckett…” I breathe.

He looks up. Meets my eyes. And f**k—his gaze darkens like he just remembered everything we were. “Ash..”

This is so wrong. He broke my heart. Shattered it. But with him this close—his breath brushing mine, his stare locking me in like I’m the only thing that exists—

God.

It feels right.

“Is it wrong if I kiss you?” he asks, voice rough, like he’s dragging it out from somewhere buried and bruised. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he murmurs, like he’s praying I do. Beckett lips hover, shaking. Not from nerves—from restraint. From fury at himself. “Tell me to stop,” he growls. But we both know I won’t. We’re too far gone for no to mean anything anymore.

I shake my head slightly. Shaky. My lips won’t move, but my body’s loud enough.

It screams yes. Screams I’m weak. I hate it. Hate how I arch into him like he didn’t already ruin me. But I don’t stop. Because hating him hurts less than wanting him. And wanting him is all I’ve ever done.

Beckett’s hands move. One finds my thigh, spreads it just a little further. The other cradles the back of my neck, thumb stroking my skin like a contradiction to the way he’s grinding into me now—slower, deeper, crueler.

“Jesus, Ash…” he breathes. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

I do. I feel it.

Hard. Thick. Rubbing right against my soaked panties through his sweats, and I can’t stop myself—I push up, meet his hips, roll against him. My breath hitched. A broken gasp. He drops his head to my shoulder like he needs a second to not lose control.

“I shouldn’t—f**k—I shouldn’t be doing this,” I whisper, but I rock against him again, helpless.

“You’re doing it,” he groans into my skin. “You’re making me—f**k—”

His teeth graze my collarbone and I swear I could fall apart just from that. My hips grind harder. More desperate. I feel drunk on it—his scent, the pressure, the heat, the way I know I should stop but can’t. Not when his c**k’s pressing right against me and every move sends pleasure licking up my spine.

Beckett’s on me in one breath. His lips crash into mine and I gasp—sharp, shocked, real. He swallows it instantly, his tongue sliding deeply like he’s been waiting for years to take it back. His hand fists the back of my neck, yanking me closer, holding me there like if he lets go, I’ll vanish.

His other hand cradles my throat. I can’t breathe. I don’t care.

“Take your shirt off,” I moan, the words breaking out of me. Beckett breaks the kiss only to yank his shirt over his head in one rough, frantic pull. I watch it rise—arms flexing, chest bare, veins sharp under flushed skin—and f**k, I’m already reaching for him.“Pants too,” I breathe, voice shaking, wrecked.

He looks at me—eyes blown wide, breath ragged, chest heaving—and for a second I swear he stalls.

I don’t. I need him. All of him. Now.

“You sure?” he rasps.

My jaw tightens. My thighs press together. “Don’t make me say it again.”

That does it.

He shoves them down in one sharp motion—hips rolling, boxer-briefs dragging low, like he’s daring me to look away.

I don’t.

I can’t.

Because f**k.

He steps out of them slowly, all muscle and heat and veins that shouldn’t be legal, and I swear my breath catches on the way out. Then he’s back over me. Crawling. Palms pressing into the mattress on either side of my head, biceps flexing as he lowers himself slow—so f*****g slow—until his skin brushes mine again.

“You’re still on birth control, Ash?”

I nod—quick, breathless, already ruined. “Y-Yeah.”

He doesn’t move right away. I feel him nod against my neck, slow and quiet, like he’s deciding something. Then his gaze meets mine and f**k—I’ve never seen his eyes like this.

Dark. Focused. Starved.

His mouth trails lower—jaw, neck, collarbone—like he’s tasting every inch he’s missed. “Good,” he murmurs against my throat, “because I don’t think I can f*****g stop.”