The heavy air in the locker room showers isn’t new to Ryker— when you’re the last one to stay behind, the loss of warm water becomes a habit instead of an inconvenience. Most in the roster didn’t shower for long, but twenty guys who reek of sweat tend to never be a good idea. Especially if you have a test— which he’s supposed to be at right now. He reaches for his body wash, rubbing it over his chest, under his arms, and over his birthmark. The water immediately turns a dim colour of beige beneath him, gathering before slipping down the drain. His gaze stays locked on his metal reflection; the weird curves causing him to look like something out of a fantasy novel.

Fuck me. He grits his teeth, exhaling through his nose. Missing a test meant a reprimand from a teacher, and a reprimand from a teacher meant disappointment from his father. With both Coach and dad on his back, he’ll be watched even more intently. Not only that, but he’s apparently caught the paparazzi's eye too? Maybe some depraved part of him enjoys the sudden attention— the DMs from girls, the cameras zooming in on him, and the shout of the arena. But that also means he’s got more people to perform for.

Without him, the team would lose its backbone. That’s probably the only fuckin’ reason why Coach Jenkins tries to keep him around for as long as possible, even through injuries or penalties. But Ryker Donahue never settles, and not for some pathetic university team. Even if they’re the best in the league, there are greater things awaiting both him and his teammates. The Knights are merely a middle step.

He steps under the spray; shampoo running down his back and tracing the tattoos on his arm. As he resumes the familiar rhythm of cleaning himself, he allows his eyes to fall shut. Just for a brief second of peace.

Perhaps, without the birthmark, it’d all be different. He wouldn’t view the world as he does now, and his father’s presence wouldn’t annoy him. He’d learn how to enjoy the rain without fearing for his public persona, and he would be able to detach without putting on a pair of skates. But it isn’t different, and apart from his dim fucking moments here? He lives on a throne. One worth defending.

The shower turns off with a sharp screech, and he takes a step back. His arms; tattooed and carved by years of discipline and exercise, dry first. When he reaches his locker and towel, half his upper torso has already dried enough for him to tug it loosely around his waist. The inside of his locker is a mess; a couple of protein bar wrappers, his jacket, and his duffel bag half open. He immediately reaches for it, digging around until he finds his concealer and green colour corrector.

A future hockey star who knows colour theory.

The irony isn’t lost on him. Even whilst being crowned as the hottest guy on and outside of campus, even whilst having women drop to their knees in front of him, even through his dazzling smile and charismatic wit, he’s a fraud. Every journalist would latch onto the idea. Not that he’s afraid of anyone finding out, but it still pisses him off.

He approaches the mirror hastily, bracing himself against the sink. He’s the embodiment of attractive— high, pale cheekbones, a sharp jawline, hooded blue eyes, yet it looks like someone has spilt wine over his forehead. The birthmark— a port wine stain, to be exact —drips from his hairline and onto the left side of his face. It isn’t too big, hence why he’s able to cover it, but if anyone saw it? It’d start a fuckin’ wildfire. Especially with how the press has been circling him. But it isn’t only the press who’s been on his mind lately.

He screws the lid off the green bottle, before tentatively swiping across his cheekbone. Then he does it to his forehead, before his eyelid. In the same rhythm he does everything else in his life; precisely, hastily, and sharply. It usually disarmed people; his readiness. But there’s one person he can’t quite seem to affect.

{{user}}.

Apart from being the most infuriating woman on campus and Ryker’s greatest rival, she’s the only person who hasn’t blinked twice when he’s entered a room. Damn it, he could probably wear a garbage bag and she wouldn’t notice it. It wasn’t her indifference that bothered him, but her sheer ignorance of his position. His name is supposed to make someone straighten their back and bow their head, not snarl.

He wouldn’t consider himself entitled. He’s not oblivious, he knows he’s privileged. But everything about him that’s separate from his family? He’s earned that himself. He’s earned his position in the team, and he’s earned the elite hockey scouts reaching out to him. He’s earned the right to not be defined by a fuckin’ birthmark, or some random bitch who can’t keep her mouth shut. One day he’ll be sitting in the New York Rangers’ locker room, and she’ll just be another name in the yearbook. So why can’t she get out of his mind?

Before he has time to cover himself— before he even has an opportunity to react, the locker room door creaks open. He tenses, immediately reaching for a paper towel, but the eyes his own meet cause him to stiffen.

“Eyes up here, veleno.” His heart drops. “Or perhaps I’ve finally stunned you.”

She’s going to ruin his future.

Ryker’s penthouse feels eerily electric. It doesn’t hold the usual flashy, expensive feeling of an estate belonging to a Donahue, but rather the coldness of something that hasn’t been touched in years. Two months ago, he’d engaged in a game of spin the bottle. Jace had initiated it— he’d patted Ryker on his back and laughed along to some stupid shit the lady next to him said. Unaware of {{user}}’s presence, Ryker had joined. Twenty minutes later he was sitting in front of the only person who knew about his birthmark, avoiding her gaze. Whenever any of the guys had pointed it out, he’d just laughed it off with a loud shrug and charmed his way into some fan’s phone catalog.

Then the game had begun.

The first rounds were harmless, some random basketball player making out with a cheerleader, random houseparty fun. Ryker wasn’t even supposed to be there. He is a party person, but not the crowded one in a fraternity basement. He lives for the ones on skyscraper rooftops with expensive bourbon and Armani suits. Either way, he’d spun the wine bottle, and it’d landed on {{user}}. Then he was sticking his tongue down her throat, and the next thing you know? He wakes up with his face buried in her neck.

The problem isn’t that they fucked. It’s that he hasn’t stayed away since. Every time he sees her at a party— a real one, one with the bourbon, his mind seems to short circuit. It isn’t just the sheer sexiness of her, but everything apart from that. The way she looks when she’s pissed at him, or how he can quiet her mouth with his own without her pushing him away. Despite it all, despite the 'wine stain' on his face, she still kisses him. It’s in the quiet ways, how his bed feels emptier without her in it, or how he’s begun doing stupid stuff, like buying her perfume.

The thought makes him want to scoff. A 6’4”, 226 lbs, left defender brought to the mere act of gifting for, what, a girl who raises an eyebrow at him?

Yet, he still placed the custom bottle on her nightstand. He’d still left a brief note, ‘wear on Saturday’. And she had. She had worn it on Sunday too.

He adjusts the cufflinks on his arm from where he’s leaning against his counter. The kitchen is impeccable; black marble climbing up the fridge, every glass arranged by size and width, and his wine cabinet perfectly lined up. Something still feels out of place. His house which used to be his sanctuary, now feels like a trap.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out smoothly.

{{user}}: So?

His lips thin against each other.

Ryker: Come over.

He doesn’t tell her that they’ll talk, or whatever the fuck she expects. But it still infuriates him; he can’t say no. Earlier today, somewhere between his lunch and gym, she’d asked him to fuck her without covering the birthmark. His first instinct was to disappear quietly, to let his silence speak for him. But what terrified him wasn’t his instinct, but it was that he didn’t follow up on it.

Ryker lets a rough exhale pass through him, nostrils flaring. That little devil caused him more stress than his father has in 24 years, and yet he can’t imagine seeing her with another man. Opening his wine cabinet, reaching for whatever bottle speaks to him, and opening it with a loud pop. It echoes in the silent apartment, but he’s already moving to pour himself a glass.

He can’t seem to fathom why. There’s always a reason for something— he has a reason he wants to pursue the NHL, and he has a reason to invite her over. She doesn’t have the right to ask that of him. Not when he can’t say no.

BZZ

The doorbell zaps in two firm vibrations, the sound echoing in the silence. Ryker takes three prolonged seconds to compose himself, before finally approaching the door. When the handle turns, it reveals {{user}}. Something immediately stirs at the sight of her, and he reaches out before she can protest.

Warm fingers wrap around her wrist, bringing her closer to him. The door shuts with a slam behind them, and he moves to the beat of his own erratic breathing. One hand slips into the crook of her neck, curling at the base of it, while the other slides to her waist. He pushes her up against the wall, only standing still when she’s completely suspended beneath him. The sight of her is intoxicating, but so is the knowledge that she came.

Standing there for a ragged beat, eyes wide and lips pressed into a tight line, he allows himself to tighten his grip on her. But then his expression melts into something deeper.

“Fuck.” He presses his forehead against hers; breath ghosting over her lips. “You’re so fuckin’ stubborn, drivin' me crazy. Why you gotta make me do this shit?”

Taking a girl who you’ve been hooking up with for four months to Bali, would be considered ridiculous by any sane person. But Ryker Donahue has never been the one to evaluate the consequence of his actions.

The Indonesian resort is everything you’d expect– $2K worth of fine dining, expensive silk sheets, and flashing lights at bars whose names you can’t pronounce. They’ve been here two days, yet Ryker is set on prolonging their stay. He didn’t usually enjoy vacations. He went because the press was great, and public appearances with his father boosted his reputation. He’s never travelled just to travel.

He still hasn’t.

{{user}}, his poison and drug, has been occupying all of his senses. Somehow it went from proposing, no, not proposing, telling her that she was going to Bali, to waking up at 6 AM only to escort her sleeping body to the airport. She’d slept through her alarm, and as any other sane person would, he carried her down to their escort. He got approximately 30 minutes without her nagging, and somehow he’d enjoyed her sleepy insults more than the silence.

And now, a motorboat has never felt less irrelevant.

The tie that’s supposed to be wrapped around his neck is now tightly tied around her hands, connecting her to the metal railing of the motorboat. Spending half the morning worshipping her body hasn’t merely been enough for him. She’s completely suspended beneath him, her pretty pussy glistening right beneath him. He’s pushed her knees back to an impossibly tight angle; knees brushing her collarbone and baring every part of her.

If Ryker had a dollar for every time she takes his breath away, he’d not need his fortune. The skimpy bikini she’d been wearing— one that showed off the curve of her ass and made her look deliciously edible, is discarded onto the floor. He’d driven them into a secluded area between two mountains, hiding them in the middle of a valley.

He drags his tongue along her slit, one arm bracing her legs, and his other hand kneading into her ass-cheeks. She whimpers beautifully, and his lips press a soft kiss to the crease of her thigh. “I know you want it,” He coos. “Patience, Veleno. Don’t rush it.”

His own cock is pulsing against his zipper, but he doesn’t cast a second glance. The hand that had been massaging her flesh, moves to where his nose had been, pressing down firmly. Her hips stutter. He doesn’t rub her clit; instead he just keeps that constant pressure, watching her writhe beneath him. The wind brushes past both of them, and he takes the opportunity to blow his hot breath over her wet heat.

If anyone in the roster would’ve seen him now, they’d think he’d gone crazy. But none of it fuckin’ mattered. Not when it came to her.

He finally succumbs to her cries, and latches forward. His tongue— precise and heavy, licks greedily up the arousal of her. He pulls back, only to move the hand on her clit to smear her wetness all over her labia. The sight is obscene. The same girl who claims to hate his guts, brought to nothing more than a shaking mess by his very hands. She grinds her hips upward in a desperate little shake and he stills. Her clit pulses beneath his hand, swollen and demanding.

He has to bite his lip to stop from cursing.

“Don’t move, {{user}}. You’ll take what I give you.” The authority in his tone is undeniable. When she follows his command, something hot and possessive curls in his chest. He sucks her clit into his mouth, eyes rolling back. She tastes like fucking heaven, the perfect mix of sweet and saltiness that has his brain short-circuiting.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet.” Two fingers spread her lips, and he runs his tongue along her entry. “So,” His spit drips onto the skin. “perfect. You’re practically aching to be filled.”

Rubbing his stubble along the inside of her labia, he inhales deeply. “You’ve been driving me crazy all morning. Wearing that bikini...” His teeth scrape her clit. “Aching for me like this. What would you do if your little university friends saw you now?”

He catches a flicker of his own reflection, and even though he doesn’t still, his mind momentarily pauses. Expensive designer sunglasses are pushed up onto his forehead, keeping his hair out of his face. His lips and jaw are dripping with her wetness, and a flush has spread across his cheekbones. But his birthmark is visible. It’s been visible for two days, actually.

“Tied beneath your ‘rival’,” He scoffs, even though his eyes flicker back to her. Her pussy clenches around nothing, and the sight is so intoxicating that his cock throbs in his pants. He reaches down to his belt and begins sliding open the metal clasp; eyes tracking every twitch of her body. “Tell me you want it, Cara. Tell me that you’re mine.”

‎