His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 20: Olive's Pov

OLIVE's POV

I'd never been fucked in a closet.

Backseats, sure. Hotel bathrooms, once. But never this—never pressed into a tight, dark space with shelves digging into my shoulder blades and the smell of flour and spices thick in the air.

The second Zane pushed me inside and shut the door, we were so close I could feel his heartbeat against my breasts, could feel his breath on my neck, could feel how hard he already was pressing against my stomach.

My arms were trapped between us, palms flat against his chest because there was nowhere else to put them. Every breath I took rubbed me against him. Every movement made the space feel smaller.

I'd never felt this caged in my life.

His mouth found mine again—slow, filthy, open-mouthed kisses that tasted like the orange juice we'd been drinking and something darker, something that was just him. I tried to stay quiet, tried not to make noise, but a tiny sound slipped out anyway.

He swallowed it, his lips curving against mine. "Shh," he whispered, rough and low. "You have to be quiet for me, baby girl. Can't let them hear how wet you are yet."

His hands moved up under my sweater, slow, palms dragging over my ribs until his thumbs brushed the lace edge of my bra. Then he cupped my breasts, squeezed just hard enough to make my back arch, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning.

He rolled my nipples between his fingers, slow pinches that made my thighs clench, made heat pool low in my stomach.

I was already soaked. Could feel it—the way my leggings stuck to me, the way my body was screaming for him even while my brain reminded me that Hunter and Ryan were right upstairs.

But Zane didn't care.

His hand slid down, over my stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings. No hesitation. Just straight between my legs, finding me slick and swollen.

He groaned, quiet, right against my ear. "Look at you. So wet already. And you want us to stay fake?"

I couldn't answer because he was right. I just pushed into his hand, shameless, because his fingers were circling my clit now—lazy, perfect circles that made my knees weak.

My head fell back against a shelf. Something rattled. I froze.

But he didn't stop. Just kept touching me, slow strokes, dipping lower to slide through my folds, teasing my entrance but not pushing in. Just coating his fingers. Bringing them back up to rub my clit again.

"Zane—" His name came out broken, barely any air behind it.

"Shh," he said again, softer. His lips brushed my throat. "You don't want them catching us, do you?"

Then he dropped to his knees.

Slowly. So slowly I felt every inch of space he left behind.

His hands hooked into my leggings and panties, and he peeled them down—not all the way, just to mid-thigh, trapping my legs together. Cool air hit my bare skin and I shivered, and then his mouth came hard, warm and open, kissing the inside of my thigh.

I slapped a hand over my mouth before he even touched me where I needed.

The first lick was long and flat, dragging up my entire pussy, slow enough that I felt every second of it. My whole body jerked. He did it again, slower this time, parting me with his tongue, tasting me like he was starving.

When he reached my clit, he circled it gently, then sucked—just a little pull that made my hips roll forward.

I whimpered behind my hand, eyes squeezed shut.

He pulled back just enough to whisper, "You taste so fucking good I could stay here all night."

Then his tongue pushed inside me, curling, fucking me slow while his thumb rubbed my clit in lazy circles. My legs started shaking. I could hear myself making these tiny, broken sounds I couldn't control, muffled against my palm.

He added a finger—thick, sliding in easily because I was so wet—curled it, dragged it out, pushed back in with two. I bit my hand to keep myself from crying out. He crooked them just right and I saw stars, my hips grinding down on his face.

He didn't rush. Took his time. Licking, sucking, fingering me open like he was memorizing every reaction, every time I tensed, every time my thighs twitched.

When he sucked my clit again—harder this time, tongue flicking fast—I couldn't hold back. I came quiet, shaking, tears pricking my eyes, thighs clamped around his head while he kept going, gentle now, licking me through it until I was boneless.

He stood slowly, kissing his way back up my body, hands sliding under my sweater again. I was still trembling when he turned me around, pressing my front to the shelves, making cans rattle.

"Hold on," he whispered.

I grabbed whatever I could—flour bags, boxes—knuckles white.

I heard his belt. The zipper. The soft tear of a condom wrapper. He didn't fumble. Just rolled it on quick.

Then he was behind me, chest to my back, and one hand sliding around to rest on my stomach, the other guiding himself to my entrance.

"Do you want this, Muffin?"

I pressed my eyes shut. He didn't need to ask. But he did. And I nodded.

"Muffin." His voice was low, teasing. "I prefer you speaking." His cock pressed against me, not pushing in, just teasing. "It lets me know you're still alive."

"Fuck—" I gasped. "Yes. I want you to screw me in this tight space, Zane Mercer."

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through my back. "Good girl."

Then he pushed in.

But not all at once.

He pressed the head against me, just rested there, letting me feel how hard he was, how thick his cock was.

Letting the anticipation build until I was pushing back against him.

"Easy," he breathed in my ear. "Let me in slow."

He pushed in an inch.

Then stopped.

I could feel myself stretching around him, the burn, the fullness. Another inch, slow, deliberate. My breath hitched. He pulled back slightly, slid in deeper, feeding me his cock inch by inch until I was so full I couldn't breathe.

"Fuck, Olive," he groaned, so quiet it was almost silent. "You're taking me so good."

When he finally bottomed out, hips flush against my ass, we both stayed still. Just feeling it. Then he pulled out—slow, dragging almost all the way out—and slid back in, deeper, harder, making the shelves rattle.

I bit my forearm to stay quiet.

He started moving. Slow, deep strokes. Every thrust pushed me into the shelves, my breasts rubbing against cans and boxes. His hand slid up, cupping one breast, pinching my nipple, rolling it while he fucked me.

I could hear us. The wet sounds. The soft slap of his hips against my ass. My muffled whimpers.

He leaned over me, mouth at my ear. "You feel that?" His voice was wrecked. "That's me inside you. All mine."

Another thrust, harder, and something fell off a shelf with a soft thud.

But I didn't care. I was pushing back now, meeting him, chasing it.

He sped up—still controlled, still deep—one hand sliding down to rub my clit while he fucked me.

I came a second time, harder, biting my arm so hard I left teeth marks, my pussy clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper.

He cursed under his breath, hips stuttering, and then slammed in one last time, grinding deep as he came with a low, broken groan against my shoulder.

We stayed like that, breathing hard, sweaty, stuck together in the dark. His arms wrapped around me, holding me up because my legs were done.

After a minute, he pulled out slowly, tied off the condom, and tucked everything away. Then he turned me around, fixed my clothes, and kissed my forehead, my nose, and then my swollen lips.

"Are you okay?" he whispered, thumb brushing my cheek.

I laughed shakily. "Define 'okay.' I just fucked you in your kitchen closet. If Cole finds out—"

His whole body went rigid.

I felt it before I saw it—the way his arms locked tighter, the way his breath stopped. Then he pressed me back against the shelves, hands cupping my face, forcing me to look up at him.

"Listen to me." His voice was low, dangerous, possessive. "You say his name one more time after I just made you come, and I swear to God, Olive, I'll fuck you again right here until the only name you remember is mine. You're not his. You were never his. You're mine now. Every moan, every shiver, every drop of you—mine. Don't you ever forget it."

Then he kissed me. Hard. Claiming. Like he was branding the words into my mouth.