After nearly a decade as a Portland Badger, I don’t get worked up over pre-season games anymore—I know my job is secure and management wants to keep me around—but I’m especially cool and collected tonight.

By the third period, I’ve slammed two pucks past the Red Wing’s goalie and been on the ice longer than any other player except Wallace, whose endurance is being challenged while our other goalie recovers from a testy groin.

Wallace is also testy, but his irritability is coming from his brain, not his groin. The kid lets the stress get to him sometimes. I talked him down from the edge during the second intermission, but now, with five minutes still left on the clock in the third, he looks rattled in the cage.

“You’ve got this, Walls,” I shout as I circle around the back of the net, getting ready for the faceoff after a close call with the Red Wing offense and a lucky save involving Wallace’s skate blade.

“And we’ve got you.” Petrov, our biggest, baddest defender slaps Wallace on the shoulder on his way by. “No more blown coverage. We’re keeping it on their end of the ice for the rest of the night.”

Petrov is a man of his word, and a player I’d trust with my life, let alone my team’s defense, but a man’s word is only as strong as his stick. When Petrov’s shatters mid-slap-shot seconds after they drop the puck, we’re right back where we started, scrambling to give Wallace cover as the Red Wing offense pushes in hard and fast.

A single breath is all it takes for my laser-focused brain to calculate the distance between myself and the net and realize there’s no way I’m getting in position to offer cover in time. Thinking fast, I shout, “Petrov, over here!” The moment he makes eye contact, I toss my stick his way. He catches it in one meaty fist, lunges forward—sliding in between our net and the Detroit winger—and intercepts the puck, knocking it up the boards.

Launching into motion, I chase, empty-handed, after the puck. But I don’t need a stick to kick the shit out of that biscuit. My skate connects with the spinning disc, sending it skidding harmlessly to center ice. The next line jumps over the boards, and I cruise back to the bench, where Petrov is already waiting with my stick and a clap on the back and Coach jokes, “You’ve got a future in the soccer major leagues after you retire, Saunders. One hell of hustle. That’s the way it’s done, kids. Learn from your elders.”

“That means you’re old now, too, Saunders,” Brendan, our captain, calls out from the other end of the bench. “Welcome to the club.”

Laughter ripples through the rest of the team as I smile and shoot a stream of water Brendan’s way. Four shifts later, the Red Wings are still scoreless and I’m on my way down the tunnel, feeling good about life.

Yes, things with Hailey and I are in a weird, fucked up place.

Yes, I want to kill this guy she’s so eager to get on her knees for—hunt him down, turn him inside out, and slowly pull his face through his asshole—but I’m a Dominant man in control of my emotions and behavior who just played one hell of a good game. Besides, no matter how hard Hailey is crushing on this mystery douchebag, at least for tonight, she’s mine.

Mine all mine, and I can’t wait to get my curious girl alone and give her a preview of the things a real Dom can make her feel.

Careful, man. She’s sub-curious, not sub-committed. Charge in there with alpha guns blazing, and you’re going to scare her away.

My jaw clenches at the thought. A part of me thinks it’s a decent strategy—if she’s scared of the lifestyle, then she won’t end up in bed with some piece of shit motherfucker who isn’t me. The other part of me, the more optimistic, hopelessly romantic part, believes that as soon as Hailey’s had a taste of what I can give her, she won’t want to go looking for her sub-high anywhere else.

She still loves me—I could see it in her every gesture, hear it whispering between every word she spoke. She loves me, but she wants to see what else is out there. I can empathize, but I’m also perfectly capable of giving her the variety, spice, and danger she’s craving. She can have her cake and eat it, too.

And if I play my cards right…so can I.

I never imagined Hailey had any secret submissive fantasies. She’s such a strong, fearless, badass woman—it’s one of the things I love best about her. But that fiercely independent streak would also make it erotic as hell to top her. She’s not the kind to submit easily—I’m going to have to earn every scrap of obedience, but it will be worth it.

Worth it, and so fucking hot I’m already sporting a semi on the way up the stairs to Hailey’s new apartment.

The thought of Hailey on her knees in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of lace panties, with her delicate wrists bound in rope and her eyes cast down because I told her to keep her gaze fixed on the floor until I give her permission to look up, drives me crazy. I want that from her—with her. I want it so badly I have to pause on the landing of her hallway, taking a moment to banish all erotic thoughts from my mind.

I have to maintain control or I’m going to give myself away five minutes into Lesson One. Hailey wants platonic advice from a friend, and that’s exactly what I’m going to give her.

At least until she begs me to give her something more…

Outside her door, I knock softly, willing my pulse to remain steady as I hear her footsteps padding across the floor. I will not lose control, I will not let her see how desperate I am to have her back in my arms, in my life, in my bed.

I’m feeling relatively steady until she opens the door wearing nothing but a pair of glossy, skintight black leggings and a gray tank top with no bra—no bra for fuck’s sake, fuck me, no fucking bra—and my blood pressure skyrockets.