His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 115

Olive’s POV

My eyes snapped open.

Sharp pain shot through my head immediately, like someone had driven a spike through my skull.

“Fuck,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut again.

The headache throbbed behind my temples. My whole body ached. Every muscle felt sore, overused, like I’d run a marathon.

Slowly, carefully, I opened my eyes again.

The room came into focus. Dark curtains. Expensive furniture. Sunlight filtering through the edges of the blackout drapes.

Zane’s bedroom.

I was in Zane’s bed.

Naked.

“What have you done, Olive?” I groaned into my palms, pressing them against my face like I could somehow hide from reality.

I’d been so angry at him. So hurt. I’d come here with a plan. Use him. Get his help for Grayson. Keep it professional. Keep my distance.

And instead, I’d fucked him.

The memory came flooding back in vivid detail. Me pushing him into the chair. Straddling him. My hands fisting in his hair. His hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.

My cheeks burned hot.

I looked down at my body under the sheets. Handprints on my thighs. Marks on my hips where he’d gripped me. A love bite on my collarbone I didn’t remember him leaving.

Evidence of everything we’d done last night.

The bed beside me was empty but still warm. The sheets were a mess, half on the floor, pillows scattered everywhere like a storm had torn through the room.

My clothes were folded neatly on the chair across the room. Tha definitely wasn’t where I’d left them. Zane must have picked them up this morning while I was still passed out.

“Fuck, Olive,” I muttered to myself, running my hands through my tangled hair. “You’re supposed to be angry. You’re supposed to look serious when you see him. Stop acting like you’re in love because you’re not. This is a game. Just a game.”

But even as I said it, my chest tightened with something I refuse to name.

I pushed myself up slowly, wincing as pain shot through my inner thighs. I was sore. Really sore. The kind of sore that made it difficult to move.

I could still feel him. Feel where he’d been inside me. Feel the ghost of his hands on my skin. His mouth on my neck. His breath against my ear.

My face burned hotter.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, testing my weight. Yeah Walking was going to be interesting.

I limped toward the bathroom, grateful that Zane wasn’t here to see me like this. Vulnerable. Exposed. Still reeling from what we’d done.

The second I reached the bathroom, I turned on the shower. Hot water. As hot as I could stand it.

I stepped under the spray and let it course over my body, hoping it would wash away the oversensitivity. The lingering feeling of his touch. The memory of his mouth on mine.

It didn’t work.

If anything, the hot water made it worse. Made me more aware of every place he’d touched. Every place that still ached.

I stayed in there longer than I should have. Until my fingers pruned. Until the water started running lukewarm.

Finally, I turned it off and wrapped myself in one of his huge towels.

When I stepped back into the bedroom, I froze.

Zane was there.

He was standing by the bed, making it. Fresh sheets tucked in perfectly. Pillows arranged just right. Like he was trying to erase the evidence of what we’d done.

There was a tray of food on the table by the window. Coffee. Toast. Eggs. Fruit. More food than I could possibly eat.

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