His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 46

Olive’s POV

On my eighteenth birthday, Hunter had taken me to my first real party.

“Bringing you into the world, he’d called it, like I was some sheltered kid who needed to see how adults lived. I’d already had my first kiss at fifteen, already knew what alcohol tasted like, already understood that parties were just excuses for people to do things they’d regret in the morning.

But what Hunter showed me that night wasn’t just some college mager with cheap beer and bad decisions.

It was an underground party.

In a basement that didn’t look like a basement at all-more like its own separate universe. A massive penthouse built entirely underground, complete with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and rooms that branched off into various axis I didn’t dare explore. It was the kind of place you’d hide from the world. From the media. From anyone looking for you.

A secret hideout for people who needed to disappear.

Now, standing in front of Zane’s building, that memory slammed back into me.

The house wasn’t massive. Wasn’t flashy or screaming wealth like his Chicago mansion. It looked like the kind of place someone would choose if they wanted solitude. Privacy. A space where the noise of the world couldn’t reach them.

The kind of place you’d bring someone you actually cared about

“You live here,” I said, turning to stare at Zane.

All my anger had evaporated, replaced by something else. Shock Curiosity. The realization that maybe I didn’t know him at all.

“Yes. His voice was quiet. “This is my home.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. “Your home. But I thought you lived in Chicago?”

He smiled-small, almost hiding it. “No. I’ve always lived in Seattle. Grew up here.”

“Out here?” I glanced around at the quiet street, the trees blocking out the city lights. “Away from everyone?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, hands in his pockets, looking at the house like it held secrets he wasn’t ready to share.

“We should go in,” he said finally. “Remember, you’re still angry at me.”

He was smiling now, that low chuckle vibrating through the air between us, and despite everything, I felt myself smile back.

“Fine, I muttered.

He led me inside.

And I stopped breathing.

I’d expected darkness. Black walls, red accents, maybe some ridiqulous bachelor pad aesthetic with leather furniture and neon signs. The kind of place a man like Zane Mercer-dangerous, morally gray, owner of illegal racing clubs-should live.

But this?

The walls were painted in soft cream and warm brown tones. Artwork hung everywhere-not generic prints, but real pieces. Abstract paintings with swirls of color that made you stop and stare, trying to decode what the artist had been feeling when they created it. Human forms sketched in charcoal, faces twisted in emotion. Beautiful. Haunting. Real.

His home felt like art.

“Wow.” The word slipped out before I could stop it. “I didn’t know you were into… fancy paintings and—*

“Aesthetics,” he finished, bending down to remove his shoes.

I watched as he placed them in some kind of automated cleaning machine I’d never seen before. It hummed to life. brushing away dirt and dust while he straightened and looked at me with that same unreadable expression.

Then he leaned down, lips brushing the shell of my ear, and whispered:

“I fucked you right above my racing club in Chicago.”

My breath caught.

“You were screaming my name right above my racing club,” he continued, his hand sliding under my shirt now, fingertips tracing slow circles on my bare skin. “That building you thought was abandoned? The one you called an ‘industrial wasteland? Where I had dozens of cars parked?” His fingers moved higher, teasing the underside of my breast. “That was my racing club.”

I tried to process his words, tried to hold onto my anger, but his hands were moving and my brain was shutting down.

“You’ve been in my racing club this entire time,” he murmured against my neck. “And you never knew…

His fingers found the buttons of my shirt. I heard them pop-one, two, three-felt the fabric give way as he ripped it open with zero hesitation. His hand slid beneath my bra, cupping my breast, thumb rolling over my nipple in slow, deliberate circles.

“Because I was fucking you so hard, Muffin.” His voice was rough now, strained. “Fucking you so hard you couldn’t think about anything except how good I made you feel. How perfectly you take me. How you’re mine. Completely mine.”

He spun me around in one smooth motion.

My chest pressed against his, bare skin meeting the fabric of his hirt, my nipples hardening against him. My lips parted- shock, need, too many emotions to name-and he looked down at me like I was the only thing that existed.

“Now.” His hands gripped my hips, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp. “I want you to argue with me. Scream at me. Tell me how angry you are. How badly you want to kill me.”

His mouth hovered over mine, so close I could feel his breath.

“While I fuck you.”