The Defenceman (Dman4)
Copyright© 2025 by Cold Creek Tribute Writer
6. Knock Knock
Coming of Age Story: 6. Knock Knock - Building on Cold Creek's Dman3, Michael Steward rises from Olympic triumph into a world of honor, ambition, and peril. Between hockey, modeling, and his AI venture, he is drawn into battles across London, Japan, and Spain. Surrounded by allies, haunted by rivals, and entangled in the drama of women who shape his path, Michael’s journey is one of resilience, loyalty, and unexpected love.
Caution: This Coming of Age Story contains strong sexual content, including Romantic Celebrity Sports Interracial White Female Oriental Female White Couple Royalty
March 2010
Score!
Knocking, not loud — but persistent. Probably Drew wanting to drag me back downstairs into the chaos of the celebration. I smile, hauling myself off the edge of the bed. The plush carpet muffles my steps as I cross to the door.
It isn’t Drew.
Donna Summerville leans against my doorframe. A little black dress, a declaration, clinging to every impossible curve. Her smile is a curve of pure, knowing amusement, a silent Do you really think you can hide? Her scent — something expensive, clean, and dangerous causes my nostrils to flare.
“Celebrating solo, Gold Medalist Stewart?” Her voice is husky, effortless.
Before I can formulate a response — something witty, dismissive, anything — she presses a cold Diet Coke into my hand. Her fingers brush mine, not an accident, a deliberate invitation, lingering just a fraction too long. “Thought you might need refreshment,” her smirk deepening. “Or maybe just better company.” Her gaze holds mine, direct, challenging, an offer wrapped in silk. “Mind if I come in?
That simple touch, the press of the cold Coke, her presence filling the doorway ... The low, simmering hunger, flares, hot and sudden, a current jolting my system. She reads my reaction, and sashays into the room. Two sharp pffts break the silence as she opens both Cokes at the wet bar. Her gaze sweeps the room — the rumpled bed, the discarded Team Canada jacket, and lands on the medal.
“Wow,” she breathes, genuine awe softening her usual playful edge. She turns, holding out the can. “Can I?”
“Yeah. Sure.” My voice sounds rough. She lifts the gold medal, its weight substantial in her slender hands. Her thumb traces the intricate etching, the Olympic rings. Not gushing — just appreciating, then, she looks at me, that familiar spark returning.
“Put it on,” she commands, a slow smile spreading. Before I can react, her fingers find my robe’s belt and with a sharp tug, the knot gives way. Cool air hits my bare chest as the robe falls off my shoulders, leaving me in just my boxers.
The medal settles against my skin, cool at first, then warming quickly. She steps closer, impossibly close, her perfume washing over me, one arm snakes around my waist, pulling me flush against her, the other hand holds her phone preparing to take a Selfie. “Smile, champ,” she commands, her breath warm against my neck.
The phone flashes and on the screen, I see me, the medal gleaming on my bare chest, and Donna beside me, radiating triumph. She smiles like the cat that ate the canary, utterly pleased with herself.
Before I can process it, before I can even lower my gaze from the phone screen, she turns fully toward me. Her free hand tangles lightly in the short hair at my nape, tilting my head down. Blue eyes lock on mine — daring, challenging, irresistible. And then her lips meet mine. Soundly. Deeply. A kiss that is less a request and more a claiming. Her mouth tastes sweet, sharp from the Diet Coke, and utterly devastating in its sudden, confident intensity. A choked gasp escapes me as she slides downward, pulling my boxers with her. Before I can respond to the kiss, she inhales my cock nearly to the root. Her eyes, locked on mine, luminous pools, her lipstick already smudged.
Her throat works me, a desperate little convulsion I feel along my entire length. The sight, the tight wet pressure, the sheer audacity of this woman on her knees here, now — it shatters the last vestiges of my control. My fingers tangle in her hair, not pushing, just holding on as she pulls back slowly, then surges forward again. Her gag is soft, muffled, swallowed as she forces herself deeper, taking me all. The world narrows to slick sounds, the ache in my thighs, the image of her supplicant, I can’t hold back. A groan rips from my throat, raw and involuntary, as release slams into me hard.
She holds my spend, opens her mouth to show me, swallows, then leans back slowly, wiping her lips with the back of her hand. A satisfied, almost feline smile playing across her face. Her eyes, though slightly watery, hold a fierce, triumphant gleam.
Then, without a word, she stands and turns. The elegant line of Donna’s back is bisected by the zipper of her dress. Her fingers find the metal pull. She glances over her shoulder, the challenge back in her gaze, and draws it down. Slowly. The rasp of zipper teeth is obscenely loud in the charged silence.
A shrug and fabric pools at her feet. She steps out and turns fully toward me. Only a scrap of a lace thong remains, stark against her pale skin. Perfection sculpted. Demanding. She does not speak, just extends her hand. I take it, her fingers cool against my burning palm, and I let her lead me to the bed.
We sink onto the duvet. Her mouth finds mine instantly, hungry, then I start to move, my mouth trails downward, between her breasts, over the flat plane of her stomach, taut muscles fluttering under my lips. I hook my fingers into the sides of the thong and pull it down her legs. She gasps, arching off the bed.
I bury my face between her thighs, and her taste explodes on my tongue — musky, sweet, uniquely her. Donna’s gasps sharpen into a cry, and her hands fist the sheets, then clutch my hair, pulling, urging. My tongue seeks her sensitive bud, circling, flicking, tasting her wetness. Her hips buck against me, low moans building into sharp, breathless cries. Her thighs clamp around my head. She is humid heat, trembling muscle, a rising tide of sensation. I chase her clit relentlessly, listening to her breath hitch, her moans break into desperate, fragmented pleas. Her back arches high, a keening cry rips from her throat, tremors wrack her body, legs quaking around my ears, her core pulsing against my mouth.
Then she convulses and collapses back onto the sheets, utterly spent — a writhing, sweaty mess, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick. Her hand finds my hair again, not pulling, just resting, trembling softly. She is utterly still, save for the frantic rise and fall of her chest, the air thick with the scent of her release and exertion. Donna lies sprawled across the moist sheets every perfect muscle loose.
She looks utterly relaxed, a strange, fierce pride wars with the lingering buzz under my skin. I trace a fingertip down the valley between her shoulder blades, feeling the slight tremor still running through her. She stirs, turning her head on the pillow. Those impossibly blue eyes, still hazy but sharpening, lock onto mine. A slow, lazy smile spreads across her face, transforming exhaustion into something predatory, playful.
“Not done with me yet, Gold Medalist?” Her voice is husky, scraped raw.
I just watch her —she pushes herself up onto one elbow, revealing the smooth, sweat-slicked plane of her stomach. Her gaze travels down my body, lingering deliberately. A spark ignites in those blue depths. “I’m ready,” she declares, the playful edge hardening into certainty. Her eyes never leave mine. “Ready for your slap shot.”
Before the words fully register, she is moving. Fluid, deliberately obscene, she rolls onto her hands and knees and arches her back, presenting the perfect, sculpted curve of her ass. She gives it a slow, deliberate wiggle, a silent, provocative challenge.
“Well?” Her voice drips with anticipation.
Animalistic lust erupts in me, immediate and fierce. I slide off the bed, and stand there for a heartbeat, just looking — admiring the sheer audacity of her pose. My hands drift outward, skimming the smooth curves. She shivers, pressing back fractionally against my palm.
A groan escapes me, primal and raw. I position myself behind her, my hands finding the flare of her hips, fingers finding purchase. My cock, hard again and aching, nudges against her sex, she is slick, hot, wet and ready. I push, slowly, feeling the tight resistance, the incredible, yielding pressure as my dick breaches her. A gasp tears from her lips, and I thrust deeper, inch by deliberate inch, until I am fully seated.
So tight. Unbelievably tight. I pause, shuddering, letting the sensation wash over me, letting her adjust. ”Michael...” she breathes, a ragged whisper. Then, with a sudden, fierce buck of her hips she forces me deeper still: “Don’t you fucking stop!”
Control snaps, my hands tighten on her hips, anchoring her as I pull back and slam forward. Hard! Her cry is strangled, half-swallowed by the pillow. I do it again and again; a brutal, driving rhythm. The sound of flesh on flesh fills the room, sharp and relentless. Sweat stings my eyes as I lean forward, bracing one hand on the bed, the other grabbing her hair.
“That’s it,” I growl, my voice rough, the words tumbling out thick and hot, fueled by the pounding rhythm. “Take it. Feel it. Fucking perfect.” Praise wrapped in roughness.
She screams into the pillow, a high, choked sound that vibrates through me. Her body clenches around me, a vice tightening with each thrust. She meets me, push for push, hips pistoning back, driving me deeper.
My own breaths turns into guttural grunts — the sounds of exertion I know from the ice, from the final sprint toward an open net. Sprinting. Straining. Every muscle corded.
The pressure builds, coiled low and explosive. I feel her inner muscles flutter, clench desperately. Her screams dissolve into frantic, incoherent cries against the linen. I drive into her harder, faster, chasing that peak, the frantic rhythm intensifying.
The tension snaps, release tears through me, blinding, all-consuming, roaring out in a final, harsh groan ripped from my chest as I bury myself deep, pulsing. She convulses beneath me, shuddering, her cry muffled but violent against the pillow.