Page 8 of No Pucks

I’m taking my time with him.

“Where’s your hotel?” I can’t take him home.

“Upstairs.”

THREE

ANTHONY

We’re in the elevator before I realize what I’m doing, before I can stop myself. I need this too much.

He pulls back, lips slightly swollen, and he smiles effortlessly. He’s happy, and it’s easy for him. I want to drink it from his skin. I forgot what joy feels like, but maybe he’ll give me a taste. I grab him by the back of his head, dragging him forward into another kiss, only to be interrupted by the ding of the elevator alerting us to my floor.

We step off, and his swagger is cocky.

What am I doing? I don’t even know his name.

He turns, walking backward down the hall, already unbuttoning his shirt. If I wasn’t already hard, seeing him like this would make me. Every inch he exposes of his porcelain skin sends a bolt of lust through my veins. I put my key card to the door, swallowing down all the thoughts telling me I shouldn’t do this. I’ve been divorced for two years, but it still feels a little wrong. Before my marriage, I had a bunch of one nightstands. What’s wrong with me? Can I not do this anymore?

Am I really about to hook up with a guy?

I get the door open with shaky hands, unsure of what I’m about to do.

We’re met with the view of lower Manhattan stretched out across the floor-to-ceiling windows, glittering lights illuminating the foyer and expansive living room. He isn’t impressed, brushing past me like he belongs. So he comes from money. I shouldn’t be surprised. Most of the city is far richer than I ever dreamed of being, and I played professional hockey.

“Do you go to college in the city?” I ask when I close the door.

He looks young, early twenties, but I have to be sure. “I do, but I grew up here. I’m not a transplant.” He’s close, not giving me an inch of room or a free breath from his alluring cologne. He smells like money—money and sex, with hints of amber and spice.

Exactly what I expect sex with a man to smell like.

“And what’s wrong with transplants?” I’d spent most of my life as one, going to whichever city offered me the best contract until I was injured.

“Nothing, as long as they don’t come to a place they’ve never lived and act like they own it.” He strips off his shirt, and I can’t tear my gaze away. He’s the peak of physical perfection but inches shorter than my six-foot-five. I bet I could throw him around.

My gut twists with arousal at the idea. “And how do I act?”

“Do you think I’d be pursuing you so boldly if you were acting like a fool?” His smile is smug as he hooks a finger in the neck of my tee, pulling me forward.

I spent a few years in the NHL, slept with more women than I remember, and I don’t have half the charisma this guy does. Maybe that’s why I consented so readily.

Whatever he is, it’s intoxicating.

“What do you want?” I ask, because at first, I thought he wanted me to fuck him, but getting more of a taste of his personality, I’m not sure he’s a bottom anymore. Are thosethings even real? All my knowledge of gayness comes from porn and Reddit. “We might not be compatible.”

He rubs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, not breaking our eye contact as he pulls me deeper into the room. “Do you even know what you like?”

“What do you like?” My steps falter, and he turns on me as smooth as ever.

“I like getting what I want.” His tone drips smugness.

“And what is that?” I’m not letting him get away with a non-answer.

“I like a big guy throwing me around.” He takes a step closer, meeting my eyes. “Do you know what you like? Because you didn’t answer either.”

My cock responds to his words, aching behind the tight denim of my jeans. “I know what I like.” A bit of a white lie.

“With men?” he corrects. How does he see right through me?

---