Page 31 of Pucked Up

"Nightmare?" The word emerged surprisingly gentle for such a rough voice.

I didn't answer. Pride warred with need. I clenched my jaw tighter, willing my breathing to calm.

Minutes passed. Five. Maybe ten. My heartbeat began to slow. The iron bands around my lungs loosened. I became aware of Micah's breathing—deep, steady, almost meditative. Without a conscious decision, my breathing began to align with his.

"The ice?" he asked after my breathing had steadied.

I uncurled slightly, easing onto my back. "Yes. It was the hit, but not the hit."

"I know," he said, and somehow, he did. Of course, he did. He'd probably seen that look in other men's eyes after he'd plowed them into the boards.

Micah waited patiently.

How strange that the man who'd once loomed like a pure destructive force could be so quiet. I'd imagined many versions of Micah Keller over the months of recovery—the monster, the machine, the mindless enforcer—but never this: a man who could sit quietly in the darkness, guarding someone else's space until the demons decided to flee.

When his hand finally moved, he wrapped his fingers around my wrist where it lay exposed on the sheet. He didn't grip or restrain. He connected, his calloused thumb resting lightly over my pulse point.

"Still here," he said.

I turned my hand, wrist rotating in his loose hold until my palm faced upward. His fingers slid against mine.

In that moment of contact, something clicked into place. The nightmare receded further, dissolving into fragments of images that could no longer threaten me. Micah's presence—patient, undemanding—tethered me to the present.

My heartbeat gradually settled into something approaching normal. I studied the shadow of him in the darkness—the broad slope of his shoulders, strong column of his neck, and profile that could have been carved from granite.

"Feel my heart," I whispered.

I lifted our joined hands, guiding his palm up my arm, across my shoulder, until it rested over the left side of my chest. I'd worn an old threadbare t-shirt to bed, and it did little to separate Micah's skin from mine. His hand was heavy, heat radiatingthrough the thin cotton. I splayed my fingers over his, pressing them more firmly against my pec.

My voice was barely audible in the quiet room. "Still beating… fast."

Beneath my fingers, Micah's hand tensed slightly, but he didn't pull away. His thumb swept once across my firm muscle, testing boundaries neither of us had clearly defined.

"Noah." I felt the vibration of his voice through his palm against my chest. It traveled straight to my core.

"I'm here."

His pulse throbbed against my fingertips, where they pressed against the back of his hand. Strong. Steady, but growing faster. The rhythm of it matched the blood rushing in my ears.

I lifted my free hand through the darkness, finding the rough edge of his jaw. His stubble scraped my palm, coarse and electric. He inhaled sharply at the contact but didn't flinch away. My thumb traced the edge of his mouth, mapping the surprising softness there.

He lowered his chin. "This is a bad idea."

"Probably. Do you want me to stop?"

His silence spoke volumes. The hand on my chest curved slightly, fingers spreading wider as if trying to capture more of my heartbeat. I felt a slight tremor in them—Micah Keller, the immovable object, was shaking.

I rose slowly, pushing up on one elbow, bringing our faces closer. His breath mingled with mine, warm and coffee-scented. We hovered there, breathing the same air and feeling the heat radiating between us.

Micah exhaled. "What are we doing?"

"I don't know." It was an honest answer. "I do know I'm tired of being afraid of it."

My fingertips touched his lips, and they parted slightly under my touch, warm breath brushing my skin. The darkness hid his expression, but he leaned closer.

He took two fingers into his mouth, sucking lightly, and I gasped. My body responded, arousal flooding through my veins. Micah reached out with his free hand and rested it on my thigh.

When he released my fingers, we kissed. It began as nothing more than a brush of lips, testing.

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