Page 32 of Pucked Up

As the kiss deepened, Micah's hand slid from my chest to the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.

The taste of him flooded my senses. We didn't rush anything or desperately claw at each other. It was the slow uncovering of what had been building since I'd arrived at his door.

His hand moved from my neck to my shoulder, then down my arm, touch light but deliberate. I mirrored the movement, fingers finding the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath to trace the ridges of muscle beneath warm skin.

He broke the kiss, breathing ragged. "You sure about this?"

The question wasn't just about what was happening now in this bed. It encompassed everything—his hit, my injury, my arrival at his cabin, and the complex web of choices and consequences that had led us here. Was I sure? About any of it?

"Yes. Are you?"

Rather than answer with words, Micah reached down and pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. The moonlight filtering through the window illuminated the outline of his chest and the defined muscles of his abdomen.

I followed suit, tugging my shirt off, the cold air raising goosebumps across my exposed skin. We studied each other in the dim light, taking a moment to simply look.

His gaze traced the line of my collarbone, lingering on the raised ridge of scar tissue where it had broken under the force ofhis hit. Without speaking, he reached out, fingers hovering just above the mark but not quite touching, as if asking permission.

I nodded once. His fingertips descended, tracing the evidence of our shared history with a gentleness that made my heart flutter. There was something reverent in his touch, almost apologetic. I placed my hand over his, pressing his palm flat against the scar.

"It's part of me now. Like I'm part of you."

He drew in a sharp breath and raised his chin until our eyes met. His free hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my lower lip.

His free hand slowly moved over my shoulders and chest, kneading muscle as he went.

I responded in kind, fingers tracing the firm muscles of his biceps. We shed the rest of our clothes. Naked, we faced each other on the narrow bed, the sheets cool beneath our heated skin.

I reached out, finding a jagged scar that curved around his ribs.

"Hockey?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Before that."

I didn't press for details. We could save some stories for later. Instead, I leaned forward, pressing my lips to the mark, hearing his sharp intake of breath at the contact.

He moved his hands down to my hips, gripping and pulling me closer until our bodies aligned, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. His heat against me was nearly overwhelming, starkly contrasting with the cabin's chill.

I rolled onto my back, pulling Micah with me. He braced himself on his forearms, careful not to crush me, his face hovering inches from mine.

"You can look at me," I whispered. "All of me."

He lowered himself slightly until our chests touched, one hand trailing down my side, over my hip, along my thigh. As he pressed one of his legs between mine, his hard cock pressed against my flesh. I gasped slightly.

As I arched upward into him, sensations rippled through me like the first cracks spreading across spring ice—dangerous, inevitable, transforming.

My hand moved between us until my fingers found him, hard and warm.

"Is this okay?"

He didn't speak; he only met my eyes with a hunger that answered better than words could.

His mouth found the hollow of my throat, lips pressed against my pulse point. He traced a path with his tongue down to my collarbone, then across to my shoulder.

I explored him with my free hand as I started to stroke—the broad expanse of his back and the curve where his spine met his hip. We moved together in synch.

His hand joined mine between us, wrapping both of our cocks, rubbing vein against vein. I bit my lip. My hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more friction and more pressure.

Micah set the pace, slow and languid, with his eyes never leaving mine.

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