Page 33 of Pucked Up

The intimacy of his gaze drove my arousal even more than the physical sensation. It left nowhere to hide. He saw me—truly saw me—and I saw him in return.

We weren't the enforcer and the rookie. We were Micah and Noah.

"Stay with me," he murmured. "Don't close your eyes. I want to see you."

I nodded, struggling to maintain the connection as pleasure built at the base of my spine, radiating outward. My breath came in short gasps, matching his own increasingly ragged breathing.

He kissed my lips again, exhaling into my mouth. He stroked faster. I knew neither of us could last much longer.

The fingers of his free hand swept into my hand, gripped and tugged my head back slightly, exposing more of my neck. I couldn't hold it any longer.

Release crashed through me like a wave breaking against rock, powerful and inevitable. I muffled a cry against his shoulder, teeth grazing his skin as my body shuddered beneath his. Seconds later, he followed, with a low groan rumbling through his chest as he shot thick, sticky cum against my abs.

For several heartbeats, we remained locked together, trembling in the aftermath. Then, he shifted, careful not to crush me, one arm still curved protectively around my ribs as if afraid I might disappear.

No words followed. None were necessary. Our breathing gradually slowed, syncing once again into a shared rhythm. He kissed my chest and flicked his tongue across a hard nip. I moaned softly and arched my back.

Pulling back, Micah chuckled softly, and I looked up at him. The hardness I'd come to associate with him had softened, revealing something younger, almost vulnerable in its openness.

We lay like that for what might have been minutes or hours, connected by touch and shared breath. In the pre-dawn quiet, I found a peace I hadn't expected when I'd made the journey to confront him.

Micah finally climbed out of bed and retrieved a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom. He cleaned us both with unexpected tenderness before pulling the blankets over our cooling bodies.

Shifting positions, I lay sprawled across his powerful chest, my cheek pressed against his heart as our legs tangled beneath the sheets.

Micah's voice pierced the silence. "It never should've been you."

I lifted my head slightly, staring into his face. The moonlight cast half his face in shadow, giving him the appearance of a statue—something ancient and weathered by time.

"It had to be."

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

I considered my words carefully, trying to articulate something I'd only just begun to understand myself. "If it had been someone else... someone who didn't see what you saw... we wouldn't be here."

His fingers traced the outline of my collarbone scar again, feather-light. "You came all this way because I hurt you."

I corrected him. "I came because you saw me in that moment before the hit."

"You couldn't have known that."

"I did. It was unmistakable."

Micah was silent for a long moment, his hand resting on my shoulder. "I saw something in myself, reflected in you. Something I'd been running from."

I nodded against his chest, understanding without needing him to elaborate. We'd both been hiding—from ourselves and from desires that didn't fit the narrow confines of who we were supposed to be. The hit had been both destruction and creation at the same time.

"And now?" I asked.

"Now we're here."

It wasn't an answer, not really, but it was honest.

"I don't regret coming, whatever happens next."

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. "No matter what happens next... this was real."

Real. The word hit me hard. Micah confirmed that it was not a dream or a momentary lapse in judgment. It was real, like the solid weight of his body against mine and the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm.

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