Page 103 of The Puck Contract

"Mateo," he says, turning to face me fully. "We don't have to—"

I cut him off with a kiss, climbing across the center console to straddle his lap, ignoring the awkward press of the steering wheel against my back. His surprise lasts only a second before his hands find my hips, anchoring me against him as our mouths collide.

It's messy and desperate, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. I grind down against the hard ridge beneath his jeans, seeking friction, seeking more. His groan vibrates againstmy lips, his fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks.

"Inside," he gasps when we break for air. "Now."

I don't need to be told twice.

We stumble from the car to his apartment like drunks, though it's not alcohol making us unsteady—it's want, raw and overwhelming. His hands never leave my body, running over my arms, my back, my ass, like he can't bear to break contact for even a second.

The elevator ride is torturous. We're not alone—an elderly couple joins us on the ground floor, forcing us to stand a respectable distance apart. But Groover's eyes never leave mine, dark and hungry, promising things that have my skin flushing hot beneath my clothes.

The second the apartment door closes behind us, he has me pinned against it, his mouth hot on my neck, hands already working at the buttons of my shirt.

"Been thinking about this all night," he breaths against my skin, teeth scraping over my pulse point. "The way you look in these jeans, knowing what's underneath."

I whimper—actually fucking whimper—as his thigh presses between my legs, providing blessed friction against my aching cock. My hands scrabble at his shoulders, his chest, desperate for purchase.

"Bedroom," I manage, voice wrecked already. "Please."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, pupils blown so wide his eyes look almost black. Something in my expression must convey my urgency because he nods once, taking my hand and leading me down the hallway.

We leave a trail of clothing in our wake—his jacket discarded by the door, my shirt somewhere in the hallway, his belt making a dull thud as it hits the hardwood floor. By the time we reach his bedroom and he all but throw me onto the mattress, I'm down to just my jeans, and he's working on those with single-minded determination.

"Lift," he commands, and I comply, raising my hips so he can slide the denim down my legs.

And just like that, I'm naked. Completely exposed while he's still partially dressed, and the vulnerability of it slaps me across the face. This is really happening. I'm about to have sex—real, actual, sex—with a man.

With Groover.

With Ansel.

My internal state must show on my face because he pauses, hands stilling on my hips.

"We can stop," he says, voice gentle despite the underlying strain. "Any time. Just say the word."

I shake my head, reaching for him. "I don't want to stop."

He leans down, pressing a kiss to my forehead, my cheek, finally my lips—gentle, almost reverent touches that make my chest ache.

"Let me take care of you," he murmurs.

He finishes undressing, movements efficient but unhurried, giving me time to adjust to the reality of what’s about to come. When he's finally naked, I can't look away from him—all lean muscle and golden skin, cock hard and flushed against his stomach.

He's fucking magnificent.

"You're staring," he says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"Can you blame me?" I reach for him, pulling him down onto the bed beside me. "You're kind of a specimen."

He laughs, the sound easing some of the tension coiled in my chest. "A specimen?"

"Anthropological term," I deadpan. "Means 'hot as fuck.'"

"Very scientific." His smile fades as his hand traces up my thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to where I want him most. "Tell me what you want, Mateo. How you want this to go."

The question catches me off guard. I've thought about this moment—fantasized about it, researched it, prepared for it—but I hadn't considered I'd have options.

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