Page 62 of The Puck Contract

"The absolute worst," I agree, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Want to get out of here?"

He lifts his head, eyes searching mine. "And go where?"

"My place?" I suggest, then quickly add, "Just to talk. Or not talk. Whatever you want. No expectations."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Talking might be overrated at this point."

"It's definitely overrated," I confirm, stealing another quick kiss.

Because I can now, apparently.

And isn’t that something?

CHAPTER 18

MATEO

GROOVER'S APARTMENT DOOR clicks shut behind us, and suddenly the world shrinks to just this space—just us. No teammates watching, no drunk hockey players with stopwatches, no audience. Just me and him and the silent question hanging in the air between us.

What happens now?

I've never been this keyed up in my life. The Uber ride from Becker's place was twenty minutes of exquisite torture, our thighs pressed together in the backseat, Groover's fingers drawing idle patterns on my knee while we maintained the absolute minimum socially acceptable conversation with our chatty driver who apparently recognized Groover and wanted to discuss the power play strategy for the entire fucking ride.

"Drink?" Groover asks, breaking the loaded silence as he shrugs off his jacket.

I nod, grateful for the momentary reprieve from the tension thick enough to spread on toast. "Whatever you're having."

He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me standing awkwardly in his living room. And even though I’ve been here before, it feels different tonight.

Electric.

Like the furniture might bite.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, trying to get my shit together.

Groover returns with two glasses of what looks like whiskey. His smile is easy but his eyes are careful, watching me like I might bolt at any second.

Which is fair. I feel like I might.

"I figured we could use something to take the edge off," he says, handing me a glass. "Though maybe that's just me."

I take a sip, the whiskey burning a path down my throat. "Trust me, it's not just you."

We stand there for a moment, the space between us charged with possibilities, neither making the first move. The silence stretches, broken only by the distant sound of traffic seventeen floors below and the faint bass from his neighbor's music.

"Look," Groover says finally, setting his glass down on the side table. "I should probably say—"

"If you're about to give me an out, don't," I interrupt, placing my glass next to his with a decisive click. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

His eyes darken at that, pupils expanding as he takes a step closer. "And where's that?"

"Here," I say simply, closing the remaining distance. "With you."

I reach for him first, fisting my hand in the front of his shirt and pulling him to me. Our mouths collide with none of the hesitation from before, just heat and hunger and the sharp edge of desire too long denied.

His hands find my hips immediately, strong fingers digging in as he walks me backward until I hit the wall beside his entertainment center. The solid surface at my back and his body at my front creates a delicious pressure that pulls a sound from deep in my chest.

Groover breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along my jaw, down to my throat. His stubble scrapes against my skin, the slight burn a counterpoint to the soft heat of his lips. When he finds the pulse point at the base of my neck and sucks, my hips buck involuntarily against his.

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