Page 63 of The Puck Contract

"Fuck," I gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders.

I can feel his smile against my skin—not a smirk, but something more satisfied, almost predatory. He does it again, harder this time, and I'm pretty sure my bones turn to liquid on the spot.

My hands are everywhere, unable to settle, wanting to touch all of him at once. I slide them under the hem of his t-shirt, finally making contact with the hot skin of his lower back. The muscles there flex under my fingers as he presses closer.

"Too many clothes," I manage, tugging impatiently at his shirt.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes searching mine for any hesitation. Finding none, he reaches behind his neck and yanks his shirt off in one smooth movement, dropping it carelessly to the floor.

The sight knocks the wind out of me. I've seen him shirtless before, but never like this. Never with permission to look, to touch. Never with the knowledge that all this is temporarily mine.

His chest is a study in contrasts: broad and powerful but marked with evidence of vulnerability—a jagged scar cutting across his ribs, another on his shoulder, smaller nicks and marks scattered across his skin like constellations. I reach out, tracing the largest scar with my fingertips.

"Hockey?" I ask.

"High stick. Rookie year," he confirms, sucking in a breath when my hand drifts lower, following the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath his jeans. "Your turn."

The request hangs in the air. I hesitate only briefly before grabbing the hem of my own shirt and pulling it over my head. The cool air hits my skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. I resist the urge to cross my arms, to hide from his gaze.

The look on his face makes any insecurity evaporate instantly. His eyes track over me like I'm something rare and precious, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard.

"Jesus," he breathes, reaching out to lay his palm flat against my sternum. "Look at you."

His hand is burning hot against my skin, large enough to span a significant portion of my chest. He slides it lower, over my ribs, my stomach, stopping just above the waistband of my jeans.My muscles jump under his touch, my body responding to him with embarrassing eagerness.

He steps closer again, eliminating the space between us, and the first press of skin against skin pulls identical sounds from both our throats. His chest is hard against mine, the hair there creating a friction I've never experienced before. His hands slide around to my back, pulling me even closer as his mouth finds mine again.

This kiss is deeper, hungrier, all pretense of restraint abandoned. His tongue slides against mine, tasting faintly of whiskey and desire. I arch into him, wanting—needing—more contact, more friction, more everything.

He shifts his weight, pressing his thigh between my legs, and the pressure against my dick makes my vision blur at the edges. I break the kiss on a gasp, head thumping back against the wall. Groover takes the opportunity to attack my neck again, teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he rocks his thigh deliberately against me.

"Fucking hell," I hiss, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

He chuckles against my throat, the sound vibrating through me. "Sensitive there?"

In response, I slide my hand between us, palming the impressive bulge in his jeans. His laugh cuts off into a choked groan, hips jerking forward into my touch.

"Two can play," I manage, squeezing lightly to emphasize my point.

His pupils blow wide, nearly swallowing the brown of his irises. "Bedroom," he says, voice dropped to a register I've never heard from him before. "Now."

I nod, not trusting my voice. He grabs my hand and practically drags me down the hallway. Before my brain has a chance to fully catch up, Groover is turning to me, hands cupping my face as he kisses me again, walking me backward until my legs hit the edge of the mattress. He follows me down as I fall, catching his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush me.

The new position aligns our bodies perfectly, and when he rolls his hips experimentally, the friction of his cock against mine sends sparks shooting up my spine. I'm suddenly, painfully aware of how hard I am, how every nerve ending seems to be focused on the point where our bodies meet.

"Can I?" he asks, hand hovering at the button of my jeans.

"Please," I nod, lifting my hips to give him better access.

He makes quick work of the button and zipper, easing some of the pressure that's been building since Becker's balcony. Then he sits back on his heels between my legs, looking down at me with hunger that would be scary if I wasn’t so fucking turned on.

"Lift," he instructs, and I raise my hips again so he can tug my jeans down and off. I'm left in just my boxer briefs, the thin black cotton doing absolutely nothing to hide how affected I am by him.

"Your turn," I say, propping myself up on my elbows. "Only fair."

A flash of something—amusement? appreciation?—crosses his face before he stands to shuck his own jeans. The denim slides down powerful thighs dusted with dark hair, revealing tight black boxer briefs that cling to every impressive inch of him.

Holy shit.

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