Page 75 of The Puck Contract

I close the final inches between us, but instead of kissing him, I brush my lips along his jaw, up to his ear. "Patience," I whisper, feeling him shudder against me.

"I've spent weeks being patient," he counters, hands coming up to grip my biceps. “I'm all out of patience tokens."

His directness is so fucking hot I can barely think straight. I pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, searching for any hesitation, any doubt. I find none.

"Bedroom," I say, not a question.

"Lead the way." He grabs his wine glass, taking another sip before following me. "Though I should warn you, I did some research."

I stop in the hallway, turning to look at him. "Research?"

His cheeks flush, but his eyes stay steady on mine. "Very thorough research. With diagrams."

The mental image of Mateo hunched over his laptop, studying gay sex techniques with the same intensity he applies to anthropological theories, sends a fresh surge of heat through me.

"So you're prepared for a practical exam?" I tease, backing into the bedroom.

"I'm a good student," he says with a shrug that's not nearly as casual as he's aiming for. "Though I imagine there's a difference between theory and practice."

"Huge difference," I agree, reaching for him once we're beside the bed. "But don't worry. I grade on a curve."

He rolls his eyes, but his hands are already working on my shirt buttons. "That was terrible. Do hockey players take classes in bad innuendo, or is it a natural talent?"

"Both," I admit, helping him with the buttons when his fingers fumble. "There's a seminar in rookie training camp called 'Puck-Related Double Entendres 101.'"

His laugh is cut short when my shirt falls open, revealing my chest. His hands freeze, eyes widening slightly as they rove over me.

"Fuck," he whispers, more to himself than to me.

"That's the general idea," I say, because apparently I can't help myself.

"If you're going to be this insufferable, I might have to shut you up," he warns, recovering his composure enough to slide his hands inside my open shirt, palms flat against my skin.

"Promises, promises," I taunt, but the effect is somewhat ruined when my breath hitches as his thumbs brush over my nipples.

I shrug out of my shirt, letting it fall to the floor, then reach for his. "You don’t need that," I murmur, working on his buttons with far more dexterity than he managed with mine.

Each button reveals another tantalizing glimpse of golden skin. By the time I push the fabric off his shoulders, my mouth is literally watering with the need to taste him.

"You're staring," he points out, a hint of self-consciousness in his voice.

"Can you blame me?" I ask, running my hands down his sides, feeling him shiver under my touch. "You're fucking hot, Mateo."

The blush that spreads across his cheeks and down his neck is almost as enticing as his body. I lean in, pressing my lips to the hollow of his throat where his pulse hammers wildly, tasting salt and clean skin and that new cologne.

His hands tangle in my hair, holding me against him as I work my way across his collarbone using my teeth. He hisses and his hips buck against mine involuntarily.

"Interesting," I note, filing that information away for future use.

"Shut up and do it again," he demands, voice strained.

Who am I to deny such a polite request? I oblige, giving his collarbone the same treatment again while my hands slide down to grip his ass through his jeans, pulling him against me.

The friction is electric, both of us already painfully hard. He rolls his hips, seeking more pressure, more contact. I walk him backward until his legs hit the edge of the mattress, then push gently until he sits, looking up at me with wide, dark eyes.

I drop to my knees between his spread thighs, a position that pulls a strangled sound from his throat. His hands immediately return to my hair, fingers threading through the strands, not pushing or pulling, just holding on.

"I want to taste you," I tell him, hands resting on his thighs, thumbs stroking the inseam of his jeans where I can feel the heat of him through the denim. "Can I?"

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