Page 78 of The Puck Contract

"Nope." I cut him off, moving with purpose back to the bed.

Before he can argue, I plant my palm on his chest and push him back onto the mattress. He lands with a soft "oof," indignation flashing across his face.

"I was in the middle of asking you a ques—"

I silence him by reaching for the blindfold, sliding it back over his eyes with decisive swiftness. His mouth opens, but whatever protest he's forming dies on his lips when I hook my fingers in the waistband of his boxer briefs and yank them down in one fluid motion.

"Fuck," he yelps, body arching involuntarily off the bed.

I take a moment to appreciate the view—Mateo Rossi, blindfolded and completely naked on my bed, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Now," I say, settling between his spread thighs, breath deliberately ghosting over his heated skin. "Where were we?"

CHAPTER 22

MATEO

TIME FREEZES RIGHT before someone puts their mouth on your dick for the first time.

The universe holds its breath. Your heart hammers against your ribs like it's trying to escape. Your skin prickles with anticipation so sharp it borders on fear.

Now add a blindfold across my eyes. Add six-foot-something of professional athlete positioned between my trembling thighs. Add the mind-bending reality that eight weeks ago, I would have sworn on my academic future that I was straight.

"You still with me?" Groover asks, his voice rumbling up from between my legs, his breath scorching against my already burning skin.

"Technically," I manage, fingers twisting the sheets until my knuckles ache. "My body's here but my brain's about three seconds from total system failure."

His laugh vibrates against my inner thigh, sending a jolt straight to my cock that makes my back arch off the mattress. Without sight, everything else amplifies to almost unbearable intensity—the calloused grip of his fingers digging into my hipbones, the damp heat of his breath dancing across my most sensitive skin, the whisper of expensive sheets as he shifts his weight between my spread legs.

"Just feel," he says, thumbs pressing harder into the hollows beside my hip bones, pinning me in place. "Turn off that brilliant brain for once."

I open my mouth to argue—because arguing is safer than surrendering—but his tongue strikes without warning, a hot, wet path from base to tip that transforms whatever clever retort I had into a strangled gasp.

"Fuck," I choke out, the sheets bunching in my fists as my body jerks under his hold.

"We'll get there," he promises, voice dark with intent. "One step at a time."

His tongue traces the same path again, slower this time, exploring every ridge and vein with deliberate precision. The wet heat of it sends electric currents racing up my spine, making my toes curl against the mattress. I bite my lip to hold back another embarrassing sound, but he must sense my restraint.

"Don't," he commands, punctuating the word with a firm squeeze of my hips. "I want to hear you. Every sound. Every reaction. Nothing held back."

Before I can process that directive, he takes me into his mouth—not gradually, not tentatively, but all at once in a single devastating motion that has me crying out, a primal sound I barely recognize as my own. The warmth of his mouth engulfs me completely, tongue pressed flat against the underside of mycock, creating a pressure so perfect it shorts out my higher brain functions.

Every nerve ending in my body seems to redirect all sensation to that single point of contact. His mouth isn't just hot—it's volcanic, molten, creating a vacuum of slick pressure that threatens to pull my soul straight out through my dick. His hands hold my hips in an iron grip, keeping me from thrusting up and choking him.

He pulls back slowly, so slowly I feel every millimeter of the retreat, his tongue tracing patterns along the way. When he reaches the head, he swirls his tongue around the ridge with devastating accuracy, finding the sensitive spot underneath that makes my thighs tremble with the effort not to completely disintegrate.

"Jesus fucking—Ansel—" The words spill out broken and desperate as he dives back down, taking me deeper this time, his throat relaxing to accommodate my length in a way that seems physically impossible.

The blindfold transforms me into a creature of pure sensation. No visual input, just the slick drag of his lips, the occasional scrape of teeth that sends sharp jolts of pleasure-pain straight through my core, the vibration when he hums around me in response to the stream of curses and pleas flowing from my mouth.

He establishes a rhythm calculated to destroy me—one hand wrapped firm around the base where his mouth can't reach, the other splayed across my stomach, feeling each shuddering breath. When that wandering hand slides lower, fingers ghosting over my balls before pressing firmly against the sensitive skin behind them, a sound tears from my throat I didn't know I could make—half-shout, half-sob.

"Ansel," I gasp, his name pulled from some primitive part of my brain that's reduced to single-syllable communication. "Fuck—I can't—"

He pulls off just long enough to rasp, "Touch me," before descending again with doubled intensity.

My hands fly to his head, fingers threading through his hair—shaved close on the sides, thicker on top. The texture grounds me, gives me something to hold onto when everything else feels unmoored. I don't guide or push, just grip and release with each bob of his head, tugging slightly when he does something particularly devastating.

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