Page 83 of The Puck Contract

I tug his jeans and boxer briefs down in one motion, and his cock springs free, already half-hard. The sight of him—thick and flushed, growing harder by the second under my gaze—makes my mouth water in a Pavlovian response I didn't know I was capable of.

"Start slow," he says, voice husky as he watches me. "Just get used to the feel of it first."

I wrap my hand around him, feeling him harden further in my grip. The skin is impossibly soft over rigid hardness, hot and silky against my palm. I stroke him experimentally, remembering what he showed me last time, the twist of wrist at the top that made his breath catch.

"Just like that," he encourages, one hand coming to rest lightly on the back of my head. "Get me fully hard before you use your mouth."

I follow his instructions, working him with steady strokes until he's fully erect, thick and straining in my hand. A bead of liquid forms at the tip, and without overthinking it, I lean forward and lick it away.

The taste is not what I expected—slightly salty, not unpleasant. But Groover's reaction is what captures my attention. His whole body jerks, a strangled sound escaping his throat, fingers tightening reflexively in my hair.

"Okay?" I check, looking up at him.

"More than okay," he rasps, pupils blown wide. "Just... sensitive there."

Emboldened, I lean in again, this time licking a deliberate stripe from base to tip. The groan that tears from his throat seems to echo in the empty locker room, encouraging me to do it again.

And again.

"Use your lips too," he instructs, voice tight with restraint. "Take just the head in your mouth."

I follow his guidance, wrapping my lips around the swollen head of his cock, applying gentle suction. The weight of him on my tongue, the stretch of my lips around his girth, is foreign but not unpleasant. When I swirl my tongue experimentally around the ridge, his hips buck slightly, a curse falling from his lips.

"Sorry," he gasps, immediately stilling. "Didn't mean to—"

I pull off with a wet pop that echoes off the walls. "It's okay. I like knowing I affect you." I wrap my hand around the base again, steadying him. "Tell me what else you like."

"Take as much as feels comfortable," he says, watching me with an intensity that makes my own neglected cock throb. "Use your hand for the rest. And—fuck—use your tongue while you do it."

I dive back in with newfound determination, taking him deeper this time, my hand working what I can't fit in my mouth. It's messier than I anticipated, saliva gathering as I try to coordinate my hand, lips, and tongue into some semblance of rhythm.

"That's it," he encourages, fingers threading through my hair, guiding me gently. "Perfect. God, you look so fucking good like this."

The praise sends a unexpected jolt of pleasure straight to my groin. I moan around him, the vibration pulling an answering groan from deep in his chest.

"You like that?" he asks, voice sharp with realization. "You like being told how good you are?"

I can't exactly nod with my mouth full, but the flush heating my cheeks must give me away.

"You're amazing," he continues, voice dropping lower, rougher. "So fucking beautiful on your knees for me. Taking my cock so fucking well."

Each word makes me redouble my efforts, taking him deeper, working him faster, desperate to earn more of that velvet-rough voice. I discover I can breathe through my nose if I concentrate, allowing me to maintain suction without having to pull off for air.

"Natural fucking talent," he groans, head falling back against the lockers with a dull thud. "Christ, Mateo, your mouth..."

I'm not sure when it happens, but at some point I'm no longer consciously thinking about technique or breathing or the mechanics of what I'm doing. I'm simply lost in the experience—the weight of him on my tongue, the sounds he's making, thethrilling power of reducing this mountain of a man to trembling need with just my mouth.

His guidance grows less verbal and more physical—small tugs of my hair to control depth, tiny movements of his hips that I learn to anticipate. When I hollow my cheeks and suck harder on an upstroke, the broken sound he makes sends a surge of pride through me so intense it's almost physical.

"Getting close," he warns, tugging at my hair. "You don't have to—you can use your hand—"

I ignore him, doubling down on my efforts. I want to taste him. Want to feel him come apart completely because of me. I grab his hip with my free hand, fingers digging into muscle, keeping him in place as I work him faster, deeper.

"Fuck—Mateo—I'm—" His words disintegrate into a groan as his body goes rigid, the hand in my hair tightening to the edge of pain.

The first pulse catches me by surprise—hot and salty against the back of my tongue. I manage not to choke, swallowing reflexively as he continues to come, his whole body shuddering with each wave. I stay with him through it, gentling my movements as the pulses subside, only pulling off when he tugs at my hair again, oversensitivity clear in the action.

I sit back on my heels, looking up at him—at his flushed face, his chest heaving with labored breaths, his expression slack with satisfaction. His eyes crack open, finding mine with dazed intensity.

---