Page 64 of The Puck Contract

He rejoins me on the bed, settling his weight half on top of me, one thigh slotted between mine. The feeling of skin against skin from chest to ankle is overwhelming in the best possible way. His hand slides up my side, over my ribs, thumb brushing across my nipple in a movement that might be accidental if not for the way his eyes track my reaction.

"Do that again," I breathe, and he does, deliberately this time, watching as I arch into the touch.

"Sensitive," he notes, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Good to know."

Before I can respond, he dips his head and replaces his thumb with his mouth, lips closing around the hardened nub. The wet heat of his tongue sends a jolt of pleasure straight to my dick, and I let out a sound that would be embarrassing if I had any capacity for shame left.

Encouraged, he moves to give the other nipple the same treatment, one hand sliding down to grip my hip, holding me in place as I try to arch for more friction. He's teasing now, deliberately avoiding the place I most want him to touch.

"Groover," I groan, frustrated beyond belief. "Come on."

He lifts his head, eyes dark with desire. "Patience," he says, pressing a kiss to my sternum. "We've got all night."

"I might not last all night if you keep this up," I admit, and his resulting grin is downright sinful.

He shifts lower, trailing kisses down my torso, tongue dipping briefly into my navel in a way that makes my stomach muscles clench. When he reaches the waistband of my boxers, he looks up at me, a silent question in his eyes.

"Yes," I say, lifting my hips in clear invitation. "Please."

He hooks his fingers under the elastic and slowly—torturously slowly—pulls the fabric down, freeing my aching cock. The cool air hits the heated skin, making me hiss. Groover sits back again, eyes raking over me with undisguised hunger.

"Fucking gorgeous," he says, and the raw honesty in his voice makes my face flush.

Before I can respond, he wraps his hand around me, and every coherent thought flies out of my head. His palm is calloused from years of hockey sticks and weights, creating a friction that has me seeing stars. He strokes once, twice, testing, learning what makes my breath catch.

"Like that?" he asks, twisting his wrist on the upstroke.

"Yes," I gasp, hips bucking involuntarily. "Fuck, yes."

He establishes a rhythm that's just on the edge of too much, too intense, his grip firm but not tight. With his free hand, he pushes my thighs farther apart, opening me up to his gaze, his touch. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but all I feel is desperate need.

Just when I think I can't take anymore without exploding, he stops, releasing me to tug his own boxers down. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip. My mouth waters at the sight, a reaction that would surprise me if I had any brain cells left for analysis.

He lowers himself back onto me, and the first press of his naked erection against mine pulls matching groans from both our throats. He spits into his palm—a move that should be gross but is somehow the hottest thing I've ever seen—and wraps his hand around both of us, creating a tight channel for us to thrust into.

"Oh fuck," I choke out, the sensation of his cock sliding against mine, both encased in his firm grip, nearly short-circuiting my brain. "That's—that's—"

"Yeah," he agrees, voice strained. "I know."

He starts to move, setting a pace that has me clutching at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything I can reach. Each stroke sends jolts of pleasure up my spine, building toward something that feels bigger, more intense than anything I've experienced before.

His hand is slick now with both our precome, the obscene sound of skin on skin filling the room alongside our ragged breathing. He shifts his weight to get a better angle, and the change in pressure makes my back bow off the mattress.

"Look at you," he says, voice raw with want. "So fucking responsive. So perfect."

His words push me closer to the edge, a tightening at the base of my spine warning that I won't last much longer. I reach between us, my hand joining his, both of us working together now. The added pressure, the intimacy of touching both him and myself at once, is overwhelming.

"Groover—I can't—" My words come out broken.

"I've got you," he says, pressing his forehead against mine, his rhythm faltering as his own control slips. "Come for me, Mateo. Let me see you."

My orgasm hits like a lightning strike, every muscle tensing as pleasure crashes through me in waves. I'm dimly aware of crying out, of my body arching like a bowstring pulled too tight, of wet heat spilling over our joined hands and onto my stomach.

Through the haze of pleasure, I feel Groover's body go rigid above me, his cock pulsing against mine as he follows me over the edge with a deep groan that I feel more than hear. He collapses half on top of me, face buried in my neck, both of us breathing hard as if we've just run a marathon.

The stillness that follows is mesmerizing.

His weight is heavy but not uncomfortable, anchoring me to reality as my brain slowly comes back online.

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