Page 80 of The Puck Contract

"Definitely good," I assure him, tracing my finger along the outline of his cock through the thin cotton. His sharp intake of breath emboldens me. "Just... processing the reality versus the theory."

"And how's that going for you?" His voice has dropped an octave, strained around the edges as I continue my feather-light exploration.

"Theoretical knowledge has its limitations," I admit, hooking my fingers in the waistband of his boxers, hesitating just a moment before pulling them down to join his jeans around his thighs.

His cock springs free, heavy and flushed dark against the defined muscles of his stomach. The sight of him—thick and impossibly hard because of me—sends another aftershock of arousal through my system.

"Just so you know," I warn as I wrap my fingers around impressive thickness with more confidence than I feel, "I'm a quick study. Graduated top of my class."

His laugh transforms into a strangled hiss as I stroke him experimentally, his entire body tensing beneath my touch.

"Fuck," he groans, hands fisting in the sheets.

"Too tight?" I loosen my grip immediately, suddenly worried I've hurt him.

"No, god no," he rasps, hips lifting slightly to follow my retreating touch. "Perfect. Just... been thinking about this for so fucking long."

The raw admission sends heat flooding through me again. "You have?"

"You have no idea," he confesses, eyes locked on mine with startling intensity. "So fucking long..."

He trails off as I resume stroking, finding a rhythm that makes his head fall back, throat exposed in one long, gorgeous line. The vulnerability of that position—this powerful athlete baring his throat to me—feels significant in ways I'm not equipped to analyze right now.

His skin burns against my palm, thick and heavy in my grip. I watch his reactions with focus, cataloging each twitch and gasp, learning exactly what pressure and speed makes his breath catch and his hips stutter.

When my thumb swipes over the head, gathering the moisture there, his whole body shudders. I repeat the motion, fascinated by the way his abs contract in response, by the flush spreading across his chest.

"Like this?" I ask, twisting my wrist at the top.

"Fuck—yes—exactly like that," he gasps, eyes squeezing shut as I repeat the motion. His hand covers mine suddenly, adjusting my grip slightly, showing me exactly how he likes to be touched. "Just a little tighter—there—god, yes."

The intimate instruction, his hand guiding mine, feels almost more erotic than the act itself. I'm learning his body with his guidance, being taught exactly how to take him apart. When his hand falls away, I continue the rhythm he showed me, rewarded by the stuttering movement of his hips and the strangled sounds spilling from his throat.

"Tell me what else you like," I urge.

His eyes crack open. "Your other hand," he breaths. "My balls—just cup them. Gentle pressure."

I follow his instruction, reaching between his legs with my free hand, the weight and heat of him filling my palm. His reaction is immediate and visceral—back arching off the bed, a curse tearing from his throat that would make a sailor blush.

Power surges through me—not dominance exactly, but an intoxicating rush watching this controlled, confident man fall apart under my touch. I increase the pace, transfixed by the sight of him coming undone. His muscles flex and strain beneath golden skin, muscles contracting with each stroke as he approaches the edge.

"You're so fucking hot like this," I blurt out, the words bypassing my brain-to-mouth filter entirely. "I could watch you forever."

"Mateo…" His voice is tight with impending release, one hand gripping my shoulder hard enough to leave marks. "About to—"

I tighten my grip, working him faster, mesmerized by the way his chest heaves and his thighs tremble. "Do it. Let me see you."

His entire body goes rigid, head pressing back into the pillows, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump. A sound rips from his throat that's half-growl, half-shout as he comes in hot pulses over my hand, cum spilling through my fingers, painting his abs with streaks of white. There’s this raw vulnerability on his face, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a wordless cry, every pretense and defense stripped away.

It's the hottest thing I've ever witnessed.

I keep stroking him through it, loosening my grip as the pulses subside, watching in fascination as his body gradually relaxes, muscle by muscle, until he's boneless against the mattress. Only when he makes a small sound of oversensitivitydo I release him, oddly proud of the masterpiece I've created—this powerful athlete completely wrecked by my hand.

He throws one arm across his eyes. "Jesus Christ," he pants after a moment, words slurring slightly. "That was..."

"Acceptable?" I suggest, purposely understating.

He peeks at me from under his arm, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Pretty fucking spectacular for an amateur. Natural talent."

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