Page 36 of The Pucking Arrangement

She heads for the stairs, and I exhale, relief flooding my veins.

But then she stops.

“I’m going to start breakfast and wake up Ris,” she adds over her shoulder.

Casual. Normal. Domestic.

Like it’s nothing. Like she hasn’t just burned me alive.

The second she’s gone, I drop onto the mat, dragging both hands down my face.

Five minutes. I just need five minutes. A cold shower. A few hard strokes of my cock. Then I’ll be able to sit across from her at the breakfast table, pretending I don’t want to drag her onto my lap and feed her bites of fruit just to watch her lips wrap around the fork.

Then I’ll be able to survive another day of pretending I’m not completely, utterly ruined.

* * *

The cold shower does nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

My skin still burns, my muscles still ache with pent-up desire, and no amount of icy water or cock pumping can erase the memory of her shorts riding up as she stretched in the gym.

I dress mechanically—compression gear, lightweight training clothes, the familiar layers I wear on game days. Routine should ground me. Routine is safe. But all I can think about is that she’s downstairs now, moving around my kitchen, filling my home with her scent.

When I finally drag myself down, the scene in front of me nearly stops my goddamn heart.

Ris perches on a barstool at the kitchen island, legs swinging as she carefully arranges berries on her oatmeal. And Erin… Just kill me now.

She’s traded her workout clothes for leggings and an oversized T-shirt that slips off one shoulder, exposing a stretch of smooth skin that makes my mouth water.

What’s up with those fucking shoulders?

And on the counter: egg whites, sweet potato, avocado. Perfect pre-game nutrition.

“Papa!” Ris beams. “Erin knows exactly what you eat before games! Just like Uncle Liam!”

I grunt something that might be “good morning” and definitely isn’t “marry me and have my babies.”

“Coffee?” Erin holds out a mug like a peace offering.

I reach for it, but our fingers brush, just slightly. And she freezes.

A quick inhale. The tiniest hesitation.

“Thanks,” I manage, my voice gravel.

She turns back to the stove, tending to sizzling egg whites, and—fuck. Her shirt rides up as she reaches for a plate, revealing a sliver of her bare waist.

I take a scalding gulp of coffee, welcoming the burn, desperate for something to rip me out of this.

“Papa, can we go to your game tonight? Please?” Ris chirps.

No.

I already know the answer. I can barely function with her in my kitchen. How the hell am I supposed to play when I know she’s in the arena?

“It starts at seven,” Ris barrels on, hopeful and oblivious. “And I can sleep in tomorrow since it’s Saturday! Plus, Erin says Sophie will be there too!”

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