Page 59 of The Pucking Arrangement

If only she didn’t. It would make this so much easier.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, retreating swiftly, a delicate flush blooming across her cheeks. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching out and tracing the color down her throat.

“Papa! I’m done!”

Thank God for six-year-olds and their impeccable timing.

Because three more weeks of this—fighting gravity, pretending this magnetic pull between us doesn’t exist—might actually kill me.

And yet, watching Erin’s face light up as she helps Ris pick a pastry, the two of them fitting together so effortlessly, I can’t help but think…

Maybe I’m already dead.

And this is just the most exquisite kind of purgatory.

* * *

After Ris and Erin drown themselves in Viennese decadence, we step back onto Fifth Avenue, the city alive with motion. Traffic hums, a saxophonist on the corner croons something bluesy, and the late afternoon sun paints long shadows across the pavement.

I can still taste the faint trace of chocolate on my tongue—just a single bite of Sachertorte, nothing more. Enough to satisfy Ris’s pleading eyes, enough to stop Erin from smirking like I’m some joyless brute. But no more than that.

Discipline. Control. Playoffs are too important.

Ris had devoured every crumb with unfiltered delight, humming in happiness. And Erin—God help me—had taken her time. Letting the fork drag through layers of cake and apricot, pressing it between her lips with an indulgence that had nothing to do with dessert.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

And I was barely holding it together, my cock turned to stone, imagining those lips swallowing me with the same kind of abandon.

We’re halfway to the car when Erin slows, her gaze snagging on something across the street.

The Met’s banners ripple in the breeze, announcing their latest exhibition.

“We have time,” I hear myself say, already shifting direction, already deciding for her. “Just a quick visit, yes?”

“I should squeeze in some practice today,” Erin starts, but I catch her hand before she can protest.

“Let’s live dangerously for a day,solnyshko.”

She arches a brow. “Like you did with the cake?”

The memory of her licking chocolate from her lips hits like a punch, heat curling in my gut and my cock stirring. Again.

“Fine,” she says, smirking as she turns toward the museum. “A quick visit.”

Ris cheers, tugging us toward the crosswalk.

Without thinking, my fingers find hers. It’s instinct. As natural as breath, as if my body knows her already. And for a perfect, fleeting moment, she lets me.

Her hand melts into mine, soft and warm, fitting so seamlessly that it feels like the spaces between my fingers were carved precisely to hold hers.

I savor it. The way she doesn’t flinch. The quiet, unspoken ease of it.

Then, suddenly, she realizes.

She pulls away—not harshly, not in rejection, but in slow, sharp awareness. Like waking from a dream she wasn’t ready to leave.

The air rushes in, cold where her warmth was. My fingers close on nothing.

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