Page 114 of Arrogant Puck

Be mine, baby. Be my best friend. My girlfriend. My future wife. My everything.

The words wash over me like the hot water is, sinking into my skin, my bones, my heart. This is Slater Castellano—the man who doesn’t ask for anything, who takes what he wants—begging me to be his.

“Slater...” I start, but he shakes his head.

“I know I’m fucked up. I know I’m difficult and demanding and probably not good enough for you.” His grip on my hips tightens. “But I need you, Sage. I need you like I need air.”

The endorphins from how good his dick felt inside of me are still coursing through my veins, making everything feel heightened, electric. The way he’s looking up at me—like I’m his salvation,his anchor in a world that’s spinning out of control—makes my heart race.

I nod, the word “yes” falling from my lips before I can second-guess it.

His face transforms, relief and joy and something deeper flooding his features. He rises slowly, his hands trailing up my body until he’s cupping my face, and then his mouth is on mine.

We kiss under the spray of water, hungry and desperate, like we’re trying to seal this promise with our lips. His hands are everywhere, relearning the curves of my body, and I can feel him hardening against my stomach.

“No more drugs,” I whisper against his mouth, needing to hear him say it again.

“Promise, baby,” he murmurs, and the endearment makes something warm bloom in my chest.

That simple word—baby—makes me feel cherished, claimed, loved in ways I’ve never experienced before. We get out of the shower eventually, though not before his mouth tugs on my lips and nipples, fingering me until I orgasm again.

I steal one of his shirts, the fabric soft and enormous on me, smelling like him in ways that make me never want to take it off. In the kitchen, we move around each other with easy rhythm, him making coffee while I scramble eggs, our bodies brushing whenever we pass.

“Love Island?” he asks, and I nod, settling onto the couch with our plates.

But instead of sitting beside me, he pulls me onto his lap. It’s possessive but tender, like he can’t bear to have any space between us.

“You’re really into this show,” I tease as he gets invested in the drama between contestants.

“If you love it, I love it,” he states, his arms tightening around my waist.

“Uh-huh.” I lean back against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath my shoulders. “That’s why you know all their names now.”

He kisses my neck in response, and I can feel his smile against my skin. This is a side of Slater I’ve never seen—playful, relaxed, his walls completely down. The brooding, arrogant hockey player has been replaced by someone softer, more real.

I feel like I’ve won the lottery. Like I’ve been given access to something precious and rare that no one else gets to see. The high from being chosen by him, from breaking through those carefully constructed barriers, is intoxicating.

“Tell me something,” I say, turning to face him.

“Like what?”

“Everything.”

His hands find mine, fingers intertwining. “What do you want to know?”

“Your middle name.”

“Alessandro. After my great-grandfather.”

“Slater Alessandro Castellano,” I say, tasting the way it sounds. “I like it.”

“What about you? Any secret names I should know about?”

“Rose. After my mom’s grandmother.”

“Sage Rose,” he repeats, and the way he says it makes my name sound like poetry.

The conversation continues even with the show on in the background. We completely ignore our buzzing phones, staying protected in our own bubble, forgetting about the outside world.

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