Page 115 of Arrogant Puck

I learn that he’s afraid of spiders but won’t admit it to anyone else. That he dreams of going pro and winning the Stanley Cup because he and Archer used to dream of that when they were kids, and he wants to make him proud.

He learns that I wanted to be a dancer when I was little, that I still know every word to every Disney movie ever made, and that I am obsessed with Superbowl Sunday commercials.

The conversation shifts and flows, punctuated by kisses that start soft and grow hungrier. His hands wander under my borrowed shirt. He puts it over his head as he licks, sucks, nips at my nipples. Holy hell.

I rub him through his shorts, sticking my hand down to feel his hard cock pulsing in my hands.

I slip out of the shirt, leaving it on his head and yank his dick out of his shorts. I suck him off, hard, taking him deep into my throat.

He groans, throwing his shirt off his head. He glances down at me, watching as I lick his length and choke myself with the size of him.

“Fucking hell, Sage.”

“Tell me what you want,” I say, kissing the tip of his cock.

“This… this is fucking perfect,” he says, touching my chin and grazing his fingers against my lips.

I slip him down my throat again, almost choking.

“So fucking perfect,” he praises, and I take him deeper. I bob my head on him as he pulls my hair out of the way. “I can’t believe you’re mine.”

I shut him up by shoving further, holding my breath, forcing him deep down my throat. He moans my name again and again until he comes. I swallow it, and he flips me onto my back. He yanks down my shorts and starts licking until I see stars exploding.

The days that follow blur together. We have the kind of connection I didn’t know was possible. We exist in a bubble of just us, the outside world fading away until it feels like this is a dream.

I wake up to the sound of running water and an empty bed that still smells like him. My body feels different—used, satisfied, alive. The soreness between my legs is a sweet reminder of how thoroughly Slater worshipped me last night, how he made me forget every reason I’d been holding back.

The shower is still running. Through the fog of early morning contentment, I hear him moving around in there, and something pulls me toward that sound like gravity.

I slip out of bed naked, my feet silent on the hardwood floor as I pad toward his bathroom. The door is cracked open, steam escaping in delicate wisps, and I can see his silhouette through the frosted glass.

When I slide the shower door open, he turns toward me with surprise that quickly melts into something hungrier. Water streams down his perfect body, highlighting every cut muscle, every scar that tells a story I want to learn by heart.

Slater should be at practice, but he doesn’t go. I should be job hunting, sending resumes, figuring out my next steps, but every time I think about leaving his side, his bed, his house, this perfect little world we’ve created, the urgency slips away.

“One more time,” becomes our motto, whispered against each other’s lips when reality tries to intrude.

He fucks me so good in the shower. His dick swelling to fill me completely. I press my ass against him as he roars my name and fills me with his come.

And it’s perfect, just like he keeps saying.

We fuck in every room of his house—slow and tender in his bed, desperate and urgent against the kitchen counter, soft and lazy on the living room floor while the morning sun streams through the windows.

It’s healing, yes. Every touch erases a little more of the damage from our pasts, every whispered praise building something new and beautiful between us. But it’s also escape—a way to avoid dealing with the complicated mess of our real lives.

“We should probably get dressed,” I murmur one afternoon, my head on his chest as we recover from another round of losing ourselves in each other.

“Probably,” he agrees, but his hands are already trailing down my spine, making me arch into his touch.

“I mean it, Slater. You’ve missed practice and classes all week. I haven’t found a job yet. I’m surprised your teammates haven’t showed up here.”

He grins. “Let them worry. I have the gate locked, so they can’t come to the front door.” He flips us over, pinning me beneath him, his eyes dark ready to fuck me again. “I have everything I need right here.”

And when he looks at me like that—like I’m his salvation, his addiction, his entire universe—it’s impossible to care about anything else. The job hunting can wait another day. The real world can wait another day.

Right now, all that matters is him. His hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, the way he makes me feel like I’m the most important thing to ever exist.

It’s obsessive and consuming and probably not entirely healthy, but I don’t want him any other way.

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