Page 94 of Arrogant Puck

“Slater. Say cheese.”

He looks up at me instead of the camera, and the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. There’s something raw and unguarded in his expression, like he’s letting me see past all his carefully constructed walls.

“You should be careful of what you take pictures of,” he says, his voice lower than usual.

I cock my head to the side, intrigued. “Why is that?”

“It lasts forever.”

I inhale sharply at those words, holding his eye contact. There’s weight behind what he’s saying—an acknowledgment that whatever this is between us has permanence.

“That’s okay, right?” I ask softly. “I mean, really, no matter what happens, this time we’re spending together will exist forever regardless if there’s pictures or not. It doesn’t matter what happens in the future—right here, right now, this is happening. And nothing can change that.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning back to the dresser with the screwdriver. “Honestly… I don’t want these moments to end.”

Something in his voice makes my chest tight. I wiggle my phone playfully. “I can take more photos. Maybe some videos.”

I hit record and turn the camera toward myself. “So, Slater, the hot, notorious, arrogant hockey player,” I say with an exaggerated tone, “is building me, Sage—broke, homeless Hawthorne’s athletic PTA—a dresser because I currently have all my clothes on the ground.”

I flip the camera around to show him working, then squeeze in next to him, pressing my cheek against his. “He’s so brooding,” I mock, reaching up to squeeze his cheeks with my free hand.

He looks at me, and when our eyes meet, something electric passes between us. “So brooding,” I repeat, putting on an exaggerated pouty face.

Without warning, he leans in and kisses my lips. It’s soft and quick, but it steals my breath completely.

My eyes widen as I look back at the camera. “Brooding and wanting,” I manage to say, throwing my head back against his shoulder and laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Always so horny,” I murmur, not caring that I’m recording this.

“Only for you,” he says, and there’s no humor in his voice.

I roll my eyes as my heart starts racing. “Okay, this video has heard enough. Any last words?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking directly into the camera. “We’re just friends.”

“That’s right. Friends,” I agree.

“Friends,” he repeats, leaning in to kiss me again.

I blush furiously, turning the camera off and tossing it onto the bed. Then I’m wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him deeply, pouring all the confusion and want and tenderness I can’t vocalize into the contact.

“Friends first,” I whisper against his mouth when we break apart. “It’s important. If we can’t be friends, this won’t go far.”

He pecks my lips gently. “Whatever you say.”

“Tomorrow we’re back to reality,” I remind him, trying to hold onto some semblance of logic.

He shakes his head, his hands finding the hem of my shirt. “Then let’s enjoy whatever this is right now.”

His hands run up my back, under my shirt, and I arch into him with a soft moan. The feeling of his calloused palms against my skin is electric, and when he presses himself against me, I can feel exactly how much he wants me.

His hands pause for the briefest second at the curve of my waist, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. His breath is hot against my neck as he leans in, lips brushing the skin just below my ear.

My fingers grip the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward until the fabric is bunched between us. He takes the hint, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside without looking.

God, he’s so damn hot—muscles tight and ridged, scars old and new mapped across his chest. I trace one absently, and he catches my wrist, his gaze burning into mine.

“You keep touching me like that,” he says, “and I’m not gonna be able to go slow.”

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