Page 137 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Then don’t stop.”

It’s not time-consuming. This time we’re starving for each other, unable to slow down the immediate connection as he enters me and can’t slow down.

He’s racing into me, pressing the right spot, and making me cry out in pure pleasure. Every touch electric, every kiss a small claim of ownership. He moves between my thighs with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it, and I arch against him with the desperate need of someone who’s tired of pretending she doesn’t want to be claimed.

When he pulls out, he turns me around and pushes into me from behind. We both freeze for a moment, overwhelmed by the rightness of it. The completeness. Like puzzle pieces that have finally found their proper configuration.

“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping to my shoulder. “You feel—”

“Perfect,” I finish, because that’s what this is. Perfect and necessary and exactly what I’ve been craving without knowing how to ask for it.

I keep myself on the ground as he pumps quickly into me, grabbing my hair, my ass, my waist. The counter edge digs into my hips. It’s fast and desperate and exactly what we both need—confirmation that this thing between us is real, substantial, and it’s not going anywhere this time. Finally.

My moans fill the empty apartment as stars explode throughout my body. He’s moving faster and faster, making me reach a new level of orgasm until he explodes inside of me.

And it feels so perfect.

“Shower?” he suggests eventually, voice still rough.

“Definitely.”

The shower turns into its own kind of worship—slower, more deliberate, all careful touches and whispered confessions. Steam rises around us as he maps every freckle and scar, as I learn the geography of his scars and the places that make him gasp my name.

Then the couch, where we’re supposed to be watching something mindless on TV but instead find ourselves tangled together again, skin against skin, hearts beating in sync.

And again at sunrise, when golden light streams through my bedroom windows and I wake up to find him watching me with the kind of expression that makes my chest tight with possibilities I’m finally brave enough to want.

“Morning,” I murmur, stretching against him.

“Morning.” His voice is soft, contemplative. “Sleep okay?”

“Better than I have in months.” I settle against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Reed?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want this to be temporary.”

The words slip out without permission, too honest and toovulnerable for six in the morning. But they’re true, and I’m tired of hiding from truth.

His arms tighten around me. “Good. Because none of this is temporary. Not the job, not Seattle, not us. This is it for me, Chelsea. This is forever.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I can, and I do.” He tilts my chin up so I’m looking at him. “I moved across the country. I changed everything about my life to be here with you. You think I’d do that for something temporary?”

“People change their minds.”

“Not about this. Never about this.” He kisses my forehead, soft and sure. “You’re it for me. Always have been, even when I was too stupid to admit it.”

I settle back against his chest, processing the weight of his certainty. This level of commitment, this willingness to build a life around someone else should terrify the hell out of me. Instead, it feels like coming home.

“Guess I better clear some closet space,” I tease.

“And bathroom counter space. I have a lot of hair products.”

“Hockey players and their grooming routines.”

“Hey, this face doesn’t maintain itself.”

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