Page 37 of Exes That Puck
“Are you hooking up with anyone?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. You?”
She shakes her head. “No, but why haven’t you?”
I brush the hair out of her face and say, “There’s only one girl I want.”
Her eyes light up. “Yeah?”
“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “I won’t forget the rules.”
She smiles, and I smile back.
14
I hook a finger in the hem of his shirt and feel his stomach tense beneath cotton.
“I want this off.”
He lifts his arms, and I peel the fabric up slow, knuckles skimming warm skin. He’s all hockey—cut lines, old bruises, a fresh scrape at his hipbone. I smooth a thumb over it, and he shivers.
“Okay?” he asks. The word is quiet, careful.
“Okay.”
I work the hoodie over my head and shrug out of it. He takes it from me like it’s something that could break, folds it over the chair, then turns back to me with hands empty, waiting. He’s holding himself back. I feel it.
I grab his hand, pulling him to the bed. Quietly, I place my palm flat over his sternum and push. He gives ground until the backs of his legs hit the mattress. I go up on my toes and kiss him slowand testing. He doesn’t surge, he follows. The kiss deepens by inches, not miles. When I tug, he sinks onto the bed and I climb into his lap, knees bracketing his hips.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says. His words land low in my chest. No promises, no future tense. Just us right now in this moment.
I slide my hands to his shoulders, to the back of his neck, down his arms, learning him again. He grips my waist and waits. “Tell me what you want.”
“To take this slow,” I breathe.
He nods. “Slow.”
I edge back and take my time with his pants. He’s breathing hard, but he doesn’t rush me. When I push his jeans down, he helps, toes kicking them free. I press kisses along the curve of his jaw, his throat, the hollow at the base of it. His pulse jumps against my mouth.
“Lie back,” I whisper.
He does, forearms folding behind his head for a second before he reaches to cup my cheek. “You sure?”
“Yes.” A little laugh climbs out of me, shaky and honest. “I’m very sure.”
He smiles like that’s his favorite sound.
I peel my tee over my head and toss it blindly. The air skims cool across my skin. His gaze goes hot, then softer, like he’s trying to memorize rather than devour. He sits up on his elbows, meets me halfway, and kisses the line of my throat, the slope of my shoulder, the space between my collarbones. His mouth lingers along the top of my chest, like he’s tracing my name. He murmurs my name into my skin, and I arch, fingers threading in his hair.
“Still okay?” he asks against me.
“Don’t stop,” I say, and feel his smile.
We move like we’ve done this a thousand times and also never, not like this. He rolls us carefully so I’m on my back, then pauses to reach to the nightstand. The small foil sound snaps the world into focus.
He glances up for confirmation, and I nod.
When he comes back over me, he kisses me again until the tension in my shoulders unwinds. His palm smooths down my side and finds my hand. He laces our fingers together and anchors them above my head on the pillow.
