Page 38 of Exes That Puck
“Look at me,” he says softly.
I do. His eyes are so dark, full of excitement. I can tell he’s a little nervous.
He lines himself with me, meeting my eyes again to ask permission.
“Are you sure?”
I nod, my body aching for every inch of him. My hands touch his abs and his V-line. He’s so hot, and I will have to give my thanks to the hockey gods tonight.
He presses into me, his weight steady on me.
He doesn’t rush. Inch by inch, he’s pushing in, watching me. I watch him too, our breaths colliding.
“Zeke,” I moan, not able to comprehend that I’m in this predicament with him again. Except this time, I’m here willingly without alcohol or guilt. I’m just here for the pleasure. He sure knows how to please me.
He keeps the rhythm low and patient, almost stubborn about it, like he’s proving something to both of us like the fact that he can listen, control himself, and care. He reads the way my fingers tighten in his, the sound I make when he adjusts his angle, thebreath I lose when he sinks a little deeper. He chases none of it, instead, he follows all of it.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs.
“Right there,” I whisper at his angle, cheeks hot. “Don’t change anything.”
“Okay.” He gives me exactly that, pumping into me in a perfect rhythm. He’s hitting the spot just right. And it builds, slow as tide. The heat at the base of my spine, pressure in my belly, that bright edge starting to shine. He feels the shift before I say anything. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist where our hands are linked.
“I’ve got you,” he says. “Take your time.”
I do. I let the feeling crest instead of sprinting to it. When it hits, it’s not a crash, it’s a long, clean pull that leaves every muscle loose and humming. I bury my face against his jaw and breathe through it, shaking. He keeps me there, steady, until I’m blinking up at him again.
“Can I—” My voice comes out small. I clear it. “Can I turn around?”
His breath stutters. I feel it, see him catch himself, choose calm. “Yeah. If that’s what you want.”
I roll to my knees and hands, then glance back over my shoulder. He’s kneeling behind me, gaze locked on me like I’m the only thing in the world. His hands settle warm at my hips, not pulling, just there. Waiting for me to move first.
“Kare,” he whispers, rubbing his hand all over my body. I can feel his restraint as he looks at me. He aims into me, and from this angle, I cry out, gripping the blankets.
“Show me how much you missed me,” he says, voice low.
I start slow, rocking my hips, finding that same patient rhythm again but on my terms. He stays still at first, hands firm at my waist, letting me work, letting me lead. It makes my whole body feel like a live wire. The control, the trust. He breathes out a curse that sounds like praise, and then, rougher, right at my ear, “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
Heat skates down my spine. I roll my hips and feel the way it pulls a groan from him. I do it again just to hear it. His fingers tighten but don’t steer. He’s letting me choose the pace, the angle, the everything. The power of it makes my throat tight.
“Keep going,” he says, voice frayed. “You feel—” He cuts himself off, kisses the back of my shoulder instead. “Perfect.”
I keep the rhythm until I’m shaking again. He matches me finally, small thrusts that sync perfectly with my movement, nothing wild, just enough to layer more and more until the world blurs at the edges. He doesn’t chase his own finish. He’s watching me, listening for me. When I break, it’s sharp and sweet at once, my hands fisting in the sheets, breath gone.
He folds over me, an arm banding my middle to hold me through it, mouth at my shoulder whispering, “my girl, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” until I can breathe again. Then he goes still, like he’s waiting for permission.
“Don’t stop,” I manage, spent and smiling. I lean back just enough to wiggle my ass on him, pulling him deeper. I moan, “Come on.”
He nods against my skin and follows me, careful even in the way he lets go, grounding me with his hands while his breath tears out of him. We melt down together, tangled and quiet, the room suddenly huge and soft around us.
He eases back, breathless. The mattress shifts as he takes care of the basics. When he returns, he doesn’t flop or crowd, he liesbeside me and offers an arm. I lean in without thinking, cheek to his chest, listening to his heartbeat thunder and slow.
We stay like that. No speeches. No future-tense promises that would sour by morning. Just the small things that mean everything like his thumb tracing lazy circles on my shoulder and the way he keeps checking, silently, that he isn’t holding too tight. I breathe him in—soap and linen and the faintest hint of winter air from the cracked window he must’ve opened earlier. Clean slate.
“This doesn’t change what we said,” I murmur into his skin.
“I know.” His mouth brushes my hairline.
