Page 100 of Puck Your Feelings
"Kane—" I stumble over a root, nearly face-planting into the dirt path. "What the—slow down!"
He doesn't slow down. Doesn't even look back. Just keeps marching toward our cabin with the single-minded determination of a man possessed, his fingers twisted in the fabric of my t-shirt, pulling me forward every time I lag.
"Seriously, dude, what's going on?" I try again, jogging to keep up. "Did Svetlana text you death threats or something?"
Nothing. Radio silence. Just Kane's broad shoulders cutting through the late afternoon sun, his jaw set, his entire body radiating this energy I've never seen from him before.
It's not anger—I know what he looks like angry, all tight control and clipped words. This is something different. Something that's making my pulse kick up and my brain short-circuit trying to figure out what the hell happened between floating peacefully in the lake and this forced march of doom.
"If you're planning to murder me, just know Groover has standing instructions to release all my blackmail material if I go missing."
We reach the cabin, and Kane all but shoves me through the door.
"What—ooh."
The door slams shut behind us, and before I can finish whatever half-formed question was about to fall out of my mouth, Kane's kicking off his shoes. Then his hands are at the hem of his t-shirt, yanking it over his head in one smooth motion.
His chest emerges—all muscle and sun-kissed skin, damp from the lake, small water droplets catching the light filtering through the cabin windows.
My eyes grow wide. His abs are not news. Except right now, they feel like breaking fucking news. Like CNN should be covering this. Like I should be taking notes.
His hands drop to his belt.
Oh.
Ohhhh.
I'm stripping before my brain catches up to my hands, because what else am I supposed to do? Stand here fully clothed while Kane gets naked?
That's just rude.
My shirt hits the floor. My shorts follow. I'm fumbling with my boxer briefs when I look up and freeze.
Kane's completely naked now, standing in the middle of our cabin like some kind of Greek statue that got lost on its wayto a museum. And his cock—Jesus Christ, his cock is already half-hard, filling out against his thigh.
My mouth goes dry. My own dick perks up with interest.
"Can you tell me—"
"Less talking," Kane interrupts, his voice rougher than I've ever heard it. "More doing."
I stand there like an idiot, naked and confused and so fucking turned on I can barely think straight, while Kane turns and walks toward the bathroom. He disappears inside, and for a second, I wonder if I hallucinated this entire thing. If maybe I hit my head at the lake and I'm currently unconscious, dreaming up elaborate scenarios where Kane Marcus strips naked and—
His head pops back out of the bathroom doorway.
"You coming, or what?"
Is this a trick question? I'd follow that ass into an active volcano right now.
I practically teleport into the tiny bathroom where he's already cranking the shower handle. Water sputters to life and he steps under the spray without waiting for it to warm up, and I follow because my brain has officially left the building and my dick is running the show now.
The shower stall is small—designed for one person, maybe one and a half if they're really friendly. With both of us in here, there's nowhere to go that doesn't involve touching. Kane's chest brushes mine as he turns, water streaming down his face.
And then he's on me.
His mouth crashes into mine, hot and demanding, one hand coming up to cup the back of my head while the other grabs my hip, pulling me flush against him. The kiss is hungry.Desperate. Like he's trying to crawl inside my skin and I'm letting him.
Every thought evaporates from my brain. The confusion, the questions, the concern—gone. There's only Kane's tongue sliding against mine, his body pressed along every inch of mine, the water cascading over both of us, making everything slippery and hot and perfect.
