Page 93 of Puck Your Feelings
My decision crystallizes like ice forming on a windshield—all at once and with absolute clarity. Before I can second-guess myself, I'm sliding out from under my covers, my bare feet hitting the cold wooden floor. The ladder to the top bunk creaks under my weight, but I don't care if he hears me coming.
I want him to.
Becker's eyes are open when I reach the top, reflecting what little moonlight filters through the cabin's small window. He watches me climb without speaking, but his body tenses as I crawl into the cramped space beside him.
"Kane—"
"Shhh." I cut him off, maneuvering in the tiny bunk until I'm straddling his thighs. The single mattress dips under our combined weight, forcing us closer together.
He’s wearing threadbare t-shirt and sleep pants, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric.
"What are you doing?" His hands come up to rest on my hips, not pushing me away but not pulling me closer either.
"Getting my shit together." I don't give him time to respond before I'm leaning down, capturing his mouth with mine.
For a second, he's frozen. Then he's kissing me back, his lips parting, tongue sliding against mine. But his hands move to my chest, pushing slightly.
"Kane," he murmurs against my lips. "This is messed up."
"One night," I breathe, trailing kisses down his jaw to the spot below his ear that makes him shiver. "Give me one night where I don't think about anything except you."
My cock is already hardening, pressing against the fabric of my boxers, and I can feel Becker responding beneath me. I slide my hands under his t-shirt, tracing the ridges of his abs, feeling his muscles jump beneath my touch.
"I want to taste you," I confess, the words spilling out before I can stop them. My heart pounds so hard I swear he must feel it. "I want to do it right."
I move down his body, tugging at his sleep pants. He hesitates for a moment, but then lifts his hips, helping me slide them down his thighs. His cock springs free, already hard, the tip glistening in the dim light.
"This doesn't change—" he starts, voice strained.
"It changes everything," I interrupt, settling between his spread legs. "Now let me."
The bunk is cramped as hell, but I don't care. All I care about is the way Becker's watching me, craning his neck, chest rising and falling with short, rapid breaths. I work my way down his body, pushing his shirt up to expose his stomach, pressing kisses to the trail of hair that leads to his cock.
I pause, suddenly nervous.
Will I even know how to do it?
I’ve even seen another man's cock up close, let alone put my mouth on one. But God, I want to. I want to hear him moan because of me.
Doing my best to keep my fingers steady, I wrap my palm around his cock, testing the weight and feel.
It's different. So fucking different from touching myself—the angle, the size, the heat of his skin.
I stroke him slowly, learning, memorizing what makes his hips twitch. What draws those small, involuntary sounds from his throat.
"Fuck," he whispers, his head falling back against the pillow.
My own cock throbs painfully, trapped in my boxers. It doesn’t matter. This is about Becker. About showing him what he means to me in a way I won’t put into words.
I lean down, my breath ghosting over the head of his cock. The scent of him fills my senses. My tongue darts out, licking up the underside of his shaft in one slow, experimental stroke.
Becker's entire body tenses, a strangled gasp escaping him.
"Teach me," I say, looking up at him. "Tell me what you like."
His resistance crumbles visibly, his expression shifting from conflicted to something raw and hungry. "Fuck... okay."
He reaches down, larde palm resting on the back of my head, not pushing, just guiding.
