Page 102 of Puck Your Feelings
He leans back against the shower wall, water streaming over his shoulders, wraps his hand around his own cock and stroking himself with slow, deliberate pulls, his eyes locked on mine.
"Fine," he says, his voice like gravel. "I'll finish myself, then."
It's official.
I died at the lake. Drowned peacefully, and somehow ended up in heaven. Because there's no way this is real life. No way I'm actually watching Kane Marcus jack himself off inches away from me, his hand moving in steady strokes, his abs flexing with each movement, his mouth falling open slightly as he works himself over.
This is my own personal paradise, and I'm never leaving.
CHAPTER 27
Kane
THIS IS PROBABLY the must surreal I have ever felt, my breath coming in fast and shallow, as I’m standing here, under the stream, jacking off with Becker watching.
Because that’s what I’m doing, for all intense and purpose, and if Becker says anything other than “Yes,” in the next ten seconds, then…well, that’s all I’m going to be doing.
But his resolve is crumbling, I can tell. I can see it in the way his cock jerks, in the way his throat works as he swallows, in the way his eyes are glued to where my hand is working my shaft.
And finally, he says, “Yeah, fuck it. I mean, me. Fuck me—“
I don't let him finish.
I'm on him in half a second, mouth crashing into his, one hand fisting in his wet hair while the other grabs his hip hard, already walking us both out of the shower, our lips locked, barely remembering to reach back and shut off the water before we're stumbling into the main room.
Right now, I want him so much, I don’t care about anything else. About the future, or the past, or the fact that our bodies are dripping water, leaving pools on the floor as we walk.
We reach the bunk beds and I break the kiss just long enough to grab every blanket, sheet, and pillow I can reach from my bunk, tossing them onto the floor in a messy pile. I arrange them with my foot into something resembling a bed, and when I look up, Becker's watching me with this amused expression.
"What has gotten into—"
"Nothing. I just want you. Is that so hard to believe?"
Before he can answer, I'm kissing him again, hands everywhere, touching every inch of skin I can reach, pulling him as close as physically possible.
He chuckles against my mouth. "Wait."
I don't want to wait. I'm so hard it hurts.
"Wait a second." He sounds amused. Reluctantly, I let go of his mouth. “We need…things.”
Right. Things.
My heart kicks into overdrive because I know exactly what things he means, and it should terrify me. Itwouldterrify me if I let myself think about it for more than two seconds. But I'm not thinking. I'm not giving myself the chance to chicken out or overthink or make a mental list of reasons this is a terrible idea.
I want Becker. Ineedhim. That's the only thing that matters right now.
He crosses to the closet, opening his bottom drawer. The contents nearly explode out—a chaotic mess of clothes and random shit I don't want to know about. He rummages throughit, cursing under his breath, before returning with a bottle of lube and a condom.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is real. This is actually happening.
I raise a brow and eye his supplies. "And you just happen to have those on you." Because of course he does.
He shrugs one shoulder, smirking. "You never know."
I step closer, wrapping my hands around his waist, pulling him flush against me. "And who exactly were you planning on using them with?"
"Well, to be honest, an antagonistic hockey robot wasn't very high on that list," he says. "But here we are."
