Page 90 of Puck Your Feelings
"This isn't about him!" He spins around so suddenly I almost take a step back. His eyes finally meet mine, blazing with something that looks like anger but feels like panic. "Why can't you accept that maybe I just don't want this?"
The words hit like a blindside check—unexpected, brutal, knocking the wind out of me. But I'm not buying it. Not for a second.
"Because I don't believe you," I say, stepping closer until we're practically chest-to-chest. I see the pulse jumping in his neck. "You want this. I know you do."
"You don't know anything." His voice drops, dangerous and low. His hands clench into fists at his sides, and I can feel the anger coming off him in waves.
But it's not real. None of this is real. I've seen Kane angry. This isn't that. This is fear wearing anger's jersey.
"Then prove it," I challenge, tilting my chin up. "Push me away. Do it."
The moment stretches between us, tight as a skate lace. We're both breathing hard, the only sound in the cabin besides the gentle hum of his laptop. I'm not backing down. And for once, I don't think Kane knows what to do with that.
His hand comes up—slowly, almost in slow motion—and I can't tell if he's about to shove me away or grab me and pull me closer.
Either way, I'm not moving an inch.
CHAPTER 22
Kane
THE HURT IN Becker's eyes is like a knife to my chest. I put that there. Me.
I've spent my entire life calculating risks, weighing options, considering consequences. What's the smart play? What's the safe choice? What would my father want?
But looking at Becker now—fists clenched, jaw tight, eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and something deeper, something wounded—none of those calculations matter. Nothing matters except erasing that look from his face.
My body moves without my brain’s involvement. Three steps and I'm across the room, grabbing Becker's face between my hands and crushing my mouth against his.
For one terrifying heartbeat, he's frozen.
Then he's kissing me back with a ferocity that knocks the breath from my lungs. His hands fist in my shirt, yanking me closer until we're chest to chest, no space left between us.
This isn't like our previous kisses. This is brutal and desperate, allpent-up frustration. I taste blood—his or mine, I can't tell. It only makes me hungrier.
Becker walks me backward, his body pushing into mine until my back slams against the cabin wall hard enough to rattle the cheap artwork hanging beside us. He pins me there with his hips, one thigh wedging between mine.
I'm drowning in him—his scent, his taste, the little growling sounds he makes deep in his throat. My hands slide under his shirt, desperate for skin, and the heat of him burns my palms.
Then suddenly he's breaking the kiss, leaning back just enough to look at me, his breathing ragged. His pupils are blown wide, just a thin ring of blue around black, and his lips are swollen and red.
"Really?" he asks. "That's your solution?"
But my brain isn't working right.
All I can think about is getting him back against me, feeling him pressed into my hip again. My hand drops between us, finding the outline of his cock through his sweatpants, and I squeeze.
"It may not bethesolution," I manage, my voice one of a stranger, "but it'sasolution."
He hisses through his teeth, eyelids fluttering shut as I start to stroke him through the fabric. Even through layers of clothing, I can feel how big he is, how hot. My mouth waters at the thought of getting my hands on him properly. Of feeling him naked against me.
His face in pleasure is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—all that cockiness and snark stripped away, leaving something raw and vulnerable. His cheeks flushed, lips parted, a small furrow between his brows like he's concentrating on something just beyond his reach.
When his eyes open again, they're hazy, but there's a sharpness there too. Determination.
"It's really not," he says.
But while sit mouth say one thing, his body tells a different story and now he's dropping to his knees in front of me, and suddenly, against all odds, there he is, Riley Becker, kneeling between my legs, eyes fixed on the front of my pants.
