Page 91 of Puck Wild


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I slid under the covers, careful not to crowd him even though every instinct had me wanting to melt into his space. The sheets were warm from his body heat, and I smelled the clean scent of his shampoo on the pillow.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

I nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

"You don't have to explain," he said. "Or talk. We can just..."

"Just what?"

"Exist. Together. Without commentary."

I almost laughed. Existing without commentary was probably the hardest thing he could have asked of me. My entire life was commentary—jokes, deflections, and performance art designed to keep people entertained and distracted from looking too closely at the mess underneath.

I stayed on my back, arms folded over my stomach, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Nothing did. Evan's breathing remained steady, ocean-slow, and after a minute, he shifted, the quilt rustling as he rolled toward me.

His arm rested inches above my shoulder line, close enough that the hairs on my skin stood at attention.

I watched him in the dim streetlight. His hair fell forward, framing his forehead. The lines around his mouth were soft, lips parted a little.

Without thinking, I reached up and brushed the backs of my fingers along his cheek. He flinched. I'd meant it as a comfort thing—a brotherly gesture or some shit—but when he turned his face into my palm, sparks jumped between us.

Evan opened his eyes. They were less blue, more gray, sleepy, and unguarded as he watched me. His gaze paused at my lips. I knew that he wanted to kiss me. I knew it how I knew the angle of a slapshot or the trajectory of a perfect pass.

I didn't move. Not at first. I let him look at me. Let him see the mess. Let him see me.

He leaned in, slow and careful, eyes steady on mine. The kiss was barely there—the ghost of contact. I inhaled, held my breath, and had to close my eyes because the way he looked at me made it impossible to keep them open.

I kissed him back, not hard, not with the bruising intensity I usually brought to the ice or the bedroom. I explored the shape of his mouth and the silent question he asked with the slide of his hand up the side of my neck.

Evan didn't make a sound. Not even when he pressed forward, until his arms and legs tangled with mine. He ran his fingertips along my ribs. I shivered.

I let my hands wander, too—over his shoulders and down his back. I noted the ridges of muscle and the places where he'd taken hits.

His skin was hot to the touch.

The blanket was a barrier between us, but he was already working on it, pushing his foot down to untangle the covers from our legs.

The next kiss wasn't gentle. He kissed me like he didn't care if I broke down. The one side of my face was still slightly tender from the punch, but Evan pushed past that. Our teeth clacked once, embarrassing, and I laughed into his mouth.

He bit my lip in retaliation, just hard enough to make me hiss, and then he started kissing down my jaw, neck, and the place just below my ear that made me crazy.

I wanted to be closer — like, share a locker without deodorant close. The kind of close where you start smelling like the same shampoo and neither of you cares.

He sucked a bruise above my collarbone, and I gasped, fingers digging into his back. It would show in the locker room tomorrow. I hoped it did. I wanted everyone to see.

Evan pulled back to look at me. "Okay?"

At first, I didn't trust myself to speak, partly because my brain was still rebooting from the fact that Evan Carter had marked me like I was his favorite stick tape. I slid my hand around his neck, thumb pressing against his pulse. "Yeah, don't stop."

His smile was crooked and hungry. His hands hovered at my waist, and then they found the band of my boxers and hesitated.

"It's all good. You can."

He hooked his thumbs under the waistband and shimmied them down, the backs of his knuckles trailing heat over my thighs. My dick slapped up against my belly, and he stared. He exhaled slowly and wrapped his hand around the shaft.

I groaned and shuddered. "Fuck," I muttered, my hips twitching. "Sorry, I—"

Evan stroked me, thumb working over the head, marveling at the leak of pre-cum beading up at the tip, and I thought I might lose it right there. I bit down on my forearm to steady myself. My body was loud, stupid, and ready to embarrass me, but Evan was patient, slowing his hand until I could breathe again.