Page 13 of Exes That Puck (The Honey Badger Puckers #4)

I hook a finger in the hem of his shirt and feel his stomach tense beneath cotton.

“I want this off.”

He lifts his arms, and I peel the fabric up slow, knuckles skimming warm skin. He’s all hockey—cut lines, old bruises, a fresh scrape at his hipbone. I smooth a thumb over it, and he shivers.

“Okay?” he asks. The word is quiet, careful.

“Okay.”

I work the hoodie over my head and shrug out of it. He takes it from me like it’s something that could break, folds it over the chair, then turns back to me with hands empty, waiting. He’s holding himself back. I feel it.

I grab his hand, pulling him to the bed.

Quietly, I place my palm flat over his sternum and push.

He gives ground until the backs of his legs hit the mattress.

I go up on my toes and kiss him slow and testing.

He doesn’t surge, he follows. The kiss deepens by inches, not miles.

When I tug, he sinks onto the bed and I climb into his lap, knees bracketing his hips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. His words land low in my chest. No promises, no future tense. Just us right now in this moment.

I slide my hands to his shoulders, to the back of his neck, down his arms, learning him again. He grips my waist and waits. “Tell me what you want.”

“To take this slow,” I breathe.

He nods. “Slow.”

I edge back and take my time with his pants. He’s breathing hard, but he doesn’t rush me. When I push his jeans down, he helps, toes kicking them free. I press kisses along the curve of his jaw, his throat, the hollow at the base of it. His pulse jumps against my mouth.

“Lie back,” I whisper.

He does, forearms folding behind his head for a second before he reaches to cup my cheek. “You sure?”

“Yes.” A little laugh climbs out of me, shaky and honest. “I’m very sure.”

He smiles like that’s his favorite sound.

I peel my tee over my head and toss it blindly.

The air skims cool across my skin. His gaze goes hot, then softer, like he’s trying to memorize rather than devour.

He sits up on his elbows, meets me halfway, and kisses the line of my throat, the slope of my shoulder, the space between my collarbones.

His mouth lingers along the top of my chest, like he’s tracing my name.

He murmurs my name into my skin, and I arch, fingers threading in his hair.

“Still okay?” he asks against me.

“Don’t stop,” I say, and feel his smile.

We move like we’ve done this a thousand times and also never, not like this. He rolls us carefully so I’m on my back, then pauses to reach to the nightstand. The small foil sound snaps the world into focus.

He glances up for confirmation, and I nod.

When he comes back over me, he kisses me again until the tension in my shoulders unwinds. His palm smooths down my side and finds my hand. He laces our fingers together and anchors them above my head on the pillow.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

I do. His eyes are so dark, full of excitement. I can tell he’s a little nervous.

He lines himself with me, meeting my eyes again to ask permission.

“Are you sure?”

I nod, my body aching for every inch of him. My hands touch his abs and his V-line. He’s so hot, and I will have to give my thanks to the hockey gods tonight.

He presses into me, his weight steady on me.

He doesn’t rush. Inch by inch, he’s pushing in, watching me. I watch him too, our breaths colliding.

“Zeke,” I moan, not able to comprehend that I’m in this predicament with him again. Except this time, I’m here willingly without alcohol or guilt. I’m just here for the pleasure. He sure knows how to please me.

He keeps the rhythm low and patient, almost stubborn about it, like he’s proving something to both of us like the fact that he can listen, control himself, and care.

He reads the way my fingers tighten in his, the sound I make when he adjusts his angle, the breath I lose when he sinks a little deeper.

He chases none of it, instead, he follows all of it.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs.

“Right there,” I whisper at his angle, cheeks hot. “Don’t change anything.”

“Okay.” He gives me exactly that, pumping into me in a perfect rhythm.

He’s hitting the spot just right. And it builds, slow as tide.

The heat at the base of my spine, pressure in my belly, that bright edge starting to shine.

He feels the shift before I say anything.

His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist where our hands are linked.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Take your time.”

I do. I let the feeling crest instead of sprinting to it. When it hits, it’s not a crash, it’s a long, clean pull that leaves every muscle loose and humming. I bury my face against his jaw and breathe through it, shaking. He keeps me there, steady, until I’m blinking up at him again.

“Can I—” My voice comes out small. I clear it. “Can I turn around?”

His breath stutters. I feel it, see him catch himself, choose calm. “Yeah. If that’s what you want.”

I roll to my knees and hands, then glance back over my shoulder. He’s kneeling behind me, gaze locked on me like I’m the only thing in the world. His hands settle warm at my hips, not pulling, just there. Waiting for me to move first.

“Kare,” he whispers, rubbing his hand all over my body. I can feel his restraint as he looks at me. He aims into me, and from this angle, I cry out, gripping the blankets.

“Show me how much you missed me,” he says, voice low.

I start slow, rocking my hips, finding that same patient rhythm again but on my terms. He stays still at first, hands firm at my waist, letting me work, letting me lead.

It makes my whole body feel like a live wire.

The control, the trust. He breathes out a curse that sounds like praise, and then, rougher, right at my ear, “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

Heat skates down my spine. I roll my hips and feel the way it pulls a groan from him. I do it again just to hear it. His fingers tighten but don’t steer. He’s letting me choose the pace, the angle, the everything. The power of it makes my throat tight.

“Keep going,” he says, voice frayed. “You feel—” He cuts himself off, kisses the back of my shoulder instead. “Perfect.”

I keep the rhythm until I’m shaking again.

He matches me finally, small thrusts that sync perfectly with my movement, nothing wild, just enough to layer more and more until the world blurs at the edges.

He doesn’t chase his own finish. He’s watching me, listening for me.

When I break, it’s sharp and sweet at once, my hands fisting in the sheets, breath gone.

He folds over me, an arm banding my middle to hold me through it, mouth at my shoulder whispering, “my girl, I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” until I can breathe again. Then he goes still, like he’s waiting for permission.

“Don’t stop,” I manage, spent and smiling. I lean back just enough to wiggle my ass on him, pulling him deeper. I moan, “Come on.”

He nods against my skin and follows me, careful even in the way he lets go, grounding me with his hands while his breath tears out of him. We melt down together, tangled and quiet, the room suddenly huge and soft around us.

He eases back, breathless. The mattress shifts as he takes care of the basics. When he returns, he doesn’t flop or crowd, he lies beside me and offers an arm. I lean in without thinking, cheek to his chest, listening to his heartbeat thunder and slow.

We stay like that. No speeches. No future-tense promises that would sour by morning.

Just the small things that mean everything like his thumb tracing lazy circles on my shoulder and the way he keeps checking, silently, that he isn’t holding too tight.

I breathe him in—soap and linen and the faintest hint of winter air from the cracked window he must’ve opened earlier. Clean slate.

“This doesn’t change what we said,” I murmur into his skin.

“I know.” His mouth brushes my hairline.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For listening.”

He exhales, long and shaky. “I’m trying.”

We fall quiet again, but I have the feeling that he has a lot he wants to say. But I think he’s holding it back. I close my eyes, telling myself not to overthink it. It’s better this way.

The lamp throws a small halo on the wall, and the rest of the room is shadows and familiar outlines.

I let my eyes stay closed, just for a minute.

I don’t promise myself anything.

I don’t ask him to.

I let the rules sit at the top of my mind and enjoy this silence.

Tonight, he gave me exactly what I asked for, and it was good.