Page 21 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Jake stood in the middle of our kitchen looking lost, which was new. He was many things—chaotic, performative, and occasionally exhausting—but never lost.

"Back there, I—" he started, then cut himself off with a sharp head shake.

I waited.

Jake turned to face me, and his expression was different. Uncertain.

"You don't have to be funny all the time," I said.

"I'm not sure I know how not to be."

I stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

"Try," I said.

His fingers brushed mine—tentative, questioning—and something clicked into place.

I kissed him.

It was not like in the movies. No fireworks or swelling music, only a raw, awkward collision of two people who hadn't planned for the moment

Jake's lips were soft, the taste of Earl Grey still lingering there. His hands—hesitant at first—slid up the sides of my neck, holding on in case I might vanish. My arms locked around his waist and pulled him flush. He was warm, alive, and real.

We broke apart briefly. He was panting, just a little. After a gentle laugh, he kissed me again, hungrier this time, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips until I let him in. My knees went weak.

I was not a person whose knees went weak.

Jake's right hand reached around to the small of my back, slipping under my t-shirt, fingers splaying there, anchoring me. I pressed harder, feeling his body's wiry muscle.

For a second, I worried he would stop, make a joke, and turn the moment into another bit for the highlight reel of his life. Instead, he pulled away and searched my eyes.

"I've wanted to do that since—"

I cut him off with my mouth because the last thing I needed was to hear him say how long he'd wanted to do that. I was already bracing, worried I might not meet his expectations.

The next thirty seconds were a blur of hands and motion and the faint, sickening suspicion I would never be enough for this, for him, and how his body seemed to race ahead and mine lagged behind.

Jake's knees banged into the coffee table. I nearly tripped over a chair. We crashed into the fridge and the counter before Jake somehow steered us down the hallway.

We stumbled into my bedroom. Two hours ago, I'd made my bed, with hospital corners sharp as usual. Jake landed on the mattress face-first, then rolled onto his back and yanked me down by the waistband of my jeans. A giggle escaped him.

"Sorry." He didn't look sorry at all. "Didn't mean to tackle you. Unless you're into that."

My lips were at his mouth, kissing, before words could roll out of mine. I unspooled under him. His hands navigated my body like he ran a breakaway: all instinct.

The first time he tried to get my shirt off, he got it stuck at my shoulders and nearly dislocated my elbow. I had to help, and that made me laugh.

We managed to get our pants off without injury, and then Jake rolled me over and knelt beside the bed in his boxers, a massive grin on his face.

I'd had sex, dark, shadowy, and fueled by lust, but not like this. It was never anything that counted, and I didn't do it with the lights on and a person in my bed who could make me forget to breathe.

Jake leaned in, his mouth on my jaw, and made a noise between a moan and a laugh. It vibrated right through me.

The following minutes were a tangle of elbows, knees, and uncoordinated enthusiasm. His teeth nipped my lower lip (too hard), and then soothed it with his tongue. I gasped and tried to say his name, but all that came out was a squeak.

"Relax," he whispered. His hands, big and callused, slipped inside the waistband of my briefs.

He yanked once, and they were around my knees. He started nosing down my chest, kissing everywhere except the places that made sense.

I should've felt ridiculous—twenty-six years old, naked except for socks, and aching so hard I could barely see straight—but instead all that registered was the heat of Jake's breath and the sharp, perfect focus of his hands.

He had one palm on my hipbone, steadying me like he needed me not to levitate. I braced my hands on the mattress, and then, Jake had my cock in his mouth.

My first thought: he was aggressive. It wasn't a gentle, exploratory blowjob. It was a full-on assault: no finesse, only heat, suction, and a constant hum in his throat.

I tried to keep quiet. I really tried, but a strangled noise ripped out of me, and Jake made a satisfied, obscene sound and doubled down. He was sloppy, wet, and determined.

Jake's mouth popped off and, without warning, he licked a stripe up my shaft and circled the head with his tongue before taking me back in. He acted with enthusiasm that could've been reckless if he didn't know precisely where he was going.

I saw a tan line at the base of his neck, a scar from a skate blade above his eyebrow, and a hint of a smile breaking through as he worked. I reached for his hair and then raked my fingers through it.

The need to control, organize, and direct was gone. I was limp, powerless, boneless except for the places where it counted.

His mouth was hungry and relentless; he was going to make me come in two minutes or less, and we both knew it.

He sucked hard, sliding down until his nose pressed into my pubic hair, and I swore so loudly I was sure the upstairs neighbor heard it. Then, he came up for air, grinning like he'd just scored on a penalty shot.

"Good?"

I could only nod. My tongue malfunctioned.

He licked a circle around the head of my cock, then let it slap against my stomach. "Fuck, you're beautiful." He started mouthing at my balls. I'd never understood the appeal before, but he was so methodical—so intent on making every part of me feel—it almost hurt.

I wanted to reciprocate, to make him experience half of what he was giving me, but my body wouldn't cooperate. Jake wrapped a fist around my shaft and stroked in time with his bobbing head, and my hips bucked.

He glanced up, caught my eye, and winked. Then he went back down, taking me in deep and humming like he was trying to vibrate the pleasure deep into my bones.

I lost it. My vision went white at the edges, and I sputtered out an apology even as I came, hard, into his mouth.

He didn't flinch. He held on, swallowing until I was wrung out and trembling. Then, he let me go and kissed the inside of my thigh.

He flopped face-first onto the bed, arms outspread and hair wild. "That's two for the home team."

I pulled him up by the wrist, and he sprawled next to me on the bed, all four limbs flung out like a crime scene outline. His breath was still heavy, his face flushed, and he was half-laughing and half-panting.

My voice was hoarse. "I'm not keeping score."

"Uh, I am." He rolled onto his elbow. "Scoreboard says Jake: one, Evan: zero. Unless you count the cookies, in which case you're winning by a million." He nudged my thigh with his knee, and I realized I didn't want to move. Not for hours.

"Your turn—" I started to say, but Jake interrupted me.

"I was even better than my Yelp reviews suggest."

I froze. Blinked at him. "Did you actually make a Yelp joke? Right now?"

Jake's face went through several expressions at once—mortification, amusement, and something that might have been panic. "I, uh. Yeah. Apparently, I did. Fuck, I'm sorry, I don't know why I—"

A laugh bubbled up from deep inside my chest. It was full-bodied and unstoppable, making my entire frame shake.

"You're impossible," I managed between gasps. "Absolutely impossible."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Good," I lifted my head to look at him. "Definitely good."

What followed lacked any choreography. It was entirely honest. Jake's breath caught when I began to stroke him.

Afterward, we lay tangled in sheets that would definitely need washing, Jake's head rested on my chest, and my fingers combed through his hair.

Several minutes later, after Jake had fallen asleep with his arm slung across my waist, I carefully extracted myself from the bed and padded to the kitchen. I opened my laptop to view my cookie-baking spreadsheet.

I scrolled to the bottom and added a new entry:

Jake – chewy center. Caution: unexpectedly sincere.

I stared at the words momentarily, then closed the laptop and returned to bed, where Jake sprawled across three-quarters of the mattress like he owned it. When I slipped back under the covers, he turned toward me and his possessive arm landed across my waist.

I listened to Jake breathe beside me and decided that maybe, sometimes, the best things in life didn't come with labels after all.