Page 16 of Pucked Up (Punk as Puck #2)

I laughed and picked up speed. I would do anything he asked…except make him come. Not yet, anyway. His flush made his freckles stand out, made his short beard look darker. His head lolled back, and his hips stuttered as they tried to chase his orgasm.

I got him close—so fucking close.

And then I let go again.

“Fucking bastard! You fucking piece of shit!”

Those angry curses were like poetry. Little declarations of love by a man who wasn’t sure how to ask for what he wanted. A man who still didn’t believe he deserved to get it.

I let his nipple go and took him by the chin, turning his head to the side, and I sank my teeth into his tendon. It would leave a mark—for now. He hissed, his hips moving again, and I let him fuck his cock against my palm for a short while.

And then I let go.

“Why?” His voice was like a sob now. He was trembling with need, desperate. His ache was probably painful.

“Because you still weren’t ready.”

He caught that—the past tense. His eyes met mine, and he licked his lips nervously. In that moment, I could tell he knew what I wanted to hear, and that was the real battle in his head. Would he give it to me? The pride he would have to swallow would probably choke him.

“Boden,” I murmured.

He closed his eyes. “I hate the sound of my name on your lips.”

I leaned into his ear, careful of the hearing aids. “No. You don’t.” I let the tips of my fingers touch his cock, trailing a teasing touch up and down the shaft.

He grunted, then groaned. His body was pulsing with heat. A word rose against his tongue and lost itself in his throat, and he made a soft choking noise.

“Tell me,” I murmured, first in English, then in French.

“Fuck, fuck,” he gasped. The war was over. He’d lost. And in that, he’d also won. “Please. Hugo, please. Make me come.”

I hadn’t expected him to say my name, and my own dick jumped.

I was suddenly aware of how hard I was, how much I wanted to feel his skin against mine.

And I would—next time. Gripping his cock again, I pressed my forehead to his, then began to jerk him exactly the way he wanted—the way that would send him crashing over the edge.

He opened his lips in a harsh pant, and I took advantage, dipping low for a kiss. I kept it careful, an exploration, a question. He could pull away if he didn’t want me, but his hand came around the back of my neck and held me fast as he devoured my mouth.

My arm sped up, and I could feel his orgasm cresting and his body mounting with tension because he was afraid I wouldn’t let him have this. But I needed him to know that all he had to do was ask. That was it.

Nothing more.

He gasped, and I squeezed, and then he let go.

He came in hot ropes, soiling my shirt as his entire body began to spasm. I held him tight so he didn’t fall off the desk, letting him writhe against me as he worked himself up, then slowly started to come down.

His breathing started to even after several long moments, and then he pulled back, his eyes red-tinged and almost fevered. Licking a stripe over his lower lip, he glanced down .

“You made a mess of me,” I told him.

He didn’t look up. “You’re hard.”

“I have been since you came in here.”

His hand, which was still against the back of my neck, twitched. “Should I?—”

“No.” He flinched, and my heart ached. Turning my head, I pressed a kiss to the side of his jaw. “Next time.”

“Bold of you to think I’ll be back.” But his tone was thready and weak. He knew. We both did. This might have an ending, but it wasn’t today.

Taking several steps back, I put my hands under his armpits again, and he used my body to steady himself as he slid off the desk and turned toward his chair. His muscles weren’t more relaxed, but they didn’t seem worse than when he’d come in.

“Zip me up, please,” he asked very softly.

I wished I could do more. I wanted to take him back under the shower, rinse him of his seed, make him feel refreshed and clean.

Not quite reborn, but almost. Instead, I tucked him back inside his pants and did up the zipper, then the button.

He leaned back against me, and I took the opportunity to do his shirt back up, then tuck it into his waistband.

“All put back together,” I said.

He swallowed so thickly I could hear it click in the back of his throat as it caught. “I want off this team.”

I stiffened as he pulled away from me, but when he sat in his chair and looked up at me, I understood what he meant. “Prove it. ”

“Fuck yo?—”

“Enough,” I warned, my eyes narrow. His jaw shut slowly. “You can hate me all you want, but that won’t stop me from helping.”

“So why won’t you make a fucking call and get someone down here now?”

“Because I’m not going to show them what you can’t do. Show me that you’ve made room in your ass for better things than your head, Boden. And then I’ll make the call.”

He looked like he wanted to fight me again, but only for a moment. He relaxed back in his chair, then leaned forward and set his straps before meeting my eyes again. “I’m good at what I do.”

“Prove it,” I said again.

This time, he answered me with a single nod, then turned his chair, and without another word, he was gone.

My office felt quiet and cold. I had my computer screen open, a list of PPHL teams laid out all nice and neat. I knew most of their GMs—at least, the ones that were still around from the time Reid had been playing.

I told Boden he had a lot to prove to me before he left, but in truth, he was ready now.

I knew for a fact that the reason he was so angry was that he was suffocating here.

He deserved more. He deserved better. He was destined for the professional world, and the longer he rotted on this ice, the harder it would be for him to accept his place when he finally received an offer.

His old coach had done him so fucking dirty.

Clicking over to my email, I had two drafts, each with links to Boden’s tape. Losing him would hurt. Portland and Orlando were so fucking far there was no way I’d ever see him again. But sacrificing this—whatever it was between us—would be worth it for him.

And I still had a Hail Mary in my pocket. Hitting Send, I grabbed my phone off the desk, then sat back and scrolled to the very end of my contacts. Vincent was the only V in the batch.

The line rang for a while, and since I had no idea if Boston was playing tonight, there was a good chance he wasn’t going to pick up.

“Hugo?”

I hadn’t heard Vincent’s voice in years.

The last time was two weeks after Reid’s funeral.

He was in Montreal, and I was cleaning out our apartment.

There was a bottle of scotch involved and a couple of bad decisions.

When I woke up in the morning, my boxers around my ankles and a smear of dried come on my torso, he was gone.

He hadn’t called again, and I was grateful for it. Back then, it still felt like cheating.

“How are you?”

“I’m good.” His voice was that same honey-thick, low rumble that I’d liked so much. Reid had liked him too. “But I’m going to assume this isn’t a friendly how are you call after all this time.”

I flushed, but I wasn’t going to rehash old times. “I have a player I’d like you to take a look at. I saw you just lost someone to…where was it?”

“Fucking Seattle,” he spat.

I laughed. “Right. Would you be willing to look at some tape?”

“Who is it?”

“Boden Morin.”

“ Morin ? Not?—”

“Arnaud’s son. Ouais.”

He swore under his breath, then let out a heavy sigh. “If you think he’s worth it, I suppose I can. Are any other teams courting him?”

“Portland and Orlando,” I lied. But it was only a temporary lie. Once they saw the tape, I knew offers would be coming in.

“And you know him…?”

“I’m currently his coach. He’s playing on a CL team right now.”

“You’re coaching community league?”

I didn’t want to get into that either. “I know he’s got a bit of a reputation, but he’s worth the risk.”

“He hasn’t had any upsets since Beijing, has he? And that was the only incident,” Vincent said slowly. “Yeah, alright. You have my email?”

“Yes. I appreciate this.” That was a lie. I didn’t appreciate it. I wasn’t ready to lose him, even if there was nothing real between us, and even if it was only a few hours away in Boston.

“Anytime. You know that. And hey, it was good to hear from you. Will you be at the benefit in Montreal?”

The benefit? Oh merde. The benefit for Reid. The one they threw every year. The one I’d been avoiding for the last decade.

I winced. “Ah. Well…”

“Hey, sorry.” Vincent was quiet for a moment. “I know it’s still hard.”

Not in the way he was thinking, but it was easier to just say, “Yes. But thank you.”

“If you do turn up, give me a call, yeah? I’d really love to have lunch. I, uh…I still feel like shit for that night.”

“Don’t. It wasn’t your fault. I was hurting and angry. I’m sorry I cried afterward. I don’t normally do that.”

He snorted. “Are you seriously apologizing for grieving two weeks after your husband died? Don’t be an ass. I felt like a fucking predator. You were in so much pain.”

“Yes. I was also horny, and so were you. It wasn’t wrong, Vin. Just…bad timing.”

“I take it it’s still bad timing?”

I should have said no. That it was great timing. Vincent would have been a great partner, but the words tasted like bitter salt on my tongue, and the moment I blinked, I saw Boden’s look of ecstasy behind my eyelids. “It is. ”

“Probably for the best. I’m fresh off my second divorce anyway. But don’t be a stranger, eh?”

“Of course.” I had no idea if I meant that or not, but it felt nice to say in the moment. “Let me know what you think of Morin, okay?”

“If you believe in him, I’m sure I will too. Talk later.”

We hung up without a long goodbye, and then I copied his email address into the template I’d created, attached the video, and hit Send without saying anything else. The tape would speak for itself.

I closed my laptop with a very dull click that I could feel in my chest. I felt very alone suddenly, and I knew with that single sent email, that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.