Page 3 of Pucked Up (Punk as Puck #2)

“Canadian.” I strained to hear if there was disappointment in that word, but I couldn’t make out more than low tones as I watched the curve of his lips as he spoke.

Sticking out my hand, I waited for him to take it. As I expected, his palm was warm and without any sort of real calluses. He had a soft job. A desk job. By the look of his body, he was no stranger to the gym, but it was obvious his hobbies weren’t hard work.

“So,” he said in French, leaning back. His gaze caught on my hearing aids, and then he adjusted himself and instead leaned toward me. “Robert.” The faux name on the card I gave every stranger.

He didn’t pronounce the T . It made me feel weirdly homesick. Robert was my middle name, and even my American mother pronounced it Ro-bear.

“And you are?” I said after a beat.

His brow furrowed in thought. I could see his lips moving, like he was trying out names. Eventually, he settled on “Jean-Luc.”

“Picard?”

His gaze met mine again, and then his body shook with a low laughter I couldn’t hear. “Are you a Star Trek fan?”

“Not in the slightest. But my roommate is.” So was my dad, but I wasn’t bringing that fucker into this conversation. “You must be.”

“It grew on me after being forced to watch it for several years—every single day.” He sounded wistful and resentful all at the same time. His fingers drummed on the table, and I could feel the vibration under my hands.

There was something about him I liked more than my usual hookups. He was assessing me in ways that most people didn’t. Usually, they tried to catch a glimpse of my chair, to study the disability before the man—to see if it was too weird or too much.

“Your friend over there”—he thumbed behind his back, but Tiago was long gone—“said you have a hotel.”

I nodded.

“You do this a lot, Robert?”

For some reason, I suddenly hated my middle name on his lips. I wanted to be Boden to him. But that was not a line I planned on crossing ever. “Yes.” I stared at him, challenging him, testing whether or not he was going to judge me and fuck me. Or judge me and walk away.

“You have a rule about condoms. I’m going to assume you never break it.”

“Not for anything in the world.”

His mouth twitched into a smile. His lips were so full, and when he turned his head slightly, the dim lights caught on his grey hair. I wanted to run my fingers through it—to feel the contrast between the soft black strands and the coarse silver.

“Do you want to get out of here?” I asked. I was done playing verbal games with him. My dick was hard, and I couldn’t be out too late.

He nodded but didn’t move. “Questions first.”

They always had questions. I supposed I should have been grateful for them. I usually was, but tonight felt different. “Ask.”

“Is there anything I need to be careful with when it comes to your body? You have cerebral palsy,” he added, glancing down and reading it off the card.

Oddly, he was the first hookup who’d ever brought it up. Most people avoided the word, like saying it was going to bring some curse down upon them. And they always got weird in bed, either treating me like glass or like a rag doll, and it took something away from the whole experience.

I shrugged. “I don’t like to be on top, and my legs won’t spread as far as you think they will. And no, yoga is not going to help my flexibility.”

“What about Epsom salt soaks.” His voice was so deadpan that for a moment, I didn’t realize he was being sarcastic.

When it hit me, I smiled. Damn me for doing it because he absolutely lit up about it. Fuck. “And essential oils. A nice little marinade before you throw me into the pan for a sauté.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Sounds delicious. You don’t like to be on top, but do you prefer to top from the bottom?”

My cheeks flamed hotly. Yes, yes I did. But everyone—and I meant that literally, everyone —assumed that I was a submissive bottom just because my body was small and my face looked young.

Except this man, it seemed.

“Is that something you’d be interested in?” I chanced.

He licked his lips and looked me up and down. After a beat, he stood, pushing his chair back so far it knocked into the guy behind him, but he didn’t look back or say sorry. He just stepped to the side and offered his hand out to me.

I didn’t take it. Not right away. I rolled back, giving him the full view of my body. My broad chest, my thick arms, my tiny waist, and my legs, which were turned in and strapped down.

He looked. Not just at my face, not just at the parts that most people found palatable, but at all of me. From the roots of my hair to the bottoms of my scuffed, ragged shoes.

Then he licked his lips again, and my cock jumped in my jeans. I fucking wanted him. I wanted to be pinned by him, ridden by him. I wanted him to bounce on my dick and stroke himself so hard and so fast that his come splattered across my face.

“Do you have a car?” he asked. I couldn’t hear him, but I could read the question perfectly off his lips in his pointed, fancy French.

I nodded, then gripped my wheels and sped out of there. I couldn’t hear well enough to catch his footsteps, but I assumed he was following me, and I was happy to be proven right when I turned around near the ramp leading to the parking lot.

He was hovering at the curb, twirling his keys on his index finger, his face questioning.

“Sandbird Motel,” I said. “On Route 66. Room one-eleven.”

“Fantastic number,” he said, like it meant something.

Maybe it did, and for the first time ever, I was curious. But I also wasn’t going to ask. It didn’t matter that my heart and my dick were getting on board with new things. I wasn’t going to change my routine for some guy—Jean-Luc or whoever the fuck he was. No matter how pretty he was.

No matter how good he fucked me.

And I had a feeling it was going to be very, very good.