He kisses me again standing, chest to chest in the living room while Maya files the story ten feet away and pretends not to watch. I hear every time her typing falters. The pause between keystrokes. A sharper inhale. Her chair shifts when Cole’s mouth drops to my neck and his teeth find the place below my jaw—the spot he knows makes my knees weaken. The bite is sharp, claiming, and a shudder works its way down my spine.
“Focus, Maddox,” I say without lifting my head.
“Don’t use my own name against me,” she says.
Cole laughs against my throat. The sound vibrates into my skin, into my bloodstream.
I back him against the couch. His legs hit the edge, and he sits hard, pulling me down with him. I catch myself with one hand on the back of the couch and the other in his hair. He looks up at me, flushed, championship-drunk, beautiful in the dim room. His pupils are wide, his lips parted, and for a second I just stare, arrested by the sheer trust in his face.He’d let me do anything right now.The thought is a hook in my gut.
Maya’s typing stops.
“Stop watching us and finish the story,” I say.
“I’m thinking.”
“You stopped typing.”
“I’m thinking with distractions.”
Cole’s hand slides up my thigh, his thumb pressing into the muscle. “She thinks better when she watches.”
The typing resumes. One sentence. Maybe two.
I straddle Cole’s lap.
His hands settle on my thighs, heavy and warm. Mine slide into his hair, tightening until his scalp prickles under my fingers. He looks up at me with the grin still on his mouth, flushed and open in a way he only gets after a win, and my hand tightens further. A soft gasp escapes him, and the sound goes straight to my cock.
Behind us, Maya types faster.
I kiss him again, slower this time, deeper, swallowing the low groan that rumbles in his chest. The couch shifts under us. Cole’s grip tightens, and his mouth opens under mine, the sound he makes low enough that Maya’s typing falters again.
Then the keys start again.
One sentence.
A pause.
Two more lines of typing.
She hits send, then closes the laptop.
“Done,” she says.
I lift my head from Cole’s mouth. My lips feel swollen, sensitive. “Fast. Should I be concerned about the quality?”
“Should I be concerned about the three turnovers you had in the second period?”
“Those were strategic puck placements,” I say.
“Strategic puck placements. To the other team,” Maya says.
“I was testing their defensive structure,” I say.
“You were testing their defensive structure by giving them the puck.”
“Repeatedly,” I say. “For science.”
Cole laughs under me, his hands still on my thighs, his laughter vibrating through my body. Maya’s mouth fights it. She loses.
