Page 30 of One Pucking Wish

We face each other. A sheet covers our naked bodies. Gunner’s hand is on my hip, and his tongue is in my mouth. God…he’s a good kisser. We’ve kissed for so long my lips are starting to go numb, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. Our lips move against one another, and our tongues dance, slow and seductively, as if they’ve been waiting for this connection forever.

This.

This is what I don’t want.

I don’t want to feel all of this.

As a pair, we’re spent. Gunner rose to the challenge and gave me everything he had. I don’t have the energy for another orgasm, and I’m certain he doesn’t have the stamina to give me another. We should go to sleep so we can wake up and finally get back to our life. Instead, we kiss and kiss and kiss.

My facial muscles ache, but I don’t want to stop. I want this feeling for as long as I can have it.

It’s stupid, all of it. A war rages in my mind, a battle between logic and desire. Only, it’s not really a battle at all—logic barely put up a fight because this kiss is that good.

Tomorrow, this will all be gone, as it should.

Still, I didn’t want this because what we’re doing—feels like more. This kiss feels like forever.

Yet with Gunner, there will never be more.

There can’t be.

A monstrous truck arrives to pick us up for the airport before the sun rises. I have to give it to the ladies in the Crane office who are making the calls. They found a car service with a vehicle that should be able to make it through the snow.

The driver, a bearded man named Boon, reassures me that most of the main roads have been plowed, so he’ll have no problem getting us to the airport. He helps me into the back seat of his truck, the door to which is almost level with my waist. This truck is massive.

I peeked into the motel office right before Boon arrived to see if Alice or Frank were there, but it was dark. I feel awful leaving without saying goodbye, especially after all they’ve done for us. I’ll make sure to send them a gift basket in a few days as a thank-you.

Gunner hasn’t said much since we woke. He’s impossible to read so I have no idea what’s going on in his head. Perhaps not much, especially if his thoughts mirror mine. I’m exhausted, and all I can really think about is getting back home. Unlike Gunner, I get to go to my condo, plop on the couch, and take a nap. I’m sure he’s expected to hit the ice for some practice before tomorrow’s game.

Boon is the opposite of our driver Julien from a few nights ago. The main difference is he’s not a chatterbox. Besides reassuring me that the roads were passable and double-checking that he was taking us to the correct place, he hasn’t uttered a word.

It’s refreshing and fits the vibe. Neither Gunner nor myself are in the mood for gab either. The ride is quiet save for the deep rumble of the big truck’s engine and the sound of the massive tires crunching over the snow. Not only is the quiet different but so is my probability-of-death meter. Unlike the ride with Julien several days ago, I don’t feel as if I might die at any given moment. This feeling of relative safety allows my mind to take in the past few days. I’m perplexed over how things will be between Gunner and me now that he’s spent the better part of three nights and two days inside me. That’s bound to change our dynamic.

This wasn’t a one-night stand, and I fear the fallout isn’t going to follow as if it was. What we shared seemed like more, despite us saying it wasn’t. I’ve had one-night stands, but I’ve never had that level of connection like what I had with Gunner.

We made it clear it was only a Vancouver thing. Neither of us wants anything that happened to carry over to our normal lives. Still… it feels odd. I’m hoping our time will fade into the past where it needs to stay once I get back to my home and routine.

The charter plane is a welcome sight.

After thanking Boon for safely getting us to the tarmac, we board the plane in silence.

The plane is smaller than the one we normally take to games, but Gunner chooses a seat in the same area of the plane as he usually does. I typically sit at the very back, but the thought of hanging in the rear of the aircraft by myself seems strange when it’s only the two of us aboard, so I opt to sit in the same row as Gunner but on the other side of the aisle.

“Do you have practice today?” I finally ask after takeoff.

“Yeah.” Gunner sighs.

He looks exhausted, and I’m sure he is. I certainly am. I can’t imagine putting in a full workout after landing. When we get home, I’m going straight to bed.

“I’m looking forward to going home and taking a nap,” I say with a half-hearted chuckle. “I don’t envy you.”

“Yeah.” His response is the same.

There’s no other conversation to be had. After a few minutes, Gunner puts his AirPods in and leans back against the seat, his eyes closed.

I don’t initiate any other conversation. We’ve agreed to go back to the status quo, which means our interactions will be few and far between—and usually unpleasant—like before. A wave of sadness washes over me, and I can’t deny that the idea of returning to normal doesn’t sit well.

The past few days have changed things somehow. Only we’re going to pretend they didn’t.

---