Page 34 of The Puck Chase

Fuck. No. Don’t think about him near your fucking cock, Daemon.

“If you must know, I’m sketching.” I finally tell him, tilting the phone down until he can see the edge of my sketchpad. “It was a nice, peaceful night before someone ruined it.” I smile a fake ass smile, and he laughs, the sound deep in timbre, and it does something strange to my insides. So much so, that it almostturns my fake smile real, before I stop myself, finding the need to snap at him again. “Why the fuck are you wearing a fucking tuxedo?”

My question only makes him laugh, as he sits up in his bed and leans over, positioning his phone on his nightstand so I can see more of his room, and more notably, more of him. “My mom likes to go all out for Thanksgiving,” he starts, fully loosening his tie now, like he has been desperate to get out of it, until he can slide it from around his neck. “She creates a whole theme, decorations, flowers, the works, and then makes us dress up all nice,” he adds, his fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt, and my heart starts to beat faster in my chest. “We all find it annoying as hell, but it makes her happy, so we just go with it,” he muses, his smile so genuine when he talks about his family, but I’m barely even listening.

My throat is dry as he peels off the black jacket, and then starts sliding the white shirt down his broad shoulders. “It’s nice that you do that for her,” I croak out, before coughing to clear my throat, and he eyes me with a smirk.

“What’s wrong, Forbes? See something you like?” He taunts, and my eyes flick back to him, finding him watching me, watching him. I don’t respond, but I don’t look away either, and when his hands trail down to his belt, my throat goes completely dry. “The rumors are true, aren’t they?” He asks, and I glance between his hands and eyes, unsure on which are more captivating.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I force out, as he stands, slipping his pants from around his hips, until he reveals his groin covered by black, fitted boxers, and his muscular thighs flexing as he kicks off his pants completely.

“That mouth has tasted my cum and kissed me until I couldn’t fucking breathe, and yet still it spills such pretty littlelies.” He says the words so casually, as if he is still talking about his damn Thanksgiving, and I almost choke on my own breath.

“Don’t fucking start with that shit, it meant nothing,” I grit, but my lies only make him smile, as he leans back on his bed and brings his entire body in full view of the phone.

“Yeah, yeah, a drunken mistake, I know,” he purrs in delight, as if he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying, and I’m not sure I even believe it myself anymore. “Tell me, Forbes, if it was such adrunken mistake, why did you leave your mark on me?” he asks, and from the tone in his voice I can tell it’s something he has been wondering about for a while.

My eyes flick to his neck, where the bruise I left has now faded completely, and I find myself wishing it was still there. Especially when I let myself look at him, eating up the tattoos that stain his upper chest, in a way I have never let myself before. There are two swallows that mirror each other on either side, a crown behind one, and a mountain behind the other, and both lead off into a backdrop of trees. The whole piece is stunning, but I think it’s more to do with the man than the tattoos, and that’s the problem.

“I’m an artist, and anything can be a canvas,” I tell him simply with a shrug, reaching for my glass of whiskey, and praying it will chase away the dry ache in the back of my throat.

“And am I your muse?” He wonders aloud, and my eyes glance down to the sketch I was working on before he called, one that looks like him when I didn’t even mean it to.

“You’re my fucking damnation,” I curse, and the fucker blushes, as if I just gave him the biggest compliment in the world.

“Did you spend the holiday alone?” he asks, changing the subject, and for some reason I can tell that, as much as he loves bothering me, he is slightly concerned about asking that question, and I find myself shaking my head slowly.

“I spent most of the day with Josh, like I always do, before he slips away to the Mayor’s annual party,” I explain, and he nods, genuinely interested in what I am saying, so I find myself adding, “I cooked us a dinner, nothing too fancy, and now I’m just chilling waiting for him to get home.” I don’t know why I’m telling him all this, but the intensity in which he is looking at me and listening to me is unsettling, making me feel more on edge than usual.

I expect some sort of probing about where my family is, but he just smirks, as he replies, “On a scale of one to ten, how pissed is Peter’s that Cap is nailing his sister?”

His question is so unexpected that I huff a laugh, the sound captivating his attention like it never has before, as I respond truthfully, “About a hundred.” My answer delights him, because of course it does, and I stare at him in wonder and complete confusion.

What are we even doing here? We don’t talk, not outside of him attempting to get on my last fucking nerve, in which he always succeeds. Yet here we are conversing as if we are friends, maybe even more, and how did we get here? A drunken fucking mistake that’s how, but when my eyes trail over all of his golden skin on display, I can’t find it within myself to regret it anymore.

“Why did you steal my number out of your sister's phone, Gray?” I ask, causing his laugh to trail off, yet there is still a sparkle in his eyes as he looks at me.

“What makes you think I stole it?” he asks, mocking being offended. “How do you know Aurora didn’t just give it to me, because she knows you’re a miserable fucker and that I’d be able to make you smile, which I did,” he replies playfully, and I roll my eyes with a groan.

“Because I know you, and you really are an insufferable asshole,” I clap back, and the chaotic cunt only gets more delighted by my every word.

“Insufferable and an asshole I may be, yet you haven’t hung up the phone, so what does that say about you?” he asks, looking more intrigued than I have ever seen him.

“That I attract stray dogs that don’t know how to listen,” I remark boldly, knowing this whole conversation isn’t fucking normal, yet not wanting it to stop.

A thought that only intensifies, when Archer fucking Gray flashes me the now addictive fucking smirk, as he replies, “Woof fucking woof.”

I open my mouth to respond when I hear the slamming of my front door, and am cut off by the yelling of my name. “Josh is home, I have to go,” I tell him gently, not wanting to say goodbye for some reason, and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he is slightly disappointed too, yet still he nods.

“Okay, well, don’t think about me too much when you’re jerking off later.” He winks, flexing his muscles and making my eyes drop down his body once more, before he adds, “Happy Thanksgiving, Forbes.”

The call is barely disconnected, when Josh slams into my room without a word, his sights zoning right in on the whiskey on my nightstand, before he storms towards it and gulps down three deep swills. “How did it go?” I ask carefully, but fearing I know the answer based on the anger rolling off of him in waves right now.

“I’m engaged,” he spits, slamming one more shot, before turning on his heels and leaving without another word.

It isn’t until I hear his door slam, and I look back at my now dark phone screen, that I realize this is the first Thanksgiving I have smiled in over a decade, and it was thanks to ArcherfuckingGray.Fuck.

Just a little overten days later, I find myself sitting at my best friend’s bachelor party. How, you ask? Well, because Mayor Hugo Peters is a piece of shit, and his son wants nothing more than to take him down. His sister’s best friend, Hallie, agreed to be his fake wife, and after his father tried to force a huge society wedding on them, they secretly planned their own small ceremony, which is taking place tomorrow. That is how I find myself sipping whiskey in our kitchen, waiting for Josh to get home. It’s almost nine-o-clock by the time he strolls through the door, and I’m not ashamed to admit I’ve drunk nearly half the bottle to myself.

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