Page 18 of Pucked On Camera

"Thanks, it's cozy," I reply, spooning coffee grounds into the coffee filter with more concentration than necessary. My heart thumps unevenly as I pour water into the machine.

"Looks like you've got a lot of space back there," he observes casually, nodding toward the studio room.

"Storage, mostly. You know, for all of my... extra furniture and some hockey equipment." I wince internally at how lame that sounds. It's not entirely a lie—there are a few sticks and pads in there among the backdrop and lighting for the other side of my life. The side I'm not sure I want him to know about yet.

"Right." He doesn't press further, but the way his eyes linger on the door, I really am thinking that he knows there's more behind it. "You must have a ton of gear then."

"Something like that." I manage a tight-lipped smile and hand him his coffee.

"Amelia," Riley starts, his voice lowering an octave. I turn to face him, and I can tell by the look in his eyes that whatever game we're playing, the stakes just got higher. "Whatever it is, you can trust me."

I laugh nervously, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "Trust is earned, don't you think?"

"Absolutely." His response comes quickly, but he seems sincere. He sips his coffee, eyes never leaving mine. "So, let's earn it."

The words hang between us. As much as I want to dive into those deep truths with him, I'm frozen by a fear of what lies beneath. If he saw the emerald wig, the other Amelia, would he still look at me the same way?

"Let's enjoy our dessert first," I suggest with a half-smile. "How about we start with something sweet?" The double meaning isn't lost on either of us.

Chapter 10

Riley

"Take a seat," Amelia says, guiding me toward a plush chair in the corner of her bedroom. The scent of lavender and vanilla competes with the adrenaline coursing through my veins. I perch on the edge, my muscles tensing as she pivots gracefully, her ponytail swishing, and closes the closet door behind her.

The walls are a soft shade of eggshell, adorned with black and white photos of random things and not people that could be her family. Her space is intimate but not too revealing, much like the woman herself.

Minutes stretch longer than a final period in overtime. I tap my foot impatiently, trying to ignore the need clawing at my insides.This isn't the ice rink where I know every play; this is her arena, and I'm just a rookie here.

The closet door swings open. Amelia steps out, and it's like the entire world goes into a slow-mo replay, one where you can see the winning puck slide into the net. She's clad in lingerie that makes my mouth go dry—lace and silk hugging every curve like they're meant to be there.

"Wow," escapes my lips before I can think. It's not eloquent or profound, but sometimes, it’s all that’s needed.

Her hazel eyes lock onto mine, a smirk playing on her lips, and it's clear she knows the effect she has. She's power-play personified, and I'm defenseless against her.

The lace on Amelia's outfit is a midnight black web, clinging to her like she's the centerpiece of an erotic art exhibit. Red ribbons criss cross over her hips, drawing my gaze down to where they tie in a bow just above her ass. It's not just sexy; it's a goddamn masterpiece.

"Amelia," I breathe out, her name a prayer of lust on my lips. She's a vision, all smooth skin and dangerous curves wrapped up in something that screams sin.

There's no hiding my reaction—my dick strains against my jeans, hard and insistent. She catches the shift in my posture, her eyes flashing with triumph with a hint of wildness.

"Riley, I'm going to put on a fashion show for you," she says. "But I want you stroking your cock the entire time. Can you do that for me?"

"Fuck, yes," I say, more growl than words. Her command sends a surge of heat straight to my groin, and I shuffle slightly, adjusting myself to accommodate the increasing tightness.

Amelia turns on her heel, a wicked glint in her eye, and struts back to the closet. The string thong she's wearing is more suggestion than garment, leaving nothing to the imagination as it digs into the soft flesh of her ass cheeks. Each step she takes is an invitation, and I'm RSVPing 'hell yes' with every fiber of my being. I love every sway and bounce that sends my heart racing like a slapshot in overtime.

"Keep your eyes peeled, Riley," she tosses over her shoulder.

"Wouldn't dream of looking away," I call after her, but she's already disappeared behind the closet door.

The minutes stretch out, each second ticking by painfully slow. I waste no time unzipping my pants, liberating my throbbing cock from its denim prison. My hand wraps around my length, and I start stroking—firm, slow, each movement synced with the pounding of my heart. I'm playing solo here, but Amelia's the one setting the pace, the scene, the whole fucking game.

I zone in on the task at hand, my grip steady, my mind filled with images of what's to come. My breath hitches when I hear the soft rustle of fabric from within the closet. She's coming back.

"Ready for round two?" Amelia's voice is playful, but there's an edge to it that tells me she's not just putting on a show; she's embodying it, owning it.

"More ready than you can imagine," I answer with a shaky tone.

---