Page 14 of Puck Me Daddy

Demian's thumb brushed against mine, a gentle rhythm that sent a spark up my arm. His eyes never left mine, steady and sure. "We can take this as slow as you need, Tilly. But I want you to know, I've never felt this way before. It's fast, I know, but it's real."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the storm inside me. His words, his touch, his presence—it all felt so right, like a key clicking into a lock. I squeezed his hand, a silent promise that I was willing to trust his instinct, to trust mine.

"I want to see where this goes, too," I said, my voice steadier now. "I want to know what this could be."

Demian’s mouth quirked up at the corners, then he leaned in, his voice low and steady. "There's something I want to show you,Tilly." His gray eyes were serious, the flecks of lighter gray like ice on a winter lake. “It’s at my place.”

I mirrored his lean, the air between us vibrating with something electric. "What is it?" My heart was pounding, a drumbeat in my ears.

"A contract," he said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the diner. "It outlines . . . us. What we could be. Boundaries, expectations, safewords." He emphasized the last word, and my breath hitched.

His gaze held mine, steady and sure. "It's not legal, just . . . personal. A promise to keep each other safe."

I swallowed hard, my fingers tracing the cool condensation on my glass. This was real. This was happening. My mind raced, but my body was already reacting, a warmth pooling low in my belly.

Demian's hand reached across the table, his fingers grazing mine. "Will you come back to my place, Tilly? Read it. See if it feels right?"

My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the pulsing neon lights. I understood what this meant, the significance of this next step. A contract. His place. This was more than just a conversation in a diner. This was a doorway, a threshold to cross.

I looked around the diner, the bustling waitress, the trucker in the corner booth, the teenagers sharing a milkshake. Ordinary life going on, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. Then I turned back to Demian, his gaze steady, his jaw set. He was offering something I'd always yearned for, a connection I'd only dreamed about.

A sigh escaped my lips, a mixture of nervousness and elation. "Yes," I said, my voice soft but sure. "I'll go with you."

His eyes flared, a spark igniting in their gray depths. Our gazes locked, and in that moment, an unspoken vow passed between us. This night was going to change everything. The airwas thick with anticipation, the promise of something profound and intimate and utterly terrifying. And I was ready to dive in headfirst.

Chapter 5

Stepping up to theimpressive front door of Demian's penthouse, my mind whirled from our conversation in the diner. This was all happening so fast, but it all felt so right. In my time as a journalist, I’d learned to be suspicious of things that seemed to be too good to be true, but honestly, so far, Demian hadn’t given me any reason to doubt him. I had to try to silence the reporter in me right now, and let my Little take the reins.

“Home sweet home,” said Demian, leading me inside.

His private domain unfurled before me, a vast expanse of contemporary elegance. Subdued lighting bathed the room, casting elongated shadows that danced upon the polished surfaces.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering Denver skyline, a dazzling panorama of twinkling lights against the inky night. The muted hum of city life seeped in, muffled by the luxurious insulation enveloping us. My heels clicked softly against the marble floor, the sound echoing in the cavernous space.

"Can I take your coat?" Demian's voice cut through the silence, startling me. I hesitated for a moment, clutching the fabriccloser before relenting. His fingers brushed mine as he took it, the brief contact sending a jolt up my arm.

He hung my coat in a closet, the door closing with a barely audible whisper. Turning back to face me, his eyes held an intensity that made my heart race. "Would you like a drink? Water, perhaps?"

I nodded, my throat suddenly parched. "Yes, please. Water sounds perfect."

“Good,” he said. “I want you clear-headed for this.”

As he moved toward the open-plan kitchen, I couldn't help but study him. His tailored shirt clung to his muscular frame, a testament to the grueling physical demands of his profession. The stark contrast between his public persona and this guarded, almost vulnerable side intrigued me.

The penthouse's open-plan kitchen gleamed with stainless steel appliances and marble countertops. Demian moved with an easy grace as he filled a tall glass from the faucet, the water sparkling under the overhead lights. He extended it toward me, his gaze intense.

"Drink," he commanded, a hint of concern etched on his chiseled features. "I’d have offered you a beer, by the way, but . . . I need you clear-headed for our discussion."

I nodded, accepting the glass gratefully. “I don’t really do alcohol,” I said. “Doesn’t agree with me.”

Demian nodded. “That’s good. A girl like you doesn’t need to drink to have fun.”

I swallowed, wondering what kind of fun he was referring to. Then I remembered I was meant to be drinking my water. I felt myself wanting to be good for Demian, to do all the right things, so I drank. The cool liquid slid down my throat, calming the storm brewing within me. My thoughts swirled like a tempest, torn between the allure of this enigmatic man and the fear of surrendering to desires I barely understood.

As I drank, Demian leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. His gray eyes scrutinized me, as if gauging my resolve. I fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny, determined to prove that I could handle whatever came next.

"You know, you're not what I expected," I blurted out, then inwardly cringed at my lack of filter. But it was true; this man, this athlete, this superstar, now stood before me, offering a glimpse into a private world few ever saw. He was exceptional, yes, but not in ways I’d ever imagined.

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