Page 15 of Puck Me Daddy

A ghost of a smile played on his lips. "You're full of surprises, too, Tilly Jameson."

A shiver ran down my spine at the sound of my name rolling off his tongue. I took another sip of water, savoring the chill that spread through my body, grounding me in the present. The air between us crackled with tension, electric and intoxicating. I knew that whatever happened next would change everything.

Following Demian through the living room, my eyes were drawn to the glass cabinets that lined the walls. Trophies, medals, and framed Colorado Avalanche jerseys gleamed under the ambient light, a testament to his accomplishments on the ice. The largest of them all, an oversized photograph of Demian hoisting the Stanley Cup, dominated one wall. I couldn't help but feel a mix of admiration and trepidation. This man, who had achieved so much in his public life, now stood before me, baring a side of himself few ever saw.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Demian's voice cut through my thoughts as he gestured toward the display cases.

I nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in my throat. "It's . . . incredible. You've done so much."

He shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "It's been a journey, that's for sure. But enough about me. There are more important things we need to discuss."

His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I couldn't help but wonder what lay ahead. As he led me further into his penthouse, my heart raced with a potent mix of excitement and apprehension.

With a nod, I followed Demian down a short hallway, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. My eyes were drawn to the strong lines of his back, the way his muscles moved beneath his crisp white shirt. I swallowed hard and tried to focus on the path ahead.

He pushed open a heavy wooden door, revealing a starkly contrasting space. His office was all sharp angles and sleek surfaces, the air heavy with the scent of leather and polished wood. A large mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface uncluttered save for a single lamp casting a pool of warm light. A black leather couch sat against one wall, its smooth surface inviting yet somehow intimidating.

Even more hockey memorabilia lined the shelves, a testament to his illustrious career. My eyes lingered on a silver trophy, its surface gleaming in the dim light. I could almost hear the roar of the crowd as Demian hoisted it above his head, the taste of victory on his lips.

"Have a seat," Demian said, gesturing to the couch. His voice was low and steady, a calm anchor in the midst of my chaotic thoughts. I sank into the leather, its cool surface sending a shiver up my spine. He took a seat behind the desk, his fingers flying over the keys of a sleek desktop computer. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow across his chiseled features.

I clasped my hands in my lap, trying to still their trembling. My mind raced with questions, doubts, and a tantalizing undercurrent of desire. What was he planning? What did this all mean? And why did I find myself wanting to surrender to his every whim?

"Tilly," Demian said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. I looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were cold and assessing, like a predator sizing up its prey. "Are you ready for this?"

I hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yes," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "I'm ready."

The corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. "Good," he said, his fingers dancing across the keyboard once more. "Then let's get started."

The room filled with the soft hum of the printer, a rhythmic accompaniment to the hammering of my heart.

Demian’s office was a stark contrast to the warmth of the living room; here, everything felt sharp and precise, from the crisp lines of the mahogany desk to the razor-edged creases in the blinds. Even the books lining the shelves seemed to stand at attention, their spines perfectly aligned like soldiers awaiting orders. I imagined Demian having meetings with his manager in here. Maybe even some of his teammates had been in this room at one point. And now, here I was. About to sign up to a whole new world of discovery . . .

A faint scent of leather polish hung in the air, mingling with the smell of fresh ink as sheets of paper slid into the printer tray. I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. This was really happening.

My gaze flicked to the lone photo on the wall—a younger Demian, arms raised in triumph. There was a wildness in his eyes, a fierce determination that sent a shiver down my spine. But there was also a tenderness, a passion that excited me in a different way.

"Tilly," he said, breaking the silence. I jumped, tearing my gaze away from the photograph. He held out a stack of papers, his expression unreadable. "It’s time."

Demian returned from the printer, two stacks of papers in hand. He sat down next to me on the black leather couch, the documents crinkling softly in his grip. My eyes widened as I saw the first set, labeled "Non-Disclosure Agreement." I swallowed hard, my stomach doing flips.

He handed me the papers, his fingers brushing mine for a brief moment. "I trust you, Tilly," he said, his voice steady and reassuring. "But this is necessary. You understand, right?"

I nodded, taking the documents from him. The legalese swam before my eyes, but I forced myself to focus. Confidentiality, penalties for breach, non-disclosure of personal details—it was all there, plain as day. And yet, beneath the cold, impersonal language, I felt a strange sense of warmth. He was letting me into his world, his private sanctuary, and he was trusting me to keep it safe.

"I understand," I murmured, scanning the last few lines. "And I promise, I'll keep everything confidential."

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I know you will, Tilly. I have faith in you."

As I signed my name at the bottom of the page, I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. I was being given access to a side of Demian that few people ever saw—and he was trusting me to handle it with care. It was a heady feeling, a mix of excitement and trepidation that made my heart race.

But beneath it all, there was something else—a growing sense of arousal that I couldn't ignore. As I handed the signed NDA back to Demian, I felt a flush creeping up my neck, my breath coming faster.

He noticed, of course. His eyes flicked down to my lips, then back up to meet my gaze. "Are you okay, Tilly?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm fine," I said. "Just . . . nervous, I guess."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my cheek. "Don't be nervous, baby girl," he whispered. "I'll take care of you." Gently, he took the pen from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine in a brief, electric touch.

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