Page 87 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"You're staring," I whisper, echoing our words from that first night.

"Can't help it," he says, the familiar response carrying new weight.

He lowers me onto the bed, the narrow twin mattress barely accommodating our bodies. But somehow the lack of space feels perfect—nowhere to go, nothing to do but be together, completely present in this moment.

His lips find mine again, the kiss deeper now, more certain. Then he's trailing fire down my neck, across my collarbone, each touch a revelation. I've been kissed before, touched before, but never like this—never with such focused attention, as if he's memorizing every inch of me, every sound, every response.

When his mouth closes over my breast, a gasp escapes me, my back arching instinctively. His hand splays across my stomach, steadying me, grounding me as sensation threatens to overwhelm.

"Sanderson," I breathe, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close even as I tremble beneath his touch.

He looks up, eyes meeting mine with unexpected vulnerability. "Say my name," he whispers. "My real name."

I realize with a start that I had no idea Sanderson isn’t his real name—this intimate detail somehow more personal than the physical closeness we're sharing.

"Connolly," I try, but he shakes his head slightly.

"My first name," he clarifies, and I understand that he's asking for something beyond the physical, a different kind of intimacy. "Sanderson is my middle name."

"I don't know it," I admit, embarrassed by this gap in my knowledge.

A slow smile spreads across his face, surprising and beautiful. "James," he says. "But only my mom calls me that. Everyone else calls me—"

"Sandy," I finish.

He nods, watching me carefully. "But from you…I'd like to hear my name."

"James," I whisper, testing the sound of it on my tongue.

His reaction is immediate—a shudder runs through him, his eyes darkening with emotion I can't quite name. When he kisses me again, it's deep and licking, as if hearing his name from my lips has broken some final barrier between us.

His hands and mouth continue their way across my body, discovering all the places I never knew could bring such pleasure. My hands learn the landscape of his back, his shoulders, the strength of his arms as they support his weight above me.

This is nothing like our first time together, that night of confusion and mistaken identity. That was an accident, a joke of timing and darkness. This is a choice, a deliberate coming together of two people who have seen the worst of each other and chose connection anyway.

And it's nothing like I imagined it would be with Cade, either. The thought flits across my mind and is gone just as quickly, irrelevant to the present moment, to the man currently trailing kisses down my stomach with such tender focus.

When his mouth moves lower, I gasp, fingers clutching the sheets as pleasure builds and crests, his name—his real name—falling from my lips like a prayer. He works his tongue causing my body to shake. I lean up, grabbing his hair. His eyes meet, sending jolts through my body. That look in his eyes tells me so much. He licks me so good that I fall back onto the pillow and start saying his name––his real name. It doesn’t take long for me to orgasm, finding such a high peak under his tongue that I cover my face with the pillow to stop my begging and pleading. His mouth doesn’t stop, through the aftershocks. He gently kisses against my inner thigh, my hip, making his way back up my body until we're face to face again.

The wonder in his expression catches me off guard. This isn't the confident hockey star, the campus playboy with a different girl every weekend. This is someone else entirely—someone vulnerable, someone who cares…about me.

"You okay?" he asks, brushing hair from my face with a gentleness that makes my heart ache.

"More than okay," I manage, still catching my breath. "That was…"

"I want to kiss you, but I don’t want you to be grossed out. So––" he says, looking around the room.

"My mouth wash is right here," I lean up to grab it. We both take a swish of it and watch each other gargle.

He brings over his cup from the drive-through and offers for me to spit in it first. I take it, spit, and then hand it back. He spits in it and places it on my dresser.

"Now, where were we?" he asks, kissing me. He tastes refreshing, so I kiss him deeper, pulling him on me.

I reach between us, fingers wrapping around him, gratified by his sharp intake of breath, the momentary loss of control in his expression.

"I want you," I whisper, working my hand on his dick.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "We don’t have to."

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