Page 95 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"I didn't mean—"

"I know," he assures me, amused rather than offended. "I'm not what people expect. Story of my life."

The statement hangs between us, weighted with meaning. He's right—he isn't what I expected when I first heard about Sanderson Connolly, hockey puck boy. The man standing before me now, with his carefully organized notes and well-worn novels, his thoughtful dinner preparations and genuine interest in my thoughts, is so much more complex, more interesting, more real.

"I like your surprises," I tell him honestly.

Something shifts in his expression, a vulnerability I'm still getting used to seeing. He steps closer, one hand coming up to cup my cheek. "I like that you see them," he says quietly.

The kiss that follows is gentle at first, a question more than a demand. I answer by stepping closer, my hands finding his waist, the solid warmth of him anchoring me as the kiss deepens.

Unlike our previous encounters, there's no rush, no desperate urgency. We have time, privacy, the certainty that no roommates or friends will interrupt. He kisses me like we have all night, like the journey matters as much as the destination.

When his hands slip under the hem of my sweater, I raise my arms to help him remove it. His own shirt follows, and then we're skin to skin, the sensation still new enough to make my breath catch. He walks me backward toward the bed, our lips barely separating as we navigate the short distance.

The mattress meets the backs of my knees, and I sit, looking up at him standing between my legs. The position should make me feel vulnerable, but there's only trust as I reach for the button of his jeans, maintaining eye contact as I slowly lower the zipper.

"You are so beautiful, Han," he says, his voice rough.

I can’t wait to do what we did last night, so I pull at his pants, and it drops to his ankles. I pull his boxers down to remove his thick erection and a fire rumbles in my pelvis.

Our eyes meet, and he helps me remove the rest of our clothing.

I pull him down to me, unwilling to be separated any longer. The feel of his weight above me, his skin against mine, sends electricity coursing through my veins. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, trailing lower. I arch beneath him, fingers tangling in his hair as he discovers places that make me gasp, that make coherent thought impossible.

"James," I breathe, the name still new and special on my tongue.

He looks up at the sound, his eyes dark with desire but soft with something deeper. "Tell me what you want," he says.

"You," I answer simply. "Just you."

He kisses his way back up my body until we're face to face again, his weight supported on his forearms.

"You have me," he promises, and the words feel like more than just a response to my request—they feel like a vow.

His dick fills my hand as I swear under him. I need him. He pulls out a condom from the nightstand and passes it to me, I roll it on him, and aim him straight for me. His eyes meet mine, glazing over with intensity.

"You have me too," I admit, bringing my hips closer to him.

He presses into me, and I grab onto his shoulders, taking every inch of him until I’m completely filled. Watching his hard body thrusting into me is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I reach for him and then let go, my body building a high peak that suddenly he drinks in. Now his tongue is licking mine, and his dick is moving in and out of me.

I pull back, the sensation far too difficult to feel while being kissed. I think I’m about to explode, my toes are going numb, and I’m starting to shake.

"You’re so sexy, Hannah," he moans, and when I glance down at his body, I think he might be the sexiest man alive. He makes me cling onto the bedsheets tighter, bite my lip further, and then I can’t hold back my orgasm anymore.

When I start singing, he kisses me, using his own melody now. I can feel his warmth fill me. When we're climbing back down from that high, it's with his name on my lips and mine on his, a perfect synchronicity that leaves us both trembling. Then he pulls out and slips the condom off. He grabs my towel and cleans up what mess there is. He ties the condom and throws it in the trash. Then he hops into the bed beside me. He holds me close, pressing gentle kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.

"Stay the night here," he murmurs against my skin.

The invitation sends warmth blooming through my chest, but reality intrudes—early classes tomorrow, a quiz I haven't fully prepared for, the complication of explaining to an entire floor of girls where I spent the night.

"I can't," I say reluctantly. "Not tonight."

He nods, understanding without resentment. "Another time?"

"Another time," I promise, and mean it.

We stay tangled together for a while longer, talking softly about nothing and everything. His fingers trace patterns on my bare shoulder, mine map the contours of his chest, these casual touches cementing our connection beyond the physical.

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