Page 117 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"If it is, we're both crazy," I reply, my voice hushed in the quiet of his kitchen. "I missed you too."

His smile—that slow, genuine smile that transforms his entire face—makes my heart flutter. "Come on," he says, taking my hand. "Let's get somewhere more comfortable than the kitchen counter."

I follow him down the hallway to his bedroom, the space now familiar after our previous night together. The queen-sized bed with its dark blue comforter, the bookshelves lined with unexpected titles, the desk with its meticulously organized notes—all of it feels like a secret part of him that only I get to see.

As he turns on the bedside lamp, casting the room in a warm glow, I'm struck by a moment of decision. This is a threshold we've already crossed three times, but somehow tonight feels different—more significant, more deliberate. Not driven by circumstance or impulse, but by something deeper.

My hand drifts to my purse, fingers finding the small foil packet I'd tucked inside earlier today. Not with any specific expectation, but with hope, with possibility. I pull it out, watching Sanderson’s eyes widen slightly at the sight.

"You planned ahead," he observes, his voice dropping to that deeper register that sends shivers dancing across my skin.

"I was optimistic," I admit with a small smile. "Or maybe just prepared for any outcome."

"The eternal planner," he teases gently, taking the condom from my fingers and setting it on the nightstand. "Always thinking ahead."

"Not always," I counter, thinking of how impulsively I'd kissed him that first time in my dorm room. "Sometimes I surprise myself."

"You constantly surprise me," he says, his tone shifting to something more serious. "In the best possible ways."

He steps closer, his hands finding my waist, thumbs brushing the strip of skin where my sweater has ridden up. The contact, simple as it is, sends electricity racing through my veins. I reach up, carefully avoiding his injury as I thread my fingers into his hair, drawing him down to me.

This kiss is less restrained, need rising between us like a physical presence. His hands slide beneath my sweater, palms warm against my back, as mine explore the solid planes of his chest through his shirt. We move together with increasing urgency, every touch revealing the tension that's been building during our days apart.

"I want you," I whisper against his mouth, the confession both obvious and necessary. "All of you."

"You have me," he promises, echoing his words from earlier but with new meaning, new depth.

With careful movements, mindful of his injury, I help him remove his shirt, revealing the now-familiar landscape of his body—the defined muscles, the scattered scars from years of hockey, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his jeans. I trace a particularly prominent scar near his collarbone and smile. My favorite place to kiss.

I lean forward, pressing my lips to the mark, a silent acknowledgment of all the stories written on his skin. He shivers beneath the gentle contact, his hands tightening at my waist.

His turn now—he lifts my sweater over my head with a reverence that makes me feel beautiful, desirable in a way no one else ever has. My bra follows, his eyes darkening as I'm revealed to him in the soft lamplight.

"So beautiful," he murmurs.

His fingers trace patterns across my collarbone, down the center of my chest, circling but not yet touching where I want him most. The teasing exploration is torture, building anticipation with each passing moment.

"James," I breathe, the name a plea and permission wrapped into one.

He understands, his hands finally cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing across sensitive peaks until I'm arching into his touch, a soft moan escaping my lips. His mouth follows the path of his hands, trailing kisses down my neck, across my shoulder, until he's drawing one nipple between his lips, the wet heat making my knees weaken.

We move to the bed, a tangle of limbs and half-removed clothing, laughter bubbling up when he winces as I accidentally brush against his injured cheek.

"Sorry," I gasp, horrified.

"Worth it," he assures me with a crooked smile. "Just maybe let me take the lead on this side."

He does exactly that, guiding me onto my back, his body a warm weight above me as he continues his exploration. His mouth maps a path down my stomach, fingers working at the button of my jeans as he goes. I lift my hips to help him slide them off, along with my underwear, until I'm bare beneath his heated gaze.

"You too," I insist, reaching for his jeans.

He obliges, standing to remove the last of his clothing. The sight of him—fully aroused, utterly masculine, extra large—takes my breath away. This is Sanderson—my James—stating he’s falling for me with complete awareness, complete intention.

He returns to me, careful to keep his weight off his injured side as he settles beside me rather than above. His hand traces lazy patterns up my thigh, each circle bringing him closer to where I'm aching for his touch.

"Last time was rushed," he murmurs against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "This time I want to take my time with you."

I nod, though the need building inside me makes patience difficult.

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