Page 88 of Off-Limits as Puck

“Our dignity. What little self-respect we have left.”

“Fuck dignity.” His hand finds my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone like he’s memorizing the shape of it. “Fuck self-respect. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”

“Reed—”

“I’m tired of fighting this thing between us like it’s the enemy instead of the only good thing either of us has done in years.”

“It’s not good. It’s destructive.”

“Sometimes destruction is necessary. Sometimes you have to burn something down to build something better.”

“And sometimes you just burn.”

“Then let’s burn together.”

He kisses me before I can protest further. Hard, desperate, tasting like anger and want and of suppressed desire finally breaking free. I should push him away, should remember the lawyers and the cease and desist and all the reasons this is impossible.

Instead, I kiss him back.

We stumble backward, knocking into equipment lockers and benches, tearing at clothes with hands that shake from more than cold. His practice jersey hits the concrete floor. My sweater follows. Every barrier between us feels like an insult we’re desperate to correct.

“Not here,” I gasp against his mouth.

“Yes here.”

“Someone could—”

“Building’s empty. Security’s in the lobby. It’s just us.”

Just us. Like it was in Vegas. Like it was in the equipment shed. Like it should have been all along if we’d been brave enough to fight for it.

He lifts me onto the equipment bench, stepping between my thighs with familiar possession. This isn’t tender. This isn’t sweet. This is two people saying goodbye the only way they know how—with skin and need and the desperate attempt to mark each other before everything ends.

His mouth finds my neck, teeth scraping skin.

It’s fast, frantic, necessary. Him inside me is like coming home and leaving simultaneously. We move together, trying to fit this want into whatever time we have left.

“Look at me,” he demands, hands framing my face. “Don’t close your eyes. Don’t disappear.”

So I look at him. See myself reflected in his gaze—wild, wanting, completely undone. See the man who’s destroying himself for me, who’d rather burn than let me go.

When I orgasm, it feels like my heart’s ripping out of my chest. He comes inside of me, and there’s a sadness in our kisses. Our longing for each other, knowing that this is goodbye.

Afterward, we stay pressed together, breathing hard, both of us knowing this is the last time. The final punctuation mark on whatever we were or could have been.

I pull away first, reaching for my clothes with hands that shake. Professional distance reasserting itself like muscle memory, even now.

“Chelsea—”

“Don’t.” I button my jeans with unnecessary focus. “Just... don’t.”

“This doesn’t have to be—”

“It does.” I find my sweater, pull it over my head. “We both know it does.”

He’s watching me rebuild my walls with desperate eyes. “We could try—”

“Try what? Long distance while you’re in Europe? Rebuilding our careers separately? Pretending this was all worth it?”

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