Page 75 of Puck Struck
When the doors slide open, I follow him down the hall. We stop at his door first. He holds his key card against the lock, hesitating before pushing it open.
"You want to come in?" he asks, voice low. "To talk strategy for St. Louis."
It's a flimsy excuse, and we bothknow it.
"Sure," I say. "Strategy."
Inside, the room feels suddenly smaller, more intimate. Logan drops his bag by the dresser and runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I'm starting to recognize as nervousness.
"Good game today," he says.
"Yeah. That no-look pass you made in the second period? Fucking filthy."
A hint of a smile. "Been working on it."
I step closer, drawn to him like a magnet. "Maybe you can teach me sometime."
"Maybe." His eyes darken. "But I think there are other things I'd rather teach you first."
The air between us crackles with tension. I take another step, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. I need it, crave it.
"Like what?"
His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "Like patience."
He kisses me, slow and deliberate, nothing like the frantic passion of our first one. This is controlled, measured, and fuck, the sheer intensity of him makes my knees weak and my heart ricochet off my ribcage.
I push him back against the wall and a hiss of breath expels from his lips. Taking my time, I unbutton his shirt and slip it off his shoulders, loving the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat at my touch. My hands slide under his shirt, itching with the need to feel his skin against mine. I graze each indentation and groove, working my way down the front of his muscular torso until my hands hit his belt buckle. I fumble with it until I free him from the confines of fabric, his swollen cock thick against his boxer briefs.
He's so gorgeous, for a second, I can’t form a single coherent thought.
"Your turn," he murmurs, suggestively tugging at the hem of my shirt.
After he undresses me, he pulls me onto the mattress. Our hands and legs are a tangled frenzy of touching, gripping, and tugging. I hold him tight, scraping my nails down his back as we rut against each other. My cock screams, hard and thick, already damn close to eruption. And just as his hand slips into my boxer briefs, my phone buzzes from the floor where it’s still buried in my pants pocket.
Immediate dick deflator.
"Ignore it," he whispers, his teeth gripping my earlobe.
I try, squeezing my eyes shut, trying like hell to focus on his hands and his dick. But it buzzes again, and again, and the poisonous thought that it might be James makes me pull away.
"Sorry, I just—give me one second," I rasp.
Logan watches as I reach for the phone, his expression guarded, lips twisting. When I see the message on my screen, an imaginary icy hand grips me by the throat.
His fucking hand.
Looking good on the ice today, Connor. Detroit's a lovely city for a reunion, don't you think?
Attached is a photo of the arena exit, clearly taken today after the game. The timestamp proves that.
"What is it?" Logan asks, sitting up when I don’t say anything.
"James," I say, the name like acid on my tongue. “I think James might be here in Detroit. Or he at least has someone watching and photographing us."
Logan's expression hardens. "Show me."
I hand him the phone, watch as his eyes scan the message, the muscle in his jaw working.
