Page 21 of Exes That Puck
His dark eyes lock on mine, unreadable. Then he smirks, leaning closer, whispering against my cheek, “Sure, Kare. Whatever you say.”
I shove him lightly, but the fight doesn’t stick. His hoodie is warm under my fingers, his heartbeat thudding against my palm, and I want him. God help me, I want him.
So I make the reckless choice I always make. If this is the only thing we’re good at, then I’m going to let myself have it. Just this. Just tonight.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, carrying me down the hall. My arms loop around his neck, mouth still pressed to his, desperate. Every step jostles me closer, until he drops me onto his bed. The sheets are a mess, but I don’t care.
His hands are everywhere. Up my sides, tugging at my shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to find bare skin. My breath hitches when his thumbs graze the underside of my bra. He grins like he just won something, like unraveling me is a game he’ll never lose.
Clothes come off fast, tossed carelessly to the floor. My shirt. His hoodie. My jeans. His sweatpants. Each piece is another line crossed, another promise to myself broken.
By the time I’m down to nothing but my bra and panties, I should feel exposed. Instead, I feel alive. His gaze rakes over me, heavy and hungry, like he’s memorizing me all over again.
“God, Kare,” he rasps, pushing me back onto the mattress. “You’re killing me.”
I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of agreeing. But my body betrays me, arching up to meet his. His mouth finds my collarbone, then lower, teeth grazing sensitive skin until I gasp.
His mouth is hot against mine, his hands rough where they grip my thighs, pulling me higher, tighter, until I’m spread open beneath him. My breath catches in my chest, the ache in my stomach almost unbearable with how close he is. Every nerve is wired, every part of me screaming for him and against him at the same time.
When he pushes inside me, my whole body jolts. My lips part on a gasp, fingers clutching at the sheets like I’ll fly apart if I don’t hold onto something.
The world drops away. No more hum of the heater, no more creak of the bed, no more sound in my head but the harsh pull of air into my lungs.
It’s just him. Just us.
The way his body fits against mine, inside mine, like muscle and bone and memory are conspiring to remind me that this is where we’ve always been unstoppable. The push of him filling me, the pull of my hips rising to meet his, it’s a rhythm we know too well, a rhythm we can’t unlearn no matter how many times we promise we’re done.
My nails drag down his back, desperate, claiming, as a moan tears from my throat. His name, raw and wrecked, slips out before I can stop it. He shudders, curses against my neck, and I feel his mouth twist into a grin against my skin.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice rough. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
The words sting and soothe all at once. I want to deny them, shove them back down his throat, but my body betrays me, arching, clinging, begging for more. Because this… this is the one place we never get it wrong.
He thrusts deeper, slower at first, savoring me, dragging out every second until I’m shaking, whimpering, undone. Then faster, harder, until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but break apart under him. The orgasm is so damn good, I can’t think of anything else but pleasure.
Tears prick my eyes, but it isn’t sadness. It’s release. Relief. Fury. Love. Hate. Everything tangled into one unbearable knot that only he knows how to untie.
And after my body releases all the pent-up energy, I remember that this doesn’t change anything. I may feel good right now, but we’re not good together. We’re still broken. Still toxic. Still wrong.
He comes inside the condom and pulls out, and I’m left feeling empty like this was the biggest mistake.
I inhale, telling myself not to cry.
Don’t you dare.
I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t notice. And he doesn’t. Why would he? He just got what he wanted, didn’t he?
Silence crashes down, heavy and thick. I lie there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. My skin hums, my heart races, and shame already presses at the edges.
The sheets smell like clean laundry and that cologne he’s worn since we first met. His arm is draped over my waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns on my bare shoulder.
This was supposed to feel right. It always felt right before. Even when we were fighting about everything else, this part was never broken.
But now, with reality seeping back in, all I feel is hollow.
“Kara?” His voice is soft, careful. “You okay?”
I turn to look at him. His hair is messy, eyes heavy-lidded, lips slightly swollen. He looks satisfied in a way that makes my stomach twist with guilt.
