Page 6 of Puck You Both

My cock, full, aching, dragging against fabric every time Theo presses against me, has a different take on it all.

Theo's close. I’m not sure he knows it yet. His breathing breaks rhythm, his hips lose their manners entirely, fucking up into my fist in short, greedy snaps, his balls drawing up tight in my palm.

A sound starts climbing his throat, and I cover his mouth with my palm.

He moans into it, filthy and grateful, eyes screwed shut, hands scrabbling at the desk edge. The vibration of it runs down my arm and straight to my cock, and I press my hand down harder. His jaw works against it for a moment, and then he goes softer, more pliant, hips still moving but surrendered now, riding my grip instead of chasing it.

Theo Moreau, held still. Rare occurrence, really.

"Look at you," I say against his ear. Loud enough for the room. "So feisty in the hallway. Not so feisty now."

He gets out a muffled “I hate you” against my hand.

"Say it again."

What comes out isn't words. Theo goes rigid. His cock swells in my grip, pulses twice, and he comes with a sound my palm barely holds, spurting hot cum over my, thighs shaking, while I milk him through every last wave, slow and thorough, until he's twitching and oversensitive and whining into my hand.

And now I lift my eyes to the doorway.

Wall is exactly where I tracked him, face wide open.

I’ve spent a long time learning this man. I know him more than I’d like to admit. Every tell he's ever leaked, I own it. I've built my own saves out of it. But I have never once seen his face do this. No mask. Nothing guarding the net at all.

I hold his stare for a moment. Then, Theo sags against me, boneless. I ease him off the desk edge, press my cheek against his curls, and glance back up to an empty doorway.

Theo comes back online thirty seconds later, boneless and smug against my chest, making a small sound like a satisfied radiator.

I don’t get to enjoy this for long though, my momentary peace shattered by something crashing in the hallway, the sound distant and metallic.

The unmistakable acoustic signature of a very large man meeting a laundry cart at speed.

But Theo doesn’t know that. He goes from liquid to vertical in half a second. Coaches would weep.

"What was that?"

I shrug, trying not to laugh. "A noise?"

"A footsteps noise!" Theo stage-whispers. He's already fighting his pants up his thighs, hopping, one leg cooperating and the other staging a protest, and when his waistband snaps up over the mess drying on his stomach, he makes a sound of betrayal. "Someone's out there. Why are you calm? Stop being calm, it’s annoying."

I'm calm because I already know what's out there. What's out there is six foot seven of Chicago goaltender attempting a silent retreat through a hallway containing a stick rack, two equipment carts, and, judging by the second, more distant crash, at least one mop bucket.

He's clearing the zone. Good pace, too.

I find a towel on the AV cart and wipe my knuckles clean while Theo arms himself.

The weapon he selects is a dry-erase marker. He holds it like a knife. "Cover me."

"With what?"

"Your body! Your big— Whatever, shh. SHH."

I haven't even said anything.

Theo creeps to the door in a crouch that makes him zero percent smaller and one hundred percent more visible, and executes the horror-movie lean—body inside, head rotating out into the hallway at ninety degrees, marker raised.

God, I wish I were filming this.

He stands motionless for a beat. Then, he screams and hurls himself back into the room. "There's someone at the end of the hall!"