Page 61 of For Pucking Ever

"Chaque partie de toi m'appartient," I say as I reach beneath the couch to find the lube we stashed there weeks ago. Every part of you belongs to me. The bottle opens with a click, and I lube my fingers, circling his hole. He's tight, so fucking tight, but he opens up for me, one finger at a time, until he's moaning, squirming, begging for more.

"I need you, Bast. Fuck me," he pleads, his voice hoarse with desire.

I shush him with a hot, sloppy kiss, positioning myself at his entrance. I notch my dick at his hole and push deep inside him. He's so tight, so warm. It takes every ounce of self-control not to cum right then and there.

"Tu es à moi," I say, thrusting into him. You are mine.

"Yes!" he cries out, his body arching to meet mine.

I set a punishing pace, fucking him hard and deep. With each thrust, we both climb higher. His fingers claw at my back, leaving marks that I'll wear with pride tomorrow. This is us, raw and real and fucking perfect.

"Stroke yourself, let me see you cum for me," I command, and he obeys, his hand wrapping around his dick. The sight of him stroking himself, his body writhing beneath mine, is enough to send me over the edge.

I can feel my release building, a heat that starts at the base of my spine and spreads through my entire body. "Reste avec moi. Ne pars jamais," I shout as I cum, my body shaking with the force of my orgasm. Stay with me. Don't ever leave.

Derrick looks up at me then, wide-eyed and wrecked. I see it then, his fear, his trust, all of him, laid out before me.

"Sebastian", he gasps.

"I know, Princesse. Cum for me," I say

Derrick cums with a silent cry, his seed spilling over his hand, slicking the way between us. I collapse on top of him, kissing him thoroughly, claiming every inch of his mouth, just like I claimed every inch of his body.

We lie there for a moment, our bodies slick with sweat, our hearts pounding in sync. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, a steady rhythm that matches my own. This is more than just sex. This is a connection, a bond that goes deeper than the physical.

I roll off him, pulling him into my arms. He nestles against my chest, his body fitting perfectly against mine as I lay back. I can feel his breath on my skin, the rise and fall of his chest as he drifts off to sleep.

As I lie there, holding him, I think about what this means. What we mean. The weight of his body against mine feels like a missing puzzle piece finally slotting into place. I can't let him go. Not now, not ever. This is where he belongs, with me. In my arms, in my bed, in my life. This is real. This is us. Not some fleeting connection or temporary comfort. Something deeper, something that's been building since the first moment I saw him look at me with those earnest brown eyes.

Whatever happens, the media attention, the team dynamics, the distance, I want to fight to keep this. To protect what we've found together. I've been alone for so long, my life a carefully constructed fortress of isolation. My paintings, my hockey, my carefully guarded privacy, all walls I built to keep others at a distance. But Derrick, with his sunshine smile and gentle persistence, has somehow scaled every defense. He is and has become my everything. The first person I want to see when I wake up, the last voice I want to hear before I sleep.

I'm done fighting. Done pretending I don't need this, that I don't need him. Done acting like I'm better off alone. My fingers trace lazy patterns on his skin as he sleeps, mapping the territory I now claim as mine. For the first time in a long time, I'm ready to let someone all the way in.

For now, I'm content to hold him, to feel his body against mine, to listen to his steady breaths. Tomorrow, we'll deal with the rest. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what this means, where we go from here. For tonight, this is my entire world. This is everything.

TWENTY-FOUR

DERRICK

The air is crisp, tinged with the cool, fresh scent of a Seattle evening as we step from our cars and gather near the back entrance of the gallery. Downtown hums with muted excitement, the setting sun painting everything in gold and shadow, casting long, dramatic silhouettes across the sleek buildings. The distant sound of traffic mingles with the murmur of anticipation from the crowd gathered at the front entrance. It feels surreal to be here tonight, surrounded by our friends dressed up, looking elegant in their evening wear instead of the usual hockey gear and casual clothes. I adjust my midnight blue blazer nervously, feeling slightly out of place despite Bast's reassurances that I look perfect.

"I'm so excited," Brea says, practically bouncing beside Ridley as we approach the gallery, her silver cocktail dress catching the last rays of sunlight. "I saw B. Ardent's exhibit in New York last spring, and it was incredible. The way he captures light and emotion. Simply perfect. I've been dying to see more ever since. His waiting list for commissions is years long."

Ridley smirks, sliding an arm around her waist, looking surprisingly sophisticated in his charcoal suit. "Whoever this guy is, he's either a genius or a coward. I mean, who hides behind a pseudonym when they're this talented? I'm betting on genius, though. The mystery probably doubles the value of his work."

Sebastian shifts beside me, the line of his jaw tense, his hand briefly tightening around mine. A muscle twitches near his temple, and there is a slight sheen of sweat at his hairline despite the cool evening air. No one notices the small gesture except me, and I squeeze back gently, trying to convey reassurance through that simple touch.

"How exactly did we get invited to this preview before anyone else?" Alexis asks, turning to Tor. She looks unusually awake despite weeks of sleep deprivation from caring for baby Kodah. Her hair is elegantly swept up, making her look like she just stepped off a magazine cover rather than someone who's been surviving on two-hour sleep intervals.

"No clue," Tor says, shaking his head, the bags under his eyes somewhat concealed by his obvious excitement. "Brea mentioned she got tickets weeks ago, then an additional invitation just showed up at our door. But I'm not complaining. It's nice to get out. First time in weeks I've worn anything but spit-up covered sweats. Well, besides my game day suits."

Devan is quiet beside Lia, their interactions stiff and awkward. There's a noticeable tension between them that wasn't there before, a careful distance maintained even when they stand close. I catch Lia stealing cautious glances at him, her eyes wary, fingers fidgeting with her clutch purse. Something's going on there, but now's not the time to pry. Whatever storm is brewing between them seems serious enough that even this glamorous distraction can't fully mask it.

We enter through a side entrance, bypassing the long, winding line of eager art patrons out front. Critics, collectors, and Seattle's cultural elite all waiting for their first glimpse of B. Ardent's newest collection. The gallery is modern, expansive, with polished concrete floors and soaring ceilings, the lighting carefully orchestrated to spotlight each painting perfectly. Crystal chandeliers cast delicate patterns across the walls, complementing rather than competing with the art. The theme: Variations of a Muse is prominently displayed in elegant, minimalist typography as we step into the main hall.

The initial paintings are abstractions of Lake Washington, landscapes rich with blues, greens, and subtle hints of gold. They're beautiful, evocative, capturing the way morning mist rises from the water's surface, how sunset transforms the lake into liquid fire. Yet they're impersonal enough not to give away the artist's true identity, though I recognize Sebastian's technique immediately now that I've had the chance to really study his work. The bold brushstrokes, the layering of color that creates almost impossible depth. I never considered myself a connoisseur of art in any way, but what Bast loves, I'm finding I love because of him. It's strange how that happens, how someone's passion can seep into your soul until you start seeing the world through their eyes.

Before Sebastian, I'd walk past galleries without a second glance, dismissing paintings as just pretty pictures on walls. Now I find myself lingering over brushstrokes, noticing how light plays across a canvas, appreciating the emotion captured in color and form. It's like he's rewired something in my brain, given me access to a frequency I couldn't tune into before. When he talks about composition or explains the difference between chiaroscuro and tenebrism, his face lights up with this quiet intensity that makes me want to understand, to see what he sees. I'm not pretending to be an expert, far from it, but I'm learning to appreciate beauty in places I never thought to look before. I know that is all because of him.