One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 10

Wyatt

I sling my duffel over my shoulder, the familiar weight grounding me as the airport buzzes around me, a hive of people darting back and forth. It’s Friday morning—almost a week since that night with Chloe. I’ve been busy with games and haven’t talked to her since, but her laugh, her smile—those moments have been stuck in my head, refusing to let go.

“Hey, Banks!” Zach’s voice cuts through the hum of travelers, snapping me out of my reverie. I turn to him, nodding, forcing my mind to shift back to the task at hand—Denver.

“Ready for this?” he asks.

“Always,” I reply, even though part of me is miles away, lost in what was and what could be again with Chloe.

Suddenly a text notification chimes as we converge near the gate. When I fish out my phone, it’s a text from Mark .

Mark: Nice job getting the PR stuff done. You’ve been handling it well.

Wyatt: Just doing what I’m told.

Mark: I know it’s not your style, but it’s working.

Wyatt: Yeah, not exactly my favorite part of the job, but I get it.

Mark: Well, it paid off. Check this out.

He attaches a link to his message.

When I click the link, my screen comes alive with words that tell a story about me I barely recognize.

“Everything okay?” Alec asks, eyeing me as I stare at my phone. “More negative press?”

“Actually, no,” I tell him, still dumbfounded as I continue to read the article I interviewed for the other day. “This time it’s positive.”

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much when I sat for the interview. The media coverage has been so vicious lately, I figured they would just spin it into another bad narrative about me. But this includes quotes from the community director at the center praising me for my volunteer work this past month.

Zach peers over my shoulder and scans the article. “Hey, check this out, Wyatt!” He points to the screen. “They interviewed the guy who got hurt in your parents’ car accident. ”

“They did?” I take a closer look at the article. A few paragraphs below the one I was reading, the young man who was injured in the accident caused by my parents’ drunken recklessness reveals that I’ve covered all his medical bills and even paid for his college tuition.

“You really did that?” Zach says, and I nod. It’s a fact I never revealed to anyone.

The shame of my parents harming someone with their own bad judgment kept me quiet on the matter. It felt like an obligation at the time, not something to brag about. Still does, even today.

“Wow, everyone in the comments is singing your praises,” Zach points out.

“Wow, Wyatt is actually a pretty cool guy,” I read aloud from a comment, and can’t help the smirk pulling at my lips.

Alec huffs. “They love you one minute, hate you the next. I wouldn’t get my hopes up that they won’t turn on you again.”

“Dude,” Zach says. “Have some decorum.”

“No, he’s right,” I reply. “I’m relieved that Chloe was able to land me a decent interview, but if Sonia continues to spew her bullshit and manipulate the narrative, it’ll be useless.”

Alec, silent till now, meets my gaze. His nod is subtle but speaks volumes. He doesn’t believe I should indulge too much in the praise, and I agree with him.

I slip my phone back into my pocket. I’ll be sure to thank Chloe once we land in Denver. The intercom crackles, announcing our flight. We make our way toward the gate, and even though I told myself not to get too excited, a small part of me can’t help but smile as we board the plane.

The buzzer sounds, echoing through the packed arena, my heart thrumming in time with the cheers. The scoreboard blares the final tally—we won. My hat trick had sealed it, the crowd’s roar still ringing in my ears like a victory anthem. But as I peel off my sweat-soaked jersey in the locker room, I can’t shake the throbbing ache that has taken up residence in my shoulder.

“Damn, Banks, you were on fire out there!” Zach slaps my back, and I wince, the pain flaring from the earlier hit. He frowns, his celebratory grin faltering as he notices my grimace. “You good?”

“Will be,” I manage, rotating my shoulder carefully. It was just one hard check into the boards, but it’s left its mark on me, a reminder of my body’s limits now that I’m thirty. Most players my age are preparing for retirement. While I work hard to keep my body strong and limber, my age betrays me on occasion, reminding me that my time as a professional hockey player is almost up.

“Tonight, we celebrate,” Alec chimes in, his voice carrying over the chatter of the room. He’s already in high spirits, the glow of victory and the anticipation of alcohol bright in his eyes.

“Not me,” I say. “I’ve got a shoulder to nurse tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” Zach teases as I decline the invitation, his words tinged with a knowing smirk. They file out, a parade of adrenaline and testosterone, leaving me alone with the echo of their excitement.

Back in my suite, the quiet is a welcome contrast to the clamor of the rink. I grab an ice pack from the freezer, the cold biting into my skin, offering a brief reprieve from the ache in my shoulder. Sinking onto the couch, I press the pack against the soreness, my knuckles brushing the coarse fabric, a small, grounding comfort amidst the buzz of lingering adrenaline.

Chloe… I should call her, or at least text. But what would I say? How do you articulate a knot of feelings that’s part need, part longing, and entirely too complicated?

A knock interrupts my thoughts. I push off the couch, my shoulder protesting with each step toward the door. Expecting room service or one of the guys, I swing it open—and freeze.

“Chloe?” The word comes out more like a question, disbelief threading through it. She stands there, takeout bag in hand, her green eyes sparking with a familiar mischief.

“Surprise,” she says with a playful smile, stepping past me into the room like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The scent of food follows her, making me realize I’m hungrier than I thought.

“What are you doing in Denver?” I ask, closing the door behind her, still caught off guard by her unexpected arrival.

“I had a client, so I caught the game live,” she explains, setting the takeout down on the dining table. “And after that hit you took, I figured someone better check on you. ”

I shrug, though my shoulder protests. “I’ve had surgery on it before. It gives me trouble now and then, but nothing I can’t handle.”

She nods, her eyes flicking to my shoulder with a hint of concern. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” I admit, following her to the table where we settle into our seats, a quiet sense of normalcy trying to replace the weariness from the game. As she unpacks the boxes from a local Thai place, I watch her—her hands moving with practiced care, the soft auburn waves of her hair framing her face.

We chat between bites, the conversation easy and familiar. Her enthusiasm for the game is genuine. “Watching you score… is something else, Wyatt. You own the ice.”

I chuckle, rubbing at my beard. “Glad I put on a good show for you, then.” My gaze catches on a smudge of sauce at the corner of her mouth, and without thinking, I reach across with a napkin to wipe it away. The contact, innocent as it is, sends an unexpected jolt through me.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, her eyes lingering on mine just a fraction too long.

I shift in my seat, trying to ease the tension building inside me, but a sharp pain lance through my shoulder, pulling a wince from deep within .

“Let me,” Chloe says softly, standing and moving to my side. Her fingers are gentle as they press against the tender spots, finding the knots and tension with skilled precision. Even through my shirt, I can feel the heat of her touch—both soothing and electrifying.

“Chloe.” Her name slips from my lips like a whisper, carrying more meaning than I intended.

“What is it, Wyatt?” she asks, leaning closer, her breath warm against my skin.

“Nothing,” I lie, because it’s too much—everything is too much. The game, the pain, the loneliness, her.

But her touch shifts, becoming more deliberate, more intimate. The line between therapeutic and something more blurs, and when I turn my head to face her, our noses nearly touch. I shouldn’t, but the protest dies before it even forms, and I close the distance, my lips meeting hers.

The kiss starts slow, tentative, like a question hanging in the space between us. But it deepens quickly, all the unsaid words and pent-up emotions dissolving into the feel of her, the taste of her lips, the way she melts into me.

Heat floods through me, fierce and all-consuming. Despite the ache in my shoulder, I stand, lifting Chloe onto the table in one fluid motion. Her gasp barely registers over the pounding of my heart as I press against her.

“God,” I breathe, marveling at how she’s changed—how the girl I once knew has transformed into this woman of strength and fire. My hands roam with purpose, sliding up her skirt, eager to feel the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers.

The tights are gone in an instant, discarded without thought. Desire crashes through me like a wave, and my own clothes quickly follow, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Kneeling between her legs, I wrap one arm around her thigh, my free hand gliding over the soft fabric of her panties, teasing the heat beneath.

“Yes,” she moans, and it is the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard in my life. I can feel my jeans tighten as my erection grows.

I kiss her thigh, slowly making my way closer to her entrance. Her body tenses, eager for my touch. As much as I want to give in, I want to push her over the edge even more.

“Please…” she begs.

My fingers trace over everything but her clit, her arousal making her panties wet.

“I need you now. ”

“Say my name, Chloe,” I urge. My fingers continue to tease her.

Her chest heaves, and I know I’m killing her. But her lips curl into a smile. “Wyatt,” she rasps out, and it’s full of ache and lust. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and here I thought I was the one teasing her. “Wyatt,” she says again, rolling her head back.

That does it for me. Now I’m the one who can’t take it any longer. I push her panties to the side and flick my tongue over her swollen clit.

“Fuck!” Her toes curl and her hips buck, but I pin her down.

I continue to flick my tongue against her clit, side to side, then up and down. Her taste is so decadent, I could come right now. I wrap my lips around her clit and suck. She throws her head back, her body convulsing. I keep her pinned as I carry on satisfying her.

“I need your fingers,” she tells me, and I can hear the longing in her voice.

“What’s the magic word, Chloe?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please.”

I chuckle and slip a finger inside of her sleek entrance, then follow it with another. My tongue returns to her clit. My pace is slow at first, increasing in speed and intensity at the sounds of her moaning .

“Yes, yes, yes, Wyatt,” she moans through gritted teeth. Her pussy clenches around my fingers, practically trapping them inside of her.

I know she’s close; that’s my cue to up the ante. My fingers thrust harder, faster, and my tongue follows suit.

“Oh, yes! Yes! Oh, fuck.”

On the next thrust, Chloe’s body convulses. Her orgasm washes over her, and I can feel its power as her walls squeeze my fingers.

When she finally comes down from her high, I slip my fingers out of her. I peer down at her, her perfect nipples still hard. I lean forward to pinch one of them, licking the other before taking it into my mouth.

“Mm,” I breathe, giving her time to catch her breath.

“That was so…” she starts, but she can barely string a sentence together.

“You’re telling me. I damn near came just from watching you.”

I run my hands over her body, memorizing every dip and curve like my life depends on it.

“Can you handle more?” I raise a single brow. I already know her answer.

“For you? Of course I can.”

I smirk. Fuck, does she know how to drive me wild? I remove my shirt first, then unbuckle my belt and tug off my jeans. Once they pool at my ankles, I step out of them. Chloe never takes her eyes off me as I slip my boxers off, revealing my massive erection that’s been aching to be inside her.

I reach into her purse, fingers brushing against the cool wrapper of the condom tucked inside. My heart races as I tear it open, the sound sharp in the charged air. I can’t help but steal a glance at Chloe. Her eyes, wide with anticipation, ignite something primal within me. This isn’t just about physical desire. It’s an unspoken promise of connection, a reclaiming of what we once shared.

With steady hands, I roll the condom down my length, my pulse thrumming in time with the growing urgency between us. Every movement feels electric, each second stretching as if the universe is holding its breath. I want her. No, I need her.

“Are you ready?” I ask, my voice low and rough. The words barely escape my lips before she nods, biting her lower lip—a gesture that sends a jolt straight to my core.

I step closer, our bodies nearly touching. Her back arches as I slide into her, a perfect fit that draws a gasp from both of us. My thrusts are firm, with a rhythm born of hunger and need, each one sending jolts of pleasure that light up my senses.

Palms flat against my chest, Chloe pushes me to a place where only raw sensations exist.

“Fuck, Wyatt, you fill me up so good.” Her voice is a velvet caress, spurring me on.

Leaning in, I capture the tender skin of her neck with my lips, marking her with every movement. “You’re tighter than ever, baby,” I murmur against her heated flesh, a mix of awe and primal satisfaction coursing through me.

I pause, hands braced on the edge of the table as I help her lie back, the polished wood cool against her fevered skin. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, each breath a silent plea for more.

“Harder,” she gasps out, her voice hitching with every thrust. “Make me come.”

“With pleasure,” I growl, the heat in her voice sending a surge of adrenaline through me. Her words fuel my every movement, and the way her body responds to mine—arching, trembling—only makes me crave her more. There’s something intoxicating about knowing I’m the one pushing her over the edge.

One hand brace against the table beside her, the other grips her hip, guiding her to meet each of my relentless drives. The sound of our bodies coming together fills the room, a carnal symphony that drowns out everything else.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants like a mantra, her hands clawing at the polished surface, seeking something to anchor her in the storm we’ve created.

She feels too incredible, too damn perfect, as if she was made just for me. Every fiber of my being strains to hold back, to draw this moment out, to savor the sweet torture of her enveloping warmth. But then she tightens around me, a vice of pleasure that threatens to undo my restraint.

“So tight,” I exhale, surrendering to the inevitable as I come hard inside her. “Fuck.”

Our movements slow, gradually easing to stillness, until only the ragged sounds of our breathing echo in the hushed room. The air is thick with the scent of sex and the heat from our bodies.

It was good. Too good. It’s always good with Chloe. Lying here, with her beneath me, I’m hit by a wave of certainty—I don’t want this to be the last time. Not now. Not ever.

Clothes strewn across the floor, remnants of the urgency with which we tore them off. We move in a silent agreement, picking up discarded pieces. The cotton of my shirt feels coarse in my hands, such a difference from the silkiness of Chloe’s tights that I bundle and pass back to her.

She squeezes her clothes against her chest. “We keep it casual, okay? When this job’s done, so are we.” It’s not a negotiation. It’s a line she’s drawing, a firm tether to reality amidst whatever we were getting lost in.

“Okay,” I say, though the word feels hollow, a lie wrapped in indifference. A part of me—the part still tangled in the heat of her skin, the sound of her sighs—screams in protest. But Wyatt Banks doesn’t protest. I take life on the chin and keep moving forward. Yet, the ache in my chest tells me I’m already too attached, deeper than I care to admit. I’ve had people walk away before, but this? This feels different, and I hate that it does.

We return the kitchenette to order, a sterile space once again, as if our passion was just another mess to be cleaned up. But the lingering heat in my veins and the scent of her perfume clinging to the air tell a different story—one I’m not ready to close the book on, not by a long shot.