One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 17

Chloe

“Just about to have dinner.” Not wanting to admit the truth about my uneventful evening.

I’m curled up on the couch, sweats hugging my legs, the remote resting in my hand. My parents have been dying to see Jasper, so he’s spending the night with them in Pasadena. It’s just me and a marathon of my favorite show tonight.

“Alone?” There’s a teasing lilt to his words.

“Yes, sir.”

He chuckles at my response. “How about I take you out instead?” The suggestion sends a thrill of excitement down my spine.

“Like a date?” I ask, sending my heart racing at the thought.

“Exactly like one.”

“Give me some time to get ready,” I find myself saying.

“I’ll be there in an hour,” he replies .

The line goes dead, and urgency replaces my previously relaxed state, and I dash to the shower hoping to be ready before he gets here.

An hour later, I’m standing in front of the mirror, giving myself a final once-over. A spritz of perfume lands on my wrists, the scent floral and warm.

The doorbell chimes, and my stomach knots. Wyatt’s had my building’s code ever since he started spending time getting to know Jasper, but there’s still something about him being able to buzz himself in that makes this relationship feel… real.

I smooth down my coral sweater, check the fit of my jeans, and slip into my black boots. With a deep breath, I open the door.

“Ready to go?” Wyatt’s standing there, all wavy black hair and blue-eyed intensity wrapped in casual elegance.

“Almost. Just need my coat.” The fabric is soft and comforting as I pull it on.

As I step over the threshold, Wyatt’s arms encircle me, and his lips find mine with an intimacy that steals my breath away. His kiss is an assertion, a claim that leaves no room for uncertainty.

“Sorry, you looked too good,” he murmurs against my lips .

Laughter bubbles up from within me, light and airy. “You look good too.”

Wyatt’s grin is self-assured, a reflection of the man who knows his effect on me. He takes my hand, leading me into what I can only describe as a night full of mystery and intrigue.

The engine is a steady purr in the comfortable silence between us as city lights streak past my window. The scent of his cologne, a mix of pine and something richer, fills the car.

“First date in public,” I murmur, my fingers tracing the cool leather of the seat. “Aren’t you nervous someone might record us?”

Wyatt’s gaze never leaves the road, yet his smile tells me he’s amused. “Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of privacy where we’re headed.”

The Japanese restaurant is nestled between glittering Hollywood boutiques, its entrance unassuming yet elegant. As we step inside, the host greets Wyatt with a familiarity that highlights his status here. He’s no stranger to these polished floors and hushed conversations.

“This way please,” says the host, leading us through a maze of tables adorned with flickering candles to an intimate alcove .

“Talk about privacy,” I comment, sliding into our secluded space, walls lined with delicate rice paper screens.

Wyatt’s wink sends a ripple of warmth through me. “Told you we’d have plenty.”

An hour goes by quickly as we discuss memories of college and the early days of our careers.

“It’s nice to have dinner out of our apartments for a chance,” I tell him. “Even though it’s still only the two of us, it feels a bit more…”

“Normal?” he suggests, but I shake my head. I don’t want him to think I’m craving something he isn’t able to provide me.

“It’s just that I’ve spent the past seven years focused on being a mom and reaching toward goal after goal, which I’m proud of. But it’s refreshing to feel like a normal person again, since I’ve kept that part of me on hold for so long.”

“We can stay here as long as you’d like.”

I sweep a pair of hooded eyes at him. “I’m good.”

“Should we get out of here?” His voice is low, intimate .

I nod, feeling the weight of fullness in my stomach and the lightness of laughter still on my lips.

The drive back is a blur of passing headlights and shadowed streets, the night wrapping around us like a cloak. He turns to me, a question hanging in the air.

“Want to go back to my place?”

I smile and nod.

The moment the door to Wyatt’s apartment clicks shut behind us, a sense of warm familiarity wraps around me, like sinking into a well-worn armchair. He slips my coat from my shoulders with an ease that speaks of a thousand such nights, though we haven’t reached nearly that many evenings together. Not yet, at least.

“Would you like something to drink?” Wyatt offers.

“Sure,” I say. “Sparkling water is fine.”

“Here,” he says, handing me a bottle from the fridge.

Our fingers brush, and it’s like striking a match. Heat flares between us, and I barely manage to set down my bottle after my first sip before his lips find mine.

We fall into a rhythm on the couch, a dance of lips and tongues, and I’m lost to the sensation. My hands roam across the expanse of his chest and the solid muscles under his shirt until I can’t bear the barrier of fabric any longer. With a boldness fueled by desire, I strip him of his shirt, revealing the familiar topography of his torso—the ridges and valleys I’ve explored before but crave to discover anew.

His touch follows suit, peeling away my sweater with a gentleness that belies the hunger in his eyes. My jeans join the growing pile on the floor, and the sudden chill of the room makes me acutely aware of how exposed—and how wanted—I am.

His lips travel across my skin, igniting paths of fire wherever they land. I’m captivated by the contrast of his mouth—soft and inviting—against the hard lines of his body. When he unclasps my bra, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh, I shiver not from the cold, but from sheer need.

“Stop teasing me like that. You’re going to make me come,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough with want.

“Sorry, you feel too good,” I breathe out, my fingers tracing the waistband of his boxers, feeling him throb beneath the thin material .

“I could say the same.” There’s a grin in his voice, a playful challenge that I’m all too eager to accept.

He shifts me effortlessly so I’m seated on the couch, its cushions soft under my palms. My heartbeat resounds through the room, or maybe it’s just in my ears, hammering a frantic rhythm. He slides my panties down my legs, and they join the rest of our discarded clothes in silent testament to the urgency of our desire.

“Let’s see how wet you are,” he says. In one smooth motion, he spreads my legs wide. “Ah,” I moan involuntarily as his fingers run over my core, exploring with a tenderness that belies their strength. “So wet.”

“I want to see for myself,” he replies, his voice laced with a dark promise that sends another shiver coursing through me.

Sensations flood me as he touches me more intimately, fingers slipping into my slick warmth, and my cry fills the room, a raw sound of pleasure and vulnerability.

“Does that feel good, baby?” His question is whispered into the nape of my neck, his breath hot against my skin.

“Yes,” I gasp, clinging to the couch as if it’s the only thing grounding me while his touch threatens to send me adrift on waves of ecstasy .

“What if I do this?” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. A finger slips inside, and the sensation is so sudden, so intense, that all I can do is moan.

“More,” I manage to say, my voice hitching with need.

He chuckles, a sound that’s both warm and devilishly knowing. He adds a third finger, stretching and filling me in ways that send sparks of pleasure skittering up my spine.

I tighten around him, my body singing with tension as he moves within me. His fingers thrust in and out, in a delicious rhythm that has me moaning and gasping, my hands clawing at the couch for something to hold on to. Then his other hand finds me too, rubbing my clit in slow, purposeful circles. It’s like he knows exactly where to touch and how much pressure to use to unravel me.

“Oh God, Wyatt. You’re going to make me explode.”

“That’s the plan,” he growls against the skin of my neck, his breath hot and his erection pressing through his boxers against my thigh. His lips find my collarbone, kissing along my shoulder, each touch lighting fires under my skin .

“Fuck,” I cry out when he increases the pace. “Harder, please!”

He doesn’t hesitate. His fingers dive deeper, move faster, and his thumb on my clit is relentless. It’s overwhelming—the kind of pleasure that teeters on the edge of too much, but is too good to want it to stop. Tears prick at my eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of sensation building inside me.

“Ah!” The climax hits me like a tidal wave, crashing through me with such force, I feel like I might shatter into a thousand pieces. He doesn’t let up, fingers still working inside me, drawing out every last tremor of ecstasy until I’m spent, a panting, limp, and satisfied heap.

We kiss, a soft counterpoint to the intensity that just passed between us. My breath comes in short bursts, mingling with his in the narrow space where our mouths meet and part and meet again.

“Wow,” I whisper against his lips, a single word that seems to capture the immensity of what’s just happened, even if it can’t encompass all the feelings tumbling through me. His eyes gleam with a mixture of pride and tenderness, and I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be .

“God, that was intense,” I gasp out, still trembling from the roller coaster of pleasure he’s just taken me on.

Wyatt hovers over me, his chest rising and falling with equal fervor. “I can tell,” he says, voice rough like gravel. But there’s a glint in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of what we shared.

“Now it’s your turn,” I declare, propping myself up on the couch. My fingers trace the outline of his jaw, a promise etched into my touch. “And I want you in my mouth.”

“Sounds like the perfect plan to me.” He stands, an imposing figure carved from desire, directly in front of where I sit on the edge of the couch. His boxers—the last barrier between us—are no match for my eager hands as I peel them away, revealing him in all his glory.

“So big,” I murmur, my breath hot against the sensitive skin of his erection. “I love it so much.” My words are half-whisper, half-sigh, full of longing as I wrap my fingers around him, feeling his pulse thrum through my grip.

His groan vibrates through the room when I place my mouth on his crown, a sound that sends shivers down my spine. “Yes, baby. Just like that,” he encourages, threading his fingers through my hair, guiding without pushing.

I work him in my mouth, tongue swirling, lips sliding—a dance as old as time yet freshly impassioned with each movement. My hands explore his length and girth, caressing the weight of his balls, intent in every stroke.

“Mm,” I hum around him, the vibration eliciting another deep moan from his throat.

“If you keep humming like that, I’m going to spill in your mouth,” he warns, but there’s a plea hidden in the velvet of his voice.

“That’s the plan,” I breathe out.

He takes the hint, beginning to thrust gently into the welcoming warmth of my mouth. I savor him, taking pride in my ability to evoke such raw responses, getting turned on by the power I hold.

The crescendo builds, his movements growing more urgent, and I brace myself for his impending orgasm looming ahead. When it breaks, his climax washes over us both, a release that fills my mouth with the essence of him.

“Jesus, Chloe. Keep it up, and you’re going to be the death of me,” he pants, his voice ragged, letting me know how close to the edge I’ve brought him.

I can’t help but pout playfully, feigning innocence even now. “Wouldn’t want that. ”

Wyatt’s laughter is a warm blanket wrapping around us, an intimate endnote to our sighs and moans.

“Want to stay the night?” Wyatt’s voice is gentle, a transition from our previous fervor. He lifts me from the couch with an ease that speaks of his strength.

“I’d love to,” I reply, my voice light, floating on the possibility of spending more time wrapped up in this newfound intimacy.

He kisses my forehead, a tender gesture that feels like a promise. “I’m going to get cleaned up,” he says. “You can join me in the master bathroom if you want to do the same.”

I nod, still dizzy with the whirlwind of sensations, but follow him. Wyatt finishes quickly, leaving me to freshen up while he slips out. In the sanctuary of his bathroom, I wash away the remnants of passion from my face, the cool water a balm to my flushed skin. I find a new toothbrush tucked in a drawer, its bristles untouched and ready for me. As I brush, minty freshness chases away the lingering taste of him.

Stepping out into the bedroom, I’m greeted by the sight of Wyatt. He stands there, naked, muscles sculpted in the soft lighting—a vision of masculine beauty. Ethereal almost, as if he belongs to another world where only the gods tread.

He catches my gaze, his blue eyes twinkling with a mix of mirth and something deeper. With a casual pat on the bed beside him, he beckons me over. I settle next to him, our skin whispering against the crisp sheets.

“Why’d you take the job, knowing you’d have to work with me?” His question isn’t accusatory. It’s tinged with genuine curiosity, but it still takes me by surprise.

I thread my fingers through his, feeling the calluses of a life lived chasing pucks on ice. “For Jasper.” I start, “To save enough for a down payment on a house. He needs a yard to run around in.” The image of my son’s laughter echoing through a sunlit garden fills my mind.

Wyatt’s nod is thoughtful, approving. “Jasper needs that space. A place to just be a kid.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice that tugs at me.

“And he’s had one hell of a mom to rely on,” he adds. I see the admiration in his gaze, feel it in the warmth of his touch.

His words unfurl a tenderness within me, one that has roots entwined around memories of Wyatt’s own fractured past. I wrap my arms around him and hug him tightly, wishing I could shield him from every shadow that lingers. He responds in kind, his arms a fortress around me.

As we drift off, bodies entangled, the pulse of Los Angeles outside becomes a distant murmur. Here, in Wyatt’s embrace, everything falls away until there’s nothing left but the steady rhythm of two hearts finding solace in each other’s beat.