One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 28

Wyatt

I shift in bed, feeling Chloe’s warmth curled beside me, and mumble a groggy, “Good morning,” pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. She stirs, a gentle hum escaping her lips, blending with the early stillness of our room.

“Morning,” she replies, her voice thick with sleep as her eyelids lift, revealing those vibrant green eyes.

“Sleep well?” I ask, keeping it light, though a part of me wonders if either of us has truly rested with everything we’ve been through.

She offers a sleepy smile, brushing her lips over mine in a tender, reassuring kiss. “Always with you,” she murmurs.

Her hand reaches toward the nightstand, fingers grazing her phone out of habit. I smirk, nudging her gently. “It’s Saturday—no emails, no work calls,” I tease. It’s been a week since the meeting, and the thought of a full day stretched out before us is both rare and enticing .

“It’s habit,” she retorts, though there’s only affection in her voice, softened by self-awareness.

But then, something shifts. Her casual glance tightens into a focused stare. Her grip on the phone grows firm as her jaw slackens, and a silent alarm seems to rise within her.

“Wyatt, you’ve got to see this.” Her voice, urgent now, cuts through the lazy intimacy of a moment ago.

“What is it?” I ask, the curiosity sparking a familiar tension that tightens along my spine. She tilts the screen toward me without another word, and the crisp voice of a news anchor slices through the air, turning the room electric.

Images flash across the screen, each second unfolding a revelation that could very well change everything.

The anchor’s voice claws at the silence of our bedroom, detailing Alec’s downfall with a clinical detachment that belies the chaos it represents. “Alec Harding, former star center for the Los Angeles Knights, has been formally ejected from the Hockey League,” the reporter announces.

“Furthermore,” she continues, “the League has imposed a fifty-thousand-dollar fine on Mr. Harding for his role in the recent drug scandal involving fellow Knights team member, Wyatt Banks. It is alleged that Mr. Harding swapped his own test sample with his teammate’s, leading to Wyatt Banks falsely testing positive for opioids. A representative of the LA Knights has issued an apology to Mr. Banks and assured the public that measures are being taken to prevent similar incidents.”

My heart hammers as a blend of vindication and disbelief courses through me. The screen shifts to images of LAPD headquarters, and I feel Chloe’s fingers tighten around mine.

“Additionally,” the anchor goes on, “a criminal investigation led by the Los Angeles Police Department is underway after evidence surfaced of Mr. Harding’s drug use and manipulation of mandatory testing protocols.”

Chloe’s breath catches, her eyes reflecting the weight of what we’re hearing. “He swapped his sample for yours and planted drugs in your locker,” she says, her voice a mix of anger and relief. “It’s the least he deserves.”

“And Sonia?” I ask, the name tasting like bile on my tongue.

“Gone,” Chloe replies. “At least, she’s vanished from social media. No posts, no sightings. ”

“After admitting she made up the lies about you being abusive and needing anger management, she handed over everything she had on Alec and then just… disappeared.” Chloe’s tone has a hint of satisfaction but also caution, as if she knows people like Sonia don’t stay hidden for long.

“I hope she stays gone,” Chloe murmurs, pulling me into a hug that feels like home. Her arms wrap around me, her warmth seeping into every bone.

I run my fingers through her hair, inhaling the apple and vanilla scent that calms the sting of betrayal. She sets her phone aside, as though letting go of the world beyond our walls.

“Hey,” I say softly, tilting her chin to meet my gaze. “We made it through.”

“Like we always do,” Chloe says, a victorious smile spreading across her face.

I press my lips to hers, the kiss sealing our promises and honoring every battle we’ve fought. It’s tender at first, a quiet affirmation of us—Wyatt and Chloe against the odds.

Then, the kiss deepens, the weeks of tension unfurling. It’s more than passion. It’s reclaiming trust, a future that once felt fragile. She clings to me, her hands roaming over the muscles of my back, drawing strength from the connection.

Her kiss is fervent, a flame igniting in the dim morning light, consuming the remnants of doubt and fear. The taste of her, the heat between us—it reminds me why I fight so damn hard off the ice. For moments like these, for her, for us.

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” I murmur, my fingers deftly undoing the buttons of her flannel pajamas. The fabric parts like curtains on a stage, revealing the soft skin beneath.

“Only if you’re next,” she teases, a playful glint in her eyes as she helps, her hands slipping the material from her shoulders. Her top falls away, and her breasts greet the morning air, full and inviting.

I lower my head, taking one nipple into my mouth, eliciting a gasp that stirs the silent bedroom. I switch to the other, lavishing it with equal attention while my hand skims across the smooth expanse of her chest. Her back arches slightly, her moans punctuating the quiet with whispered symphonies of pleasure.

Lustful fingers grasp at my sleep shirt, yanking it over my head and tossing it aside. Our lips crash together once more, hungry, desperate, as if every kiss is both our first and our last.

Her hand roams over the bulge of my boxers, and a groan escapes me. No one knows my body like Chloe—the way her fingers explore me is a perfect mix of knowing and new. She’s mapped every inch of me, with both the thrill of discovery and the care of someone who knows exactly what I need.

Trailing my mouth down her body, I tug at her pajama bottoms, pulling them down in a slow revelation. Each kiss I plant along her hips and thighs is a brand, a mark of possession that sizzles against her heated skin. When the last barrier of her panties presents itself, I can’t help but smirk, tracing a finger along the damp cotton.

My fingers hook under the delicate strings of her panties, drawing them down as she lifts her hips in silent compliance. The fabric whispers its descent to the floor, and my hands can’t resist the siren call of her bare skin. I trace the softness of her center, reveling in the slick warmth that greets me.

“Oh,” she breathes out, a sound that stokes the fire within me.

Her own hands aren’t idle, deftly slipping beneath the elastic waistband of my boxers with an intimacy born of numerous nights intertwined. With a swift tug from her, the last barrier between us falls away, and I kick my boxers aside. Her eyes, bright and hungry, lock onto mine as her hand wraps around me, causing a low groan to rumble in my throat.

“God, Wyatt.” She slides her hand up and down my shaft, a provocative dance of fingers that know every pulse and throb. It’s a grip tight enough to promise bliss, yet gentle enough to draw out the anticipation.

I can’t be still, not with her touch igniting me. My fingers find her, slipping into her heat—one, then two—eliciting a gasp that fractures the air.

“Oh God,” she cries softly, her insides clamping down on me in a rhythm as old as time. She’s velvet and fire, and I’m lost in the push and pull of our connection.

“Chloe.” Her name is both a plea and a declaration as her walls tighten around my fingers.

Slow, deliberate strokes explore and claim as her hand works me over, a maddening friction that drives me closer to the brink.

“Close your eyes,” I murmur, and she complies with a soft sigh, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she nestles into the silk pillowcase, a luxury that pales next to her smooth skin. Her obedience is a gift, one I cherish and intend to reward.

I descend, worshipful, my mouth seeking the heat of her, tasting the sweet evidence of her arousal. My fingers, still coated in her warmth, spread her wider, allowing my tongue to dance over her.

She’s responsive, alive under my touch, and when my lips find her clit, she bucks against me with an unrestrained.

“Fuck!” The word hangs in the air, a perfect note in our carnal dance.

I press one hand firmly on her thigh, pinning her to the bed, as if she might escape the pleasure I bestow. My mouth works her steadily, sucking and lapping at the bundle of nerves that hold her release captive.

“I’m so close,” she gasps, her breath hitching, her body tensing for the fall.

“Not so fast,” I command, pulling back, my fingers leaving her with a deliberate slowness that draws a plaintive moan from her lips. With a fluid motion, we’re on our sides. Her body aligned with mine, a mirror of desire. “I want to feel you come on more than just my fingers,” I declare, my voice low, thick with promise .

I slide into her with a single, seamless motion that has us both gasping. She’s hot and tight around me, a perfect fit that grips me like a vice.

“You take all of me so well. It’s like you were made just for me,” I murmur, lost in the sensation of being completely sheathed inside her.

She cranes her neck, seeking my lips, and I meet her halfway, our kiss deep and consuming. “Thrust,” she begs against my mouth, and I’m helpless to resist.

I smirk because I know exactly what she needs, what she craves. I draw back, only to push forward again, setting a rhythm that speaks directly to the heart of her pleasure. Every push, every pull is a stroke of love written in the language of flesh. We move together, two halves of a passionate whole, chasing the peak that looms on our horizon.

The rhythm we’ve built, just Chloe and me, shifts as I maneuver myself behind her. My hand finds the delicate column of her throat, a gentle but firm clasp that draws a gasp from her lips. The other hand ventures lower, fingertips dancing over her slick heat. Her moans fill the room, music to my ears .

“Still close?” I whisper, my lips grazing the shell of her ear. Her skin is hot against mine, our bodies a tangle of need.

“On the fucking edge,” she breathes out, words laced with an urgency that tighten my grip on her.

“Let’s push you all the way,” I growl, determination flooding me as I plunge into her with a force that has her crying out. My fingers circle her clit, coaxing the pleasure higher until it’s spiraling out of control.

Her body tenses beneath my touch, her climax building. With one final thrust, she shatters, waves of release crashing through her. Her moan is a sound of pure satisfaction, her body quivering with the aftershocks. I press my lips to the curve of her neck, savoring the taste of her skin.

Without pause, I gently flip her onto her back, urging her to surrender to the sensations. “Just relax,” I murmur, resuming my movements within her.

Her eyes are closed, lashes fluttering like the wings of a butterfly in flight. Her hands clutch at the sheets, knuckles white, as if anchoring herself to this moment .

“Shit, Chloe, you feel so good,” I confess, the rawness of my own need creeping into my voice. I can barely hold on, but I will for her.

I slow down my pace, entering her depths before withdrawing slowly.

“Oh!” she cries, biting her lip as she indulges in my fullness. “Yes, Wyatt. Just like that.”

I fight off the urge to orgasm right here, right now. Instead, my focus remains on Chloe. I observe her facial expressions, the way her hands tense around my oblique muscles. When she comes again, I will let go.

On the next thrust, Chloe throws her head back. I’m so turned on. It’s torturous, but in the best kind of way.

“Damnit, Wyatt. That’s so good. I’m—” is the last thing she manages to get out. I thrust again, and this time, I can feel it. She’s about to lose control.

I speed up, thrusting into her harder and faster. Her lips part, and her eyes roll to the back of her head. “Oh, God. Yes, yes!” she moans, and that’s when it happens. Her climax reaches its peak, and she comes undone.

Her walls clench my cock, and all I need is one more stroke before I release myself into her.

And then I’m there, spilling into her with a shudder that pulses through every inch of me, leaving me breathless. My hands grip her shoulders, anchoring me as wave after wave of release sweeps over me. I lower my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling in the aftermath, holding onto each other as the last tremors fade.

“God, I love you, Chloe.” The words spill from my lips, unbidden.

She peers up at me, surprise etched across her features. “You do?”

A soft laugh escapes me, a mix of disbelief and relief. “I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that, but yeah… I do.”

I sink down beside her, the cool sheets a clear disparity to the warmth we’ve generated between us.

I turn to her, meeting her eyes. “I love you, Chloe. The way you fight like a lioness for your family. For Jasper, for me. Your sweetness with our son, how much harder you love.” My hand cups her cheek, thumb caressing her skin. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, inside and out.”

Her presence is a balm, her touch a lifeline in my messy world. And in this moment, ensconced in the quiet aftermath of our lovemaking, I know every word is true.

Chloe’s hand comes up to rest over my pounding heart. Her smile, a light in our dim bedroom, lifts the corners of her lips. “I love you too, Wyatt Banks. Every part of you.”

Her words sear into me, branding me with a sense of belonging I’ve craved for so long. I’m grinning now, a rare and genuine curve of my mouth that she alone inspires. My lips press to her forehead, a silent thank you etched into the kiss.

But the moment shatters with the impatient rapping of small knuckles against wood. “Mommy! Dad!” The muffled voice of Jasper bleeds through the door, eager and bright.

“Okay, okay, we’re coming,” Chloe calls back, laughter in her voice as if this is the most natural interruption in the world.

We scramble to our feet, a dance of limbs and hurried modesty as we slip into robes. The tie of my robe becomes a stubborn knot under my fumbling fingers, but finally, it’s secure.

Chloe opens the door to Jasper—his hair a wild testament to sleep and his eyes sparking with the boundless energy of youth. “Pancakes!” he demands with the authority of a king to his court.

“Coming right up, kiddo,” I say, the chuckle in my throat echoing Chloe’s amusement. Jasper’s presence, pure and untainted, casts away the shadows of the past and fills the room with a new day’s promise.

“With chocolate chips?” His hopeful gaze bounces between us.

“Is there any other way to make pancakes?” Chloe teases as she moves past him, leading the charge to the kitchen.

“Best mom ever!” Jasper shouts, darting after her with the kind of energy only a seven-year-old on a Saturday morning can have.

I follow behind, taking it all in—Chloe’s robe swaying as she moves, their laughter filling the air. It’s a slice of life I never knew I wanted until them, until now. With each step, I lock this moment in my mind: my family, right here, right now.