Page 48 of For Pucking Ever

A cold wave of panic washes through me, starting at the base of my spine and creeping upward until it grips my lungs. My chest goes tight, each breath becoming shallow and quick. My hands are still damp from the towel, but they're clammy now for an entirely different reason. Sweat beads at my hairline despite the comfortable temperature in the kitchen. What if I've overstayed? What if this was temporary? What if he's just been waiting for the right moment to tell me I should find my own place? What if all of this, the cooking, the soft morning kisses, the way he holds me at night, was just his way of helping a teammate through recovery, an obligation that's stretched too long?

Coach Willis warned me about overthinking things, about letting fear sabotage what's in front of me. Dr. Sloan would probably call this a protective mechanism. Pushing away the issue before I can be pushed, but knowing that doesn't stop the spiral, doesn't ease the sudden tightness in my throat or the way my heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.

“Hey,” Bast calls over his shoulder, having finally noticed me, his voice casual and warm. “Dinner’s almost ready. Sit down before I feed the cat that I don’t have.”

I force a smile and move toward the kitchen island, slipping onto one of the stools. My legs a little shaky, like the ground underneath me isn't as solid as it was a minute ago. The cool marble counter beneath my palms grounds me somewhat, but my thoughts continue racing, skittering between hope and dread like an untethered puck.

He notices. Of course he notices.

He stops stirring and glances over, brow furrowed, the spoon hovering midair. Then he mutters under his breath, "Tu penses trop fort." You're thinking too loud. The French rolls off his tongue effortlessly, familiar and intimate in a way that still makes my insides flutter despite my anxiety.

I look down at my hands, tracing an invisible pattern on the counter's surface. Say nothing. The silence between us fills with all the words I'm afraid to voice.

He exhales sharply and sets the spoon down with a clatter against the pot's edge, frustration pouring off him in waves. "Mon dieu...pourquoi est-ce que c'est toujours comme ça avec toi?" Why is it always like this with you? His accent thickens when he's emotional, another detail I've catalogued during our weeks together.

My head snaps up. "What?" The defensiveness in my voice is instinctive, a shield I've carried since childhood. I have no idea what he is saying but the tone says enough.

He crosses to me, fast and fluid until he's standing right there in front of me, one hand planted firmly on the counter, the other lifting my chin with the kind of gentleness that makes my chest hurt. His fingers are warm against my skin, calloused in places from years of work, yet tender in their touch.

"Why do you do that thing," he says, switching back to English, "where everything's fine and then suddenly you vanish inside your own head like you're preparing for the worst?" His eyes pin me in place, gray and knowing, seeing through every defense I've constructed.

I try to laugh, but it comes out hollow, a sound that rings false even to my own ears. "Because usually, it is the worst." The admission costs me something, brings back memories of phone calls never returned, promises broken, bags packed in the night. Of the father who ghosted my mother and me.

His eyes search mine for a second, intense and unwavering, and I brace myself. For what, I don't know. Maybe rejection. Maybe distance. Maybe the gentle let-down I've been rehearsing responses to in my head.

"Is that what this is?" he asks quietly, heat simmering beneath the surface. "You getting ready to pack your bag?" There's something vulnerable in the question, something that suggests I'm not the only one with fears lurking just beneath the surface.

I swallow hard, the sound audible in the space between us. "I just realized. . .I don't have to be here anymore. And we haven't really talked about whatever this is." The words feel inadequate, too small to contain the enormity of what I'm really asking: Am I temporary to you?

He closes his eyes like I've said something stupid, a brief pained expression crossing his features. When he opens them again, they're full of something softer. Something careful. Something that makes me want to reach for him.

"Merde," he mutters. Shit.

"I'm not trying to ruin it," I say quickly, words tumbling out in a rush. "I'm just⁠—"

"I don't know what this is. Not yet. But I know I want it, and I know I want you. So, unless you're in a rush to leave. . ." The directness of it steals my breath, the certainty in his voice like an anchor in choppy waters.

I shake my head. "I'm not." Two simple words that contain multitudes.

"Then we take it like everything else," he leans down and kisses my temple, warm and steady, his lips lingering against my skin in a promise more eloquent than words "One night at a time."

He pulls away just enough to say, "Mange, mon prince." Eat, my prince. The endearment wraps around me like a blanket, sheltering me from the storm of my own making.

He’s already turning back to the stove before I can respond. I don’t need to. My heart’s still hammering in my chest, but now it’s for a completely different reason.

Later, after the risotto, quiet music and the wine that’s made everything soft at the edges. I lie on the couch, tucked beneath a blanket that smells like his laundry detergent. Bast is stretched out beneath me, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek.

I close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of his breathing. One steady heartbeat at a time.

One night at a time. It's enough. For now, it’s enough.

NINETEEN

SEBASTIAN

In the steaming shower, I'm on my knees, the water cascading over me like a waterfall, as I worship the most perfect ass I've ever seen. Derrick's leaning against the tiled wall, his forehead pressed to the cool surface, hands fisted at his sides. His moans echo off the walls, hidden beneath the drumming of the rainfall shower heads. I grip his cheeks, spreading them wide, and dive in, my tongue circling his hole, devouring him like a starving man.

His body trembles, muscles tensing under my touch. I can feel his moans more than hear them, his body vibrating with each sound. I flatten my tongue, licking him from his taint to the top of his crack, then back down again. His fists clench tighter, knuckles turning white, as he pushes his ass back, begging for more.