Possessive Puckboy (Puckboys, #8)

by Eden Finley

“Is … is that not how this works? Like did I just use some gay code word for wanting to be hog-tied and fucked or something?”

He gets sweary when he comes, apparently.

I follow his stare toward the sight of my cum on his abs. Is this real life? At this point, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to know that I’m actually dead and this is the afterlife I’ve conjured for myself. Literally no part of this feels real.

I watch in a daze as he pulls up his suit pants, throws his shirt on, and grabs his jacket. When he reaches the door, he’s careful to peek outside. The coast must be clear because he tosses me a quick “see you down there” and disappears out into the hall. I’m staring at the place for way too long before I remember I need to pack.

I’m halfway out the door when something catches my eyes. Tangled in the sheets. Dark material. Connor left his boxers behind. I pick them up by the waistband, and of course, they’re Calvin Kleins. I don’t think I’ve ever, ever been left a slutty memento, and I’m torn between getting turned on or being grossed out.

From now on, every man I ever meet will have to measure up to Connor and will fail. It’s probably time to accept that I’m destined for a very lonely life.

Most of the time, my brain is a rambly mess, and I’m trying to control it when I’m around other human-type people. “It’s hilarious that you think people are scared of me when I’m literally scared of everyone.”

I think back to that day in high school when I saw Parker and Easton talking. Possibly even flirting. I’ve always maintained that I stepped in because I didn’t like the way Parker was interacting with East. East had a future, one he shouldn’t screw up. But looking back now, is it possible that something, somewhere buried deep down, when my subconscious said “mine,” it was not, in fact, talking about East? Could something inside me have put a claim on a person without even interacting?

I have to tell myself to stop trying to figure it out because it’s not going to be as easy as saying, “Oh, I rubbed up against another dick this morning until I came, so obviously, I’m queer. Where are my rainbow pom-poms?”

“Sooooo,” Knox says. “Should I be worried that both my Kikis want to speak to me? At the same time? You haven’t killed each other, so there’s one of my concerns gone, but I have about a billion more. Which one of you is being traded, who hit who, or which one of you was swapped with me at birth and I’ve actually been having sex with my biological brother all this time?” Both Easton and I screw up our faces. “What is wrong with you, dude?” I ask. “I don’t like to agree with Connor, but I do on this one,” East says.

Easton pats my back. “Welcome to the queer space. I’ll need to make your membership card, but don’t worry, it’ll say, ‘We’re all overthinkers here.’“ That’s … somewhat reassuring, I guess.

“Fine. If you want a rat, we’ll get a rat.” “We?” I ask. “I always wanted to be the parent of a sewer dweller.”

“Are you okay?” “I’m great. We’re buying a scabby little mutant baby.” Sam gives him a flat look. “He can hear you.” “He’s a rat.” “They’re very smart.” I pretend to cover his little round ears, and he scrubs his face against my hand. “Aww …” I melt. That makes my mind up immediately. Look at me, so starved for affection that the slightest hint of it has me buying a rodent.

“It has red eyes,” Connor says straight away. “It’s a demon.” “But did you see the way it snuggled into me? I love him. I’m getting him.”

“What will we call him? Devil? Evil incarnate?” “How about ratakiki?” “I will end you.”

My inner possessive caveman doesn’t understand that though. “I still have time. I want to see where Master Splinter will be living. I need to make sure it’s suitable.” Parker side-eyes me. “One, that’s not his name, and two, are you trying to get an invitation to my place?”

“And you are loud. And sweary. It’s really hot. Experiencing it only once would be a shame.”

“No. My poor Conishkin shouldn’t be hearing such depraved things. He’s only a baby.”

“You cannot name him Conishkin.” “Why not? I’m naming him after his other daddy. Apparently. It’s your first and last name squished together.” “Yeah, I got that, but no. Uh, I mean, I’m honored. But no, thank you.”

This baby deserves a name that does him justice.” “What do you suggest?” “Satan? Demon? Hell’s butthole?” “Conishkin is sounding better and better.”

That, and I have our demon rat baby. Who is most definitely not called Conishkin.

“There’s my little Conishkin.” “Not his name,” I sing. “Who’s my wittle Con-con Kiki?” I sigh. “You brought this upon yourself,” Parker says. “You’re the one who insisted on co-parenting something that you have absolutely no interest in. All because, why? Sam got a tiny bit too flirty with me, perhaps?”

“Okay, maybe his name really is Conishkin. He’s already showing possessive tendencies over his daddy.”

“I’m not the only one with possessive issues.” I rub my shoulder. “He might be small, but damn, his bite is hard.” “He didn’t …” Parker says, sounding exactly like one of those parents who can’t believe when their child does something naughty. “Oh, he did.” I take my shirt off and show off the mark. And yes, I am tattling on a rat. It’s not bleeding, but there’re two little teeth marks in my skin.

The emotionally manipulative jerkwad looks up at Parker with such innocence even I’d believe he didn’t do it if I didn’t have a throbbing shoulder.

“He is. To you. It’s like he’s chosen you. One look and bam, he fell, hook, line, and sinker.”

Though that does beg the question, is sucking your own cock considered gay? Jerking off isn’t, but is that, like, a line?

If only I’d asked him the self-blowjob question. It’s probably lucky I didn’t. He might have collapsed.

Aww, my first thoughts of we and us when referring to queer people and spaces. I really am embracing this. Go me.

“Aww, did my big bwovers get their asses kicked by the littlest Kiki to ever Kiki?” “We’re never going to hear the end of that, you know,” Easton says. “I know. But it wasn’t my fault. I was distracted.”

Relief sweeps over me. “How much have you had to drink?” “Just … this … much …” “You are aware I can’t see you, right?” “Maybe eleventy. Or twenty. No … Yeah. Twenty.” “Twenty what?” Dear God, do I need to confiscate his liver?

“My jailers have gone to the bar. Quick.” He hiccups. “Meet me out front. I’m gonna ditch out like a shadow ninja!”

My stupid hair is stupid and fluffy, but thankfully, he’ll be too drunk to notice.

I eye him. “Exactly how long have you been holding him?” “Fucked if I know. I liberated him from captivity last night, and we’ve been spooning ever since.” And then, as if that isn’t bad enough, Lachie lifts Conishkin to his face and covers the little rat’s face in kisses. Conishkin is cute as hell, but that’s a line I will never

“Lachie’s used to picking up rats. At least the animal is probably cleaner than half the guys he sleeps with.”

I move closer to him. “I swear I put you in one of the spare rooms about five times last night.” He kept trying to sneak into my room, but a drunk Connor is about as stealthy as a herd of elephants.

“What’d you say this cutie’s name is?” Lachie asks, breaking my attention from Connor. “Conishkin.” He turns to me in horror. “No. You can’t name this sweet little creature after …” He nods Connor’s way. “That.” “Fuck you. He’d be lucky to be named after me.” That’s a change of tune. “Good thing he is, then.”

“What about Gretzky?” Easton suggests. “Stuart Little?” Knox throws out. “Demon overlord?” I backhand Connor’s abs. “No. It’s Conishkin. He already answers to it.”

“If I lose you, your daddy’s going to break up with Daddy Connor, and I don’t want that to be my fault. Daddy Connor will fuck up on his own eventually, I promise. Then you and Daddy Parker can change that horrible name of yours and live happily ever after.” I lift my chin. “I can hear you, you know.” “I know,” he calls out.

“I’m sorry if my comments about your potential sex life were offensive. Here at Kikishkin Incorporated, we don’t have personalities or make jokes, so we were as shocked as you that those words came out of my mouth.” Lachie’s snickering to himself as he puts away Conishkin. I’m rolling my eyes.

I shake my head. “None of them were you, so I wasn’t interested.”

“What? Isn’t that, like, putting all your eggs in one basket?” “I thought the point of being with other men is there are no eggs?” I make the drum bud-dump-ch noise. He doesn’t find it funny.

It’s hard not to laugh over big, tough jocks being thrown by a tiny little rat.

I die the second I hit Send. Is that too presumptive? Too stalkerish? Six days, nine hours, and fifty-two minutes until we land and I can drag you back to my sex cave. I drop my face in my hand. What the hell have I done? His reply comes through. But who’s counting?

“Woohoo to being obliviously queer!”

“Parker, if another man tries to touch you, I’ll break every bone in his fucking hand.”

“I would never. I still want to win that Stanley Cup. For Dad.” The fire in his eyes, the excitement … I should be reflecting the same thing. But I’m not. Because as he says the one thing I’ve been telling myself for years—that the only thing that matters is the Stanley Cup—I realize something about myself I never saw coming. This is even bigger than my sexuality. Bigger than Easton pointing out I was an asshole. It’s the biggest shock of all. I don’t give a shit about winning a Stanley Cup.

“You reckon old people with dentures give good blowjobs? If you think about it, if they take their teeth out, they’d be all gums. Maybe I should tell the team’s dentist to stop giving me dental implants whenever they get knocked out on the ice from now on.” Parker blinks at me. “I’m starting to think you don’t want me to come at all because with that visual in my head, it’s really hard to keep, well, hard.”

“Do you know any math that doesn’t involve hockey?” He’s got me there. “Sure. You plus me equals one now?”

“I’m not going to hold you hostage if that’s what you mean.” “Is it really hostage if I’m here voluntarily?” “I mean, I could tie you down so you never leave. You said you were mine, after all.”