PUCKED (A Standalone Romantic Comedy) (The Pucked Series Book 1)

VIOLET

Alex’s expression reflects nothing of the blissful serenity I’ve been rocking up until now. Confused, I touch my neck, feeling around for the hickey. It’s a fruitless action; you can’t feel hickeys, you can only see them. Besides, if I have one, he put it there.

His gaze is trained lower. I check out my chest. No discoloration there other than the usual blotchiness that’s a result of being sexed up.

His grip tightens on my thighs. I whimper, the sound drawing Alex’s attention to my face. Holy shit. He’s absolutely livid. His fury—similar to what I’ve previously witnessed only when he takes someone down on the ice—feeds the hockey hooker in me. I’m leaking on his air hockey table.

The fog from my orgasm-induced euphoria begins to clear. It’s my naked beaver he’s angrily eyeing. In my lust-induced haze, I forgot the ugly bruise from yesterday evening’s impromptu waxing session. I can see how he might mistake it for a hickey.

I gesture to the horrible mark in a flaily, manic way. “It’s not what it looks like.” In saying this, I’ve made it seem like exactly that.

Alex’s body is rigid aside from the twitching corner of his mouth and the pressing of his thumbs into the juncture of my thighs. He’s an inch shy of my clit on either side. While staying still is killing me, an explanation is necessary.

“I didn’t have time to make an appointment with my waxer because you sprang the date on me. My beave was getting unruly, and I wasn’t sure how tonight would go. I wanted to be prepared in case this happened . . .” I motion to his hands.

Alex follows the movement with his eyes. His thumb moves over the purplish-red spot. Sadly, this means his thumb also moves away from my clit.

“I thought I could do it myself. You know, wax my beaver?” Alex’s brows come down low. Of course he doesn’t know. “I do my own legs sometimes, and I figured it would be easy. Judging by the result, I was wrong.” I finish with a poke at my bruise. I cringe; it hurts.

He tilts his head to the side, his expression doubtful. “Waxing?”

“Only you and your fingers, and your mouth, and your behemoth dick, and my fingers, and my collection of vibrators have been near me in the last six months. Oh, and the gyno—”

Jesus, why can’t I shut up?

“The gyno?”

I nod vigorously. “Uh, yeah, she’s female, so no worries there.” He doesn’t ask why I went to the gyno. I don’t want to tell him the truth. After sleeping with him I developed acute paranoia, afraid I contracted a contagious hockey whore disease.

Thankfully, Alex focuses on the other tidbit of information I let slip in the midst of my verbal vomit.

“You have a collection of vibrators?”

His thumbs inch in closer. Actually, it’s more like millimeter in closer. I do the damn moaning thing followed by an odd sobbing sound, wishing I could lie.

“Not a collection, a few . . . a travel one I ordered through one of those pervy sites, one I bought at a smut store, and one Charlene bought me. I think it was supposed to be a joke. It’s weird looking and textured. Like all these balls fused together? It’s not very effective for getting off—unless I’m using it wrong.”

Alex looks simultaneously disturbed and turned on. He blinks a few times and licks his lips as if trying to decide what to do or say next.

He doesn’t respond with words, but his lips are on mine again and his tongue is in my mouth. At the same time, he grazes my clit with both thumbs, causing me to make another odd sound he seems to like. All of a sudden we’re in motion. Alex grips my ass and lifts me off the air hockey table.

“God you’re sexy,” he says, carrying me to the expensive-looking leather sofa.

I have to wonder if he actually heard my ramblings about my waxing malfunction and my plastic penis collection.

He lays me on the couch; one of his knees settles between mine and the other hits the floor. Reaching behind me, Alex nabs a throw pillow and tucks it under my head. He’s so considerate.

I run my hands from his chest to the waistband of his pants. Unbuckling the belt and popping the button, I slide my fingers between the material and his skin. He’s commando, which I find interesting since he has a lot to contain.

I wrap my fingers around the hard, damp shaft of his monster cock. We’re both making noises similar to the soundtrack of a porno—they’re coming from me because I’m finally touching his ridiculously huge dick again; and I assume it probably feels good for Alex, too.

He kisses his way to my mouth. “I can’t wait to be in you.”

I can’t and don’t want to say no. A very small part of me clings to the belief I need to make him wait for sex. Like maybe until our next date. Two weeks from now is a long time, though, and it’s already been a month since we’ve been naked together. If I hold off, my beaver might explode from lack of use.

Alex pushes up on his arms. I get an awesome view of his broad chest and the treasure trail leading to monster cock land. He seems unsure of himself. “Sorry. I’m sorry. We don’t have to have sex. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll feel bad about later.”

When he says those kinds of things, paired with his earlier comment, I want to be his love slave. An image of me in a black corset wearing a collar with a leash attached to it pops into my head. Maybe stupid Lydia was right to cut the smut from the book club for a while.

“I won’t feel bad.” I’m pretty sure I’ll feel good, actually.

“You’re sure?” Alex trails his fingers down my side.

“Positive.” I’m still holding his cock; it’s still massively hard.

“I should take you upstairs.”

I have no desire to stop touching him long enough to make the trip upstairs. “I’m good here. I like your couch.” They seem like good luck charms where Alex is concerned.

“My bed is more comfortable, and there’s more room.” He drops his head into the hollow of my throat, his lips touching my skin.

“I’m sure you’re right, but then we’d have to stop doing what we’re doing.”

“You make a good point.”

Alex reaches behind me, and with a quick flick, he opens the clasp and tosses my bra on the floor. My panties follow.

I slide his pants over his hips. His cock pops out, nearly smacking me in the face. I bob and weave to avoid getting poked in the eye by his swinging dick. My lack of coordination is an unfortunate issue, and I inadvertently whack it.

Alex bows forward, swearing. I grab his dick to avoid additional mishaps and apologize for beating on the monster cock. It’s level with my boobs. I have an idea. He seems to have an extreme fascination with my chest. Keeping my eyes on his, I circle a nipple with the tip.

One second he’s all soft and tender and “is this okay?” and “are you sure?” The next he’s got my hair wrapped around his fist. His body is wound tighter than a coiled snake ready to strike, which is fitting since I’m rubbing his “snake” on my boobs.

“You can’t even . . .”

I run the head of his cock across the valley to the opposite nipple. He angles my head to the side and takes my mouth as I stroke him. Alex deepens the kiss until I’m dizzy, and breathing seems like an unimportant function. Bearing down, he covers my body with his. No longer able to maintain hand-to-cock contact, I use my feet to push his pants down to his calves. There are a few awkward moments where he struggles to kick them off, and I ineffectively attempt to help with my toes.

Impatient, Alex uses his free hand to get them the rest of the way off. We both sigh with relief when he settles between my legs again. He’s right there, hot and thick, eliciting one of my porn moans. That’s before he starts with the controlled glide.

Skimming the length of his arm, I tug gently on his wrist. He’s been fisting my hair like reins.

“Sorry.” He massages my scalp.

“S’okay. I’ve been reading a lot of Dom-sub stuff in my book club lately.”

Hair pulling isn’t even close to the same thing. It’s not like he’s tied me up and makes me call him Sir or Master.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Nothing. Never mind. It’s not important.”

I knead his ass to distract him; otherwise I’m liable to start ending sentences with Mr. Waters.

It seems to work. Alex’s eyes flutter shut and his mouth drops open as we rub against each other. I run my hands up his back, appreciating all those tight, hard muscles.

His lips are close to my ear, his voice soft. “You feel so good.”

I remember getting it on with my first ever long-term boyfriend in high school. The progression from dry humping to naked humping happened in stages.

We’d get mostly naked—the pants might come off and the shirts stay on—and line our parts up. Then we’d slide against each other without really having any fucking clue as to how to get each other off. In all the uncoordinated wet humping, the slip-and-bump would happen. Everything would stop. We’d look at each other and ask the question: “Just the tip?” It almost always led to the-whole-damn-thing.

This is what happens. Except Alex’s tip is beer-can wide. Okay, it’s not that thick, but it’s close. The sensation is a teaser, like one of those tiny spoonfuls of ice cream they give out before committing to a whole cone. I’ve already eaten Alex’s cone before, so I know exactly how good it’s going to be.

What I do next is highly irresponsible on so many levels. My justification is this: I’ve been on the pill since high school, Alex isn’t the hockey whore I assumed he was, and the gyno results came back clean.

All objections I may have die on my tongue as I dig my fingernails into his rock-solid ass and push down with my heels. He’s halfway in, give or take a couple of inches. His head snaps up and his face registers desire-hazed alarm. “No condom!”

We stare at each other, mutual conflict clear in our lack of action. Should Alex be wearing a condom? For damn sure. However, he’s already partway inside me and it feels incredible. This is an example of a lapse in judgment. It seems to be frequent where Alex is concerned.

I clear my throat. “I’m on the pill, and I’ve always been responsible up until now.” Great. Now I’ve admitted what we’re doing is the exact opposite of responsible.

He doesn’t retract the monster cock or give me any more of it. “I should put a condom on.” It’s supposed to be a statement, but his voice rises at the end, turning it into a question. He glances at his pants on the floor. “Fuck. My wallet’s on the kitchen counter.”

His forehead drops to my shoulder. He takes long, slow breaths. I do something else I shouldn’t as I tighten my thighs against his hips. I flex the beave.

“Violet—” It’s a lament. “I should—”

“We could—”

He lifts his head. “Are you sure?”

“Are you?”

I think it’s safe to say neither of us is sure. We’re committed to making this bad decision in the name of feeling good. His answer comes in the form of his hips sinking into mine. Holy hell, am I ever full. Of unfiltered monster cock. I moan like crazy and bury my face against his neck.

At the same time, Alex strings a bunch of words together which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. It sounds like “flumothohshitregoo.”

“What?” I ask as he circles his hips.

Alex presses his lips to my neck, skimming his teeth over my skin. “This is unreal.”

“Mmm. It’s fantastic.”

His face is flushed as he lifts his head to look at me with intense, glassy eyes. A lazy grin turns up the corner of his mouth. “Fantastic isn’t the word. If heaven is anything like this, I wanna stay forever.”

Being compared to heaven seems like quite a compliment. “Thanks. You feel amazing, too.”

He has to readjust his position before he can start with the thrusting. I see now why the bed would’ve been better. All the friction makes my back sweat, and the leather under me has started to squeak. The hardwood floor isn’t an option, unless I want a bruised tailbone. I push on Alex’s chest.

“Should I stop?” His words are choked with disappointment.

I shake my head and continue to push. “Sit up, please.”

Alex doesn’t ask more questions. Instead, he folds back on his knees, bringing me with him so we don’t lose the connection. We maneuver awkwardly—well, I’m awkward, Alex isn’t. There’s some less-than-graceful fumbling on my part. Eventually, we’re both upright, and I straddle his legs. This gives me a fantastic view of everything. We both look down to watch him slide almost all the way out.

“How good does that look?”

I’m not sure he needs an answer, but I’m inclined to give him one. “So good.” Except for the giant purple hickey-bruise I’m pretending Alex put there with his mouth.

He lowers me slowly, filling me again. “I know, eh?”

His eyes are hooded, and he wears a blissful, sexy smile. I hold onto his shoulders, debating whether I want to watch his pretty face or what’s happening from the waist down. He rids me of either option when he buries his face between my boobs on the next upward stroke.

“I can’t believe how good this feels,” he says, his voice slightly muffled.

“I’m pretty sure I can.”

“I’ve never had sex without a condom.”

“Never?”

“Not once.”

“Wow. This must feel really good, then.”

“I can’t describe—” He kisses one of my nipples. “Have you?”

“What?” He hits the spot that makes me see stars and constellations.

“Had sex without a condom?”

He changes things up and starts a very stimulating rocking motion. If he stops asking me questions about my past sexual experiences, I’ll come soon.

How the hell do I answer? Yes, I have, with a previous long-term boyfriend. We dated for a year, and he was my last serious relationship prior to the hockey jerk. No one wants to hear that while they’re doing it. Sex talk should consist primarily of phrases such as: more, fuck me, go harder, right there, please, yes, and I’m coming.

I’m putting an end to the conversational sex and making it moaning sex instead. I respond with one of the preapproved phrases, “It feels unbelievable. Go harder. Please, Alex.” I’m quite genuine, despite how clichéd it sounds.

It has the desired effect. A low rumble comes from deep within his chest and he lifts me up, until I’m almost empty and slams me down. It’s incredible. Spectacular even.

“How’s this, baby? You want faster, too?”

“Uh-huh.”

This new, hard, intense rhythm sends me straight to the abyss. I grab onto his hair, prompting Alex to increase his speed and vigor. Then he has to go and suck on my nipple like the boob-loving hockey-stud-former-player he is. He releases it on the next downward stroke. It’s all I can take. The world turns into a starburst of black and white as I try to shove my face in his neck and stifle my love sounds.

“Eyes on me, baby. Please.” Alex’s lips press against my temple. “I wanna see your gorgeous face when you come for me.”

Despite the blur of monochromatic fireworks clouding my vision, I can’t deny him when he’s being so polite.

I’m caught in the fire of his gaze. His fingers tighten on my hips as he thrusts hard. There’s no break in the spiral of sensation. It’s a blessing and a curse; once I’ve come, I’m like a leaky faucet—I just keep coming. The waning orgasm reignites, returning to a full force burn.

“Violet, you’re gonna make me—”

I’m so out of it I scream, “I love you,” hastily tacking on, “monster cock,” at the end.

Shitballs. Where the hell’s my filter when I need it the most?