Page 18 of Her Puck Daddies

Ignoring the heat curling low in my belly, I squeeze more massage oil into my palm, steeling myself as I wrap my fingers around him.

Thisis nothing more than a necessary part of his therapy. A clinical touch. A strictly professional technique. Just another form of treatment, I keep telling myself.

But my body isn’t buying it. Not when his breath hitches. Not when his delicious manhood twitches in my grip.

“Whoa…” He gasps. “What are you doing?”

I avoid looking directly at his face. I can’t. Not right now. Not while pretending I’m not doing exactly what I’m doing.

“Massaging you so that you can relax.”

We can’t have sex. We can’t. Especially when the tease of a slow, deep groan rumbles from his chest, unraveling every ounce of self-control I have left.

Thisisn’t sex, I remind myself.

Thisis me helping my client… the only way I can.

I’ve never done anything like this before, but that thought barely registers. All that matters is the way my hand moves—slow, deliberate—gliding up and down his thick, throbbing cock. Every stroke sends a shiver through him, but it wrecks me just as much. My body is screaming for more.

But I shouldn’t want this. I can’t want this.

And yet, the temptation is unbearable. To strip off my pants. To sink down onto him, take him deep, and ride him until we’re both too far gone to care about the consequences. To remindhim how perfect we are together. To show him just how much I miss him—maybe just as much as he misses me.

“Oh, god. Oh,fuck…” he hisses, not objecting. Might as well consider that a win.

My pace quickens, pretending not to notice the way his cock twitches under my touch, how the thick veins pulse beneath my palm, or how the pronounced ridge of his head makes it impossible to think of this as just another part of him. But there’s no ignoring it. No pretending this isn’t intimate—that it isn’t wrong, yetoh so right. My grip tightens as I stroke him, adding a little twist at the top, squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Oh, yeah, Hottie. Just like that. Fondle my balls, too.”

I obey without hesitation, my free hand moving to cup his heavy sac, rolling him in my palm, feeling the way they tighten with every pump of my fist. His hips jerk up now, thrusting into my strokes, sweat slicking his chest, his temples, the space just above his upper lip.

“Harder,” he grits out, his eyes dark and locked onto mine. And just like that, I’m right back in that hotel suite, where all of them had me open and completely at their mercy.

“Fuck,” he growls, his smirk downright wicked. “Uhn.”

The second he moans, a violent shudder racks my body, breaking the rhythm I fought so hard to maintain. My grip falters, my breath stutters, and for a split second, I lose myself completely.

It takes everything in me to reclaim control, to force my hands back into motion, but when I do, I cling to him tighter, my fingers wrapping around him with newfound urgency. Fiercer. Desperate. As if holding onto him will somehow steady me, even as my body betrays me in the worst way.

My panties are drenched, the heat between my legs unbearable, a throbbing ache that pulses with every stroke I give him. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. My hands move in a frantic blur, working him over, chasing the inevitable, dragging him closer to the edge he’s been teetering on.

There’s a part of me that’s no longer his masseuse—hell, there’s a part of me that no longer sees him as a client at all. Right now, I’m not just doing this for him. I want this. I'm craving this. It’s unethical, inappropriate, a complete violation of every rule I should be following—but none of that matters.

Because right now, all that matters is servicing him, making him unravel beneath my hands, giving him exactly what he needs—what we both need—even if the last thing he’s doing is relaxing.

Eric is shifting, writhing beneath me as I drag him higher and higher into pure ecstasy. His hips buck wildly, his movements so frantic they jolt the table beneath him, rattling it against the floor. As long as he doesn’t tip it over, I don’t care. I’m too lost in the moment—too invested, too eager to watch him break.

And when he finally does, it’s glorious.

A thick, pearly rope of cum spurts from his cock, arcing high—so high it nearly clears my head before splattering across my hands and his thighs.

“Uh… Uhn…” he grunts, his voice raw, his body jerking as the second jet follows, launching upward, streaking across his sculpted stomach, pooling in the dip of his navel.

But he’s not done.

The third pulse shoots higher than it has any right to, streaking his chest, marking his perfect, sweat-dampened skin. And then the fourth—hot, thick, relentless.

I should stop. I should let him come down easy. But instead, I keep stroking, milking every last drop out of him, mesmerized by the sight, by the sheer force of it.