Page 22 of Her Puck Daddies
“Now, now, relax for me.”
I try, but there’s no relaxing my cock without diving headfirst into the mental garbage bin—gross stuff, random turn-offs, whatever might do the trick. Yet even as I furrow my brow and squeeze my eyes shut in desperate concentration, my double-crossing brain refuses to cooperate. Instead of the desired unsexy imagery, it drags me right back tothatnight—her moans, her touch, the way she felt against me.
Frustrated, I snap my eyes open, hoping the visual reset will help. It doesn’t. Not with her standing there looking like a snack straight out of a decadent dessert case—something sugary, sinful, and impossible to resist. So, despite my valiant mental effort, the bulge below my belly button stays put, smugly refusing to deflate.
I’m known for having control of my body and of the puck when out on the rink, but at the moment, my control has gone to shit. Thanks to her.
She starts to drag her palms down my hips, but it only makes me clench my jaw ferociously enough to turn my molars to powder. When all my muscles stay just as hard as my cock does, she sighs and glances up toward the ceiling. It’s like she’s praying for patience or something. Maybe I’m not the only one feeling annoyed and exasperated.
“Sorry,” I mutter, resenting even having to say it. This never happened when it was Greg rubbing me down.
She pauses and I’m unsure about what she’s about to do. Is she going to keep trying despite me not being able to get my goddamn body to cooperate? Is she going to storm out and complain to the league about me, claiming sexual harassment? Considering our past, she might. And that ignites my fury even further.
I spring up into a seated position, readying to leap off her table and fucking leave when she presses her hand to my abdomen. I open my mouth to snarl at her when she does the very last thing I might’ve expected. She flicks the towel aside, exposing the snug silky fabric of my navy boxer briefs. Then, before I can say or do anything, she reaches into my fly, pulls out my erection, and lowers her open lips over me.
The warmth and moisture of being inside her mouth again has me nearly gasping. I didn’t anticipate her doing this. Not even for a second.
And now that she is, I can’t help but unleash my beast and seize her ponytail in my fist and growl at her. “Did I give you permission to do that, Hottie?”
She doesn’t lift off of me, doesn’t say a word. Instead, she gives me that doe-eyed look that drives me so crazy, that makes me heat up like an inferno. My cock throbs, my balls tightening in a way that warns me that I have to get ahead of this, or it’ll all be over way too quickly.
Even with so much of my blood staying south, it hits me that she might have an agenda. But is it for good or for evil? What the fuck is she up to?
“Why?” I narrow my gaze at her, frowning and gripping the hair on her head so that my knuckles scrape against her scalp. “Why are you doing this?”
I yank her back from me, not trusting this woman farther than I can physically throw her.
“B-because,” she stammers, but I refuse to feel bad about that. “Because you need to relax.”
What?
She wants to blow me not to take advantage now that she knows who I am, but to relax me? Seriously?
Her eyes become red, and tears are welling up, almost ready to fall. I release my hand part of the way, but I don’t let her go.
“You’d better not being lying to me.”
“I’m not.” This time, two tears fall, trailing past either side of her nose. “I’mnot. I thought if you could settle back on the table…”
She trails off, but I’m not convinced.
“Is this your normal M.O.? You blow all your clients? Are you blowing every man on the team?”
What the actual fuck?
Her expression tightens, as if my words struck a nerve she didn’t expect. “No. Why would you say that?” she snaps, jerking back, and this time, I release my hold. Not fast enough, though, if the strands of hair still in my grip are any indication. I can see she’s conflicted.
“Just… Just Eric,” she says quietly. Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second before meeting mine again, this time clouded with something deeper. “I made him come with my hands because he couldn’t relax, either.” She motions toward my somehow still-hard cock.
That stupid piece of my anatomy just doesn’t know when to quit. That’s when my remorse filters down on to me. At first, it’s like a fine mist, but then it rushes over me like a monsoon, drenching me all over.
There’s no pride in her voice, no bravado, but something implying that this whole situation is affecting her more than she’s letting on.
I’m such an asshole.
“So, you thought the same might work on me,” I fill in the blanks. She simply nods, crossing her arms over her chest as another couple of tears stream down her cheeks. I reach toward her but don’t make contact. “I’m sorry, Ava. I mean it.”
I do. Not that I expect her to believe me. Expressing my dominance in the bedroom when she understood the parameters of what I wanted was one thing, but what just went down here and now is something else entirely. It’s so important to iron out any wrinkles before diving into rough sex, and I just jumped in without doing that. Worse, not only was I angry at myself, she hadn’t even given her consent.