Page 23 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Luca

Sex with Mandy was never horrible.

When we were having sex, trying to get pregnant, she definitely treated it like a duty, but I always made sure she got to orgasm. Mostly, she liked me to give her head, and it was never bad. Never awful.

In a lot of ways, it felt like training.

Something you had to do to get the thing you really wanted, which was to play hockey.

Training isn’t the game itself, but it can still be enjoyable if you’re working out with the team, hitting new personal bests.

Seeing the ways in which your efforts in the weight room translate to successes on the ice.

I never looked forward to sex with Mandy. But I didn’t dread it either.

But this—this is something entirely different.

Even just touching Wren feels like putting my hand on the surface of the fucking sun. My brain is blissed out, focused on nothing but the feeling of her. So fucking soft, almost silky.

And so, so wet. The idea that this is her body’s response to me makes my cock almost painfully hard—rubbing against her hip as I touch her, adding to the sensation of my hand between her legs.

Mandy didn’t like for me to touch her clit with my hands.

In fact, she wasn’t a huge fan of anything that had us chest-to-chest, faces level.

Maybe that should have been an insult, but the whole point was that we weren’t in love.

We weren’t obligated to be attracted to one another.

To go crazy over the experience. In a lot of ways, I thought it relieved some of the pressure.

My ex-wife never really wanted me close to her. And that was fine.

But Wren tangles her fingers in my hair, pulling my face to hers, kissing me as I slide my hand up and down her folds, stopping to press the pad of my thumb gently into her clit.

When I do, I feel it throbbing under my touch, like another heartbeat, and it only makes reality fly further away from me.

In college, I’d always start sex by asking the girl what she liked, what she wanted. How I could touch her to make her feel good. I’d heard the stories—knew that women could go years without ever receiving an orgasm from their partner. And I wasn’t about to be that guy.

Girls liked it that I was thoughtful. That I approached them orgasming like it was a performance review.

I should do that now. Pause, pull back, take a second to ask Wren what she likes. Big circles or small? More pressure, or a light touch? Should I put my fingers inside her?

But my brain doesn’t cooperate. It doesn’t want to talk to Wren about what she wants—it wants to see, feel, and hear what she likes.

So, I touch her, taking my time to explore her, just like I did with the kissing. In a strange turn of events, I would have been content to kiss her for the rest of the night, fed on nothing but her sighs and the press of her chest to mine.

When she grinds down against me, I increase my pressure, watching her eyes flutter shut. When I lower my fingers and tease her entrance with them, pressing all around but not going in, her whimper is a signal to me that she wants it.

I start slow, easing a single knuckle into her, a desperate feeling coursing through me when I feel her clench. She clutches at me, gasping as silently as she can. Her hands are restless, seeking—tugging at my hair, skimming over my shoulders, scraping gently down my back.

There’s something about having Wren like this that feels more satisfying than any other sexual encounter. Like she’s under my thumb.

Right where I want her.

When I pull out and slide in two fingers, Wren lets out another loose, wild noise and grabs my free hand. She pulls it up to her, biting into the soft part of my palm. What the fuck is that, and why does it make me feral?

I flatten my hand over her mouth, feel the vibration of her moan against my hand. Her entire body is moving now as I pump into her with my fingers, the pad of my thumb rubbing quick, tight circles against her clit.

She never verbally confirmed what she likes, but the way her body moves—the way she grips my shoulders, the way she nods and nods, letting her head falls back against the pillow—tells me that it absolutely is.

Then, a second later, she jerks—hard—coming around my touch, her pussy clenching in tight. I keep them where they are, keep the same rhythm, help her ride it out until she goes still, breathing hard with her head against the pillow and one of her arms thrown over her face.

All at once, reality comes back to me. Who she is. Who I am. What we’re supposed to be doing here.

“Fuck,” I whisper, clearing my throat, my cock still rock hard against her hip. “Shit, Wren, I’m sorry—”

The words die in my throat when she reaches down, her hand gripping my cock through my pants. The effect is my entire body jumping, tongue tasting like I’ve just touched it to a battery. My hips thrust almost involuntarily against her palm.

“What are you sorry for?” she whispers, a laugh in her voice. “That was good, Luca.”

Why does that praise go straight to the center of me? Why don’t I stop her from sliding her hand under the waistband of my pants? Why, when she wraps her hand around my cock, do I feel like a teenager getting a hand job for the very first time?

Wren shifts, and I follow her movement until I’m on my back and she’s straddling one of my legs. Bending over me, she keeps contact with my cock, running her hand up and down the length of it but not applying any pressure. Not even as she grinds herself against my leg.

I know that she has her hand on my cock, and—logically—the goal here is for me to come, but I can’t stop thinking about the way she’s grinding against me, my mind wandering back to her pleasure.

Could she come again? Could I make her come again?

Those thoughts move to the back burner when she squeezes, finally applying pressure to her movement.

My hips thrust up against her hand, and in that moment, I would give anything to be inside her.

To replace her hand with her draped over my body.

I want to see the expression on her face when I’m inside her.

I want to stretch her out, make her take me. I want to see that she can.

I want to know exactly how we fit together.

But this is what I’m getting, so I focus on it.

I focus on the way she throws her head back, riding my leg with abandon, each stoke of my cock ended with a little twist, like her own personal hand job signature.

And when I come into her hand—and all over the inside of my pants—I realize what a mistake it was, and that I’ll have to either sneak into the laundry room or sleep in just a pair of boxers.

Wren just laughs, leaning forward and pressing her lips to my chest, trailing kisses down the center of my stomach while I’m still breathing hard, coming down from the high of the orgasm.

Then, she’s up, walking to the bathroom like it’s nothing. I lay on the air mattress by myself, brain still trying to put everything together to figure out how all this happened.

When Wren comes back, she presses a kiss to my temple, then falls into the bed, sighing and cuddling into her pillow before promptly falling asleep.

***

Luckily, I’m able to use my normal nitpicking to my advantage.

When Mom finds me in the laundry room the next morning, I claim the blankets smelled a little stale, and I thought I’d wash them. Not something out of character for me.

When I return to the basement, Wren is still fast asleep, her face impossibly peaceful, her hair a huge rats’ nest around her head. Like she’s been spinning around all night—which I know, from the number of times that she shifted against me—that she was.

I’ve shared a bed with quite a few people, but nobody as clingy as Wren. When I rolled over, she wasted no time in forming her body to mine, making me her little spoon.

Now, I fight with myself about the best way to wake her up. After what happened last night—the boundaries we crossed—I’m not sure where we stand. Or where to go from this.

Why didn’t we include a rule in our agreement that we wouldn’t sleep together?

Maybe because including the rule would have been admitting that we wanted to.

Wren saves me by opening her eyes on her own, one at a time, squinting at me even though it’s not that bright in here.

“Well,” she croaks, stretching out, her shirt riding up and showing a strip of skin on her stomach. “Good morning.”

I can’t stop staring at her. What the hell is wrong with me?

“Good morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice as low as possible. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Should we—well, we should probably talk about last night—?”

Wren pauses in her stretch, her arms held distractingly over her head. I can see her nipples pressing against her shirt.

“What about it?”

How can she be so nonchalant?

“I mean, it probably shouldn’t happen again, right?”

She shrugs, starts to try and run her hands through her hair. It’s definitely not going to work—she needs a brush at the very least. Some detangling solution. Without meaning to, I think about countless mornings of Sloane crying, Mom trying to brush through her knotted hair.

And I think Wren should braid it before going to sleep. It would protect it from damage, keep it from getting so messy.

“Okay,” she says, shrugging again and meeting my eyes, like this is painfully funny and unimportant to her. “So we won’t do it again, if you don’t want to.”

I grit my teeth. I very much want to—in fact, it’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about since the moment I woke up spooning her, rock solid against her back.

Fucking Wren again was the only thing on my mind while I snuck into the laundry room to start a load.

While I stood there, staring at the washing machine.

Even while I had a cup of gingerbread coffee with my Mom, chatting about the weather and the snow and Dad’s health.

Wren has been in the back of my mind all morning, and here she is, rolling, stretching and exposing the small of her back like it’s not making the whole situation worse.

Sloane appears in the doorway to the movie room, still in her Christmas pajamas, which stretch ridiculously over her belly. Her eyes dart back and forth between Wren and I as if she looks hard enough, she’ll be able to hear whatever we were talking about before she showed up.

Wren raises her hand, waves to Sloane, and says a sleepy good morning.

Sloane returns it, then, “Come on. Time for presents.”

“Presents?” Wren asks, turning to me when Sloane is gone. “I thought we did presents yesterday?”

“Those were presents between us,” I say, watching her face as she takes in this information. “This is presents from Santa.”

“Oh.” She nods and worries the edge of the blanket. “Right.”

I can tell this is a lot for her. That my family’s Christmas is different from what she’s ever done before. But when we go upstairs and Wren finds a stocking with her name written over the front, I think that at least part of the look on her face might not be just a performance.