Page 44 of Puck
I shook my head. “Uh-uh.”
“Because you’re a strong, stubborn, independent woman.”
“Damn right.”
“Problem is, Colbie honey, you’ve never met a man like me.”
He accompanied that statement with another brushing touch of his finger against my throbbing clit; my inhalation of surprise became an involuntary whimper. My teeth ground together as I bit down on the sound.
“I have absolutely no problem admitting that much, at least, is true,” I muttered.
He slid his finger back in, and this time, he did it swiftly, a sudden insertion, fast enough that the movement gave off a wet squelching noise. I cringed, and my thighs clenched together.
He did it again, and whispered in my ear. “Does that embarrass you?” Again, another squelch. “That embarrasses you, doesn’t it?
I nodded. “Yes.”
“It shouldn’t. It’s fucking hot, Colbie.” He nipped my ear and slid his finger a few more times then added a second finger, and I had to bite down with my molars so hard they ached. “That’s the sound of you being hot and bothered, sweetheart. You’re all wet for me. It means you dig this, what I’m doing to you. It means you’re fighting yourself. It means your hot, wet, tight little pussy wants more. You don’t have to admit to shit, babe. I know. I can feel it, I can smell it. I knowexactlywhat you want, Colbie.”
I was fighting it so hard. I did want it. I wanted more. I wanted to come. I wanted him to keep touching me. I wanted to hike my skirt up and rip my underwear off and ride him. Fuck, I wanted him to just give me that one goddamn finger against my clit, right now, just enough to let me come. I was trembling with need. He felt it, he knew it. Yet instead of letting me come, he slid those two fingers into me, drew them out, almost but not quite brushing my clit, and then back in.
My underwear was in the way. The gusset was stretched to the side, preventing him from having a full range of movement. If he had his fingers inside me, the gusset would slide back into place higher up, and he’d have to fight them on the way out to have access to my clit. I wanted themoff. Goddammit.
I’d be damned if I’d admit it and double damned if I was to going to give him the satisfaction of watching me shimmy out of them. That’s what I wanted, but the battle was engaged now, and I refused to lose. Even though winning meant I was only piling sexual frustration upon myself. And on him.
The whole thing was stupid. I should have just wiggled out of the stupid underwear and asked him to give me the orgasm and then, when we had more privacy, I’d let him fuck me, and I’d go my way and that would be that. End of story.
That was how this would normally go. And for some reason, I wanted this to be different. So I held out.
He slid his fingers out, and the underwear fought him, and he cursed under his breath. “These stupid underwear are in the way.”
“Are they?” I breathed. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He laughed. “Oh yes you have. You want them off as much as I do, you’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“You’re wrong.”
He didn’t bother responding to my blatant lie. Instead, he hooked his finger inside the gusset again, but this time, instead of sliding that finger into me, he curled it around the gusset and tugged down. Oh. Oh no. I froze, stopped breathing. He wiggled and tugged, and I felt the waistband roll down over my hips. He worked that finger back and forth, front to back along the length of the gusset, pulling downward. Slowly, inexorably, the underwear slid down. The waistband caught on my butt, yet all he had to do was give a firm tug and they’d skipped free, and then a few more tugs, a few inches, and they were loose, and he drew them down my thighs, letting them fall around my feet. Lifting one of my feet and then the other, he had my underwear dangling from his index finger.
Shit. I stared at him, glanced at my erstwhile undergarment, and then back at him. They weren’t plain cotton granny panties. What I hadn’t mentioned, when we talked about what kind of underwear I preferred to wear, was that my idea of fit and comfort usually tended toward a full coverage bra and a thong. I just found thongs most comfortable. I didn’t like briefs—hatedmight be a more accurate term, really—and even when I did wear something with more coverage than a thong, it was still on the skimpier side. The only exception was if I was hanging around the house. When Puck talked about his mental image of me watching cartoons in nothing but a pair of little boy superhero briefs, he wasn’t far from the truth—the only detail he had wrong was that for Saturday morning cartoons, I wore my favorite pair of stretchy cotton boy short underwear.
But at work, I rocked a thong. But not to feel sexy or any of that nonsense, just because I found them comfy.
Which meant the underwear Puck had dangling from a finger was a tiny little scrap of blue lace—yes, I wore matching sets, sometimes. Not always, but occasionally. The day I was kidnapped just happened to be one of those instances.
“You lied, Colbie Danvers.”
I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Did not.”
“You said you picked underwear for fit and comfort, not style or sexiness.”
I reached for the thong, but he kept it out of reach, stuffing into a hip pocket. “Give ’em back, Puck.”
He snorted. “Hell no. I’m keeping that shit.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I didn’t lie. I just happen to find thongs comfortable.”
He rested his palm on my thigh again, and I realized we’d be starting all over, his hand creeping gradually back under my skirt.Skip that part, I wanted to say. But, as per the rules of this idiotic game, I said nothing. Just held still and waited.