Page 66 of Puck
HOLY SHIT.
This girl. This girl.
I paused for breath, but only because I was actually dizzy. She gazed up at me with her gorgeous gray eyes, heavy-lidded, lust-hazed. “God . . .damn, Colbie.”
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she whispered.
10: Give Him The Crazy
Once I committed to something, I was all in, no holding back, no half measures. I got aggressive, and I didn’t let anything slow me down or stop me; this quality had served me well in the business world, had helped me acquire accounts other reps in my department hadn’t been able to land because I didn’t quit and I didn’t accept no and I never gave up.
I was committed to this moment with Puck. I accepted as much as I could and I had no idea what was going to come after. I might get emotionally invested and have my heart broken, but I knew I could survive that. I’d throw myself into work and probably take a vow of celibacy, but I’d survive it and wouldn’t go back to drugs.
Or maybe I’d get some insanely good orgasms out of it and that’d be that.
Ha, right. I didn’t believe that as the thought crossed my mind. I mean, it wasn’t like I was falling in love with the guy—I’d just met him, after all. But you could be deeply emotionally invested in someone without some kind ofTRUE LOVE, right? And if he fucked as good as he kissed, I was totally going to get emotionally involved. Hell, I already was. He saved me. He got me. I already didn’t want this night to be over, and we hadn’t even started yet. I was still totally clothed, and he wasn’t halfway naked yet. I got rid of his shirt, at least, anddamn, was I glad I did.
He was a beast. He was built like The Mountain fromGame of Thrones—a foot shorter, granted, but the same essential build: solid slabs of heavy, hard muscle. Huge power, rather than sharply etched and finely toned magazine-cover shred. Massive arms, a heavy hard chest, shoulders like mountain ranges, abs so hard you could crush stones on them. There was a layer of fat on them, but a slight, small one, which told me he ate because he enjoyed food, but he also ate healthily, the right foods, a lot of it, and he didn’t deprive himself of the things he enjoyed. He worked out, ate right, and enjoyed life—and looked damn amazing because of it.
I ran my hands over his body, exploring his skin and muscle, enjoying his physique with my hands as much as my eyes. I didn’t hide my appreciation, nor my lust.
Iwantedhim.
I was going to have him, and I was going to get every last little bit of pleasure and fun and enjoyment out of this as I could, for as long as I could. If it ran its course and ended, so be it, but I was all in until that moment came.
I slid my palms over his back, across his shoulders, around to his abs, and then reached for his fly, gliding my hand over the huge bulge at his zipper. Instead of allowing me to touch him, he grabbed my wrists and pinioned my hands over my head.
“Puck?” I questioned.
He held my wrists there against the armrest until he was satisfied that I wouldn’t move. “Hush a moment, babe. I want to focus on this.”
“On what?”
“I want to memorize the way you look, just like this.”
My body was bare, and I gasped for breath, needing him, wanting to be touched, to be kissed—to touch and to kiss. I arched my back, pressing my breasts into the air, toward him. “Don’t make me wait long, Puck, please.”
He didn’t answer. I was naked, completely bare to his gaze, and his eyes were wide with lust and appreciation. I didn’t wax or shave, but I did trim down to a barely there fuzz, and even that fuzz was damp with my leaking essence; I was soaked, dripping with desire.
He just stared at me, his eyes raking from my face to my tits to my pussy, and back up, over and over, as if he couldn’t decide which he enjoyed looking at most.
“Puck, please. Touch me,” I breathed.
He bent forward, and his mouth covered my left breast, his tongue swirling around my nipple as his lips suctioned hard, making me suck in a sharp gasp as a string of heat lanced from my nipple to my core. His fingers found my right nipple, and he was licking and sucking, switching, right and left, kissing and pinching. His chest was covered with a light smattering of coarse, dark hair that brushed against my belly, scraping and tickling and teasing.
“How’s this?” he asked, palming my breast, kneading, squeezing, pinching, flicking.
“So good.”
“You have perfect breasts.”
“They’re small.”
“C-cup, or I’m a monkey’s uncle.”
“So?
“So they’re perfect.” He cupped one of my tits. “Just slightly more than a handful. Absolutely perfect.”