Page 67 of Puck
I flexed my hips to press my pussy against his waist. “Puck, please.”
He laughed and slid downward, slinking off the arm of the couch, and then grabbed me by the hips and yanked me toward him so my ass was on the arm of the couch and my upper body on the cushions. My heels were over his shoulders and my pussy spread open, and I felt his warm breath on my thighs. I stopped breathing, and my eyes fluttered closed; I forced them open so I could watch.
His bald scalp was all I could see between my thighs, and then I felt his tongue.
“Ohh. Oh . . . holy shit.” I cupped his head, holding him there. “God yes.”
He flicked his tongue up my slit. “You like this, huh?”
I flexed my hips as he dragged his tongue through my sex, moaning. “More.”
He rumbled in laughter, and I felt two fingers pry apart my pussy lips, baring my clit, and another finger slid into my channel; his tongue lapped against me, and now my moan was almost a wail, a sound of raw, distilled ecstasy. Two slow swipes of his tongue, his finger sliding in, curling, and finding that perfect magical spot nobody else had ever found, and I rocked on the edge of orgasm.
He didn’t pull me back from the edge. He felt me quaking and shuddering, heard the breathlessness in my moans, and knew how close I was. He pressed his finger against that spot inside me and massaged, and his lips closed over my clit and he sucked hard, his tongue flicking wildly, and I was consumed, fire eating through me, an orgasm wrenching met with twisting power. I arched, and I wailed, and he didn’t slow down. He added a second finger inside me and ground them in and out, and he released his suction and returned to slow circles around my clit, not quite touching it directly. I ached, the orgasm shaking me still, his tongue and fingers preventing the climax from receding.
He let me teeter there, shaking in the throes of aftershocks.
And then he scraped his tongue-tip against my clit, once, twice, and I was arched and spasming, gasping, unable to moan or scream as he sent me over the edge again. A wave of climax hit me like a freight train, sending me higher than any hit of smack I’d ever put into my veins, but this time the only drug was Puck, his fingers and his tongue. I could indulge in this drug as much as I wanted and never get enough. Oh fuck, fuck—the orgasm crescendoed and I found my voice in a sudden and hoarse wailing scream, yet he had no mercy on me. His fingers squelched in and out of me hard and fast, curled to grind against my G-spot, and his tongue was wild, crazy, fast, tireless.
I couldn’t stop. Didn’t try, but couldn’t have even if I had. Again, and again, and again, quaking, wracking, wrenching waves of fiery bliss, nonstop.
I realized, in a dizzy blast of awareness, that Puck did exactly what he’d promised: made me come harder than I’d ever come in my life, too many times to count. I’d never begun counting, and I wasn’t sure if each wave was its own orgasm or one continuous rushing explosion.
I was utterly powerless.
He refused to let me down from the heights of climax, and I couldn’t stop him, didn’t try, didn’t want to. He kept me there, fingering my channel and tonguing my clit, and now I felt his fingers that had held me open for his tongue, release me and slide up my torso to pinch my nipple, adding a whole new layer to the orgasms coruscating through me.
The orgasms built, multiplied, intensified, and I lost track of time, of how long Puck had been inducing this rapture within me, lost track, drowned in it, reveled it.
He allowed me a moment to breathe, slowing his fingers and tongue, sliding those thick, strong fingers in and out slowly, gently, his tongue lapping lazily, and I shook and shuddered each time his tongue touched my clit, flinched, quaked, gasped. I felt the movement of those fingers as a tease, as a poor imitation of what I really wanted.
Yet I was incapable of speech, could only whimper and shriek as he ramped up the speed once more, building me back up to another series of jarring, juddering, explosive climaxes, and I didn’t know how that was possible, how he could do that, how he knew my body and my reactions so much better than anyone else ever had, including myself.
I felt faint.
He brought me to the edge, then slowed, brought me to the edge, then slowed. I’d been at or over that edge so many times that my body wanted to live there, stay there, get there, but he’d prevented me every time, teasing me now that I was at the raw and ragged end of my limits, gasping, limp, unable to flex my hips or grind into his touch anymore, whimpering nonstop, moaning and nearly crying with the intensity of it all. Needing desperately to reach that edge one last time.
He palmed my breast, squeezing, fondling, flicking my nipple, and then he suckled my clit in a sudden rough scrape of hypersensitive erect flesh between his teeth, and his fingers pinched my nipple so hard I screamed and he added a third finger and began fucking me with them hard and rough and fast, squelching wetly, and I was nothing at all but his touch, I was only the blinding bliss he dragged out of me. He didn’t stop, this time, and I knew this orgasm would be too much.
“PUCK . . .” I whispered, breathless.
At the edge . . .
Teetering, rocking, gasping . . .
And then I toppled over it, dizzy, lungs aching, my whole body spasming wildly.
Screaming so loud my throat went hoarse.
Blackness subsumed me, and I felt myself fall under, twisting into darkness.
I woke up lying on the bed, my shirt and bra removed from my wrists. I blinked my eyes open, and Puck was standing beside me, sucking on his fingers.
“You weren’t kidding, back in Kiev.” I sat up, reaching for him.
He smirked at me. “Told you, some things I don’t joke about.”
His zipper was bulging still, but he was slightly out of reach. “Come here, Puck.” I slid off the bed, hit my feet, but my legs were wobbly and weak and gave out.