Page 74 of Puck
He slid his palm down my belly and between my legs, found my clit and sent me soaring. “I wouldn’t mind waking up like this more often.”
“Me either.” I gasped as his touch brought me from merely enjoying sex to riding the edge of climax within seconds, with a speed and intensity I’d only ever felt with Puck—would only ever feel with Puck, something told me. “Of course, I wouldn’t mind waking up one morning with your cock inside me. Or your mouth on me.”
His teeth latched onto my shoulder, and I felt his abs flexing against my spine as he drove into me slowly, lazily. “I think that can be arranged.”
“Yeah?”
He groaned against my back, his breathing beginning to stutter, his thrusts to gain power and intensity. “How about every morning?”
I heard what he was saying, and understood what he wasn’t. “I think that could be arranged,” I echoed his words from a moment before.
“Yeah?”
I dug my fingernails into the iron-hard muscle of his butt, clawing at him as his fingers whirled and blurred and stroked me toward a gasping, thrashing climax. It didn’t take long for either of us. I fell into shattering climax within a handful of strokes, and he was right there with me, grunting into my ear, breathing my name. I moaned as I felt him come, his climax blasting through him as I dissolved into a thrashing, wailing orgasm, taking him hard, taking him deep, his thrusts wild and frenzied.
He was chanting my nickname again—Cole . . . Cole . . . Cole—in time with his thrusts, and I had my teeth buried in the thin skin of his neck, biting as hard as I dared, groaning—growling, really—as our mutual orgasm seared through us. I felt him, not just his orgasm, not just the release or the heat as his come filled the condom, or his hands clutching me everywhere he could reach, or how deep he went as he fucked me furiously through the last wrenching, shuddering waves of our climax.
Not all that. Buthim. I felt bound to him, connected to him in a way I’d never connected to anyone, no matter how good the sex. This was the best by several orders of magnitude, but alsomore, deeper, more meaningful. Not just deeper like he could fuck me so deep—which was true and delicious and incredible and I wasn’t even done coming and I wanted him to fuck me again, and harder, and deeper—but because I somehow was meant to do this with him. No point in over dramatizing it or putting labels on it or sticking it into boxes, but it was just . . . meant to be. And I had absolutely no plan or desire to let go of him until it was obvious we were done, and if that day never came, so be it, and maybe I’d learn how to use the L-word with him, and we’d have one of those things that start with the letter “M” and rhymes with carriage, something that’s never even crossed my mind until I met Puck . . .
Jesus.
Fucking yesterday?
Really? Felt like longer.
We were gasping, stilled, his cock still stiff inside me, his hands clutching my tits possessively. He seemed content to let me lie on him like that as I caught my breath and recovered from the orgasm, and I was content to stay like that as long as he’d let me; he was a very comfortable man.
“Where do you live, Puck?”
“Where do I live?” he repeated the question. “Um. Nowhere, really. I have an apartment I rent in Boulder, because it’s within driving distance of Harris and Layla’s compound, but I don’t stay there much. I’m on the road a lot when I’m not working. Just riding.”
“No plans to find somewhere to stick, though?” I asked, endeavoring to sound casual. “Like, no intention of putting down roots?”
Puck shifted his hips so he pulled out of me, and we both groaned as I lost him. He tied off the condom and tossed it onto the floor, and then I rolled so I was facing him, lying almost completely on top of him, my head on his chest, his beard tickling me, his hands stroking through my hair.
“Never had a reason to stay in any one place before,” he said. “Don’t have anything against sticking around, I’ve just . . . never had a reason.”
“What if you had a reason?”
His touch skated down my back. “Then I’d stay.”
“Where?”
“Wherever the reason was.”
I allowed a long silence to grow, until I summoned the courage and my voice. “How do you feel about New York?”
“How do you feel about long weekend trips on my Harley?” he countered.
“I end up working from home on Mondays quite frequently, and most of my work can be done with a cell phone and a laptop, so as long as I have signal and Wi-Fi, I can work from pretty much anywhere.” I paused. “So if, say, a motorcycle trip was to last from Friday after work until late Monday evening, would that make up for having to be in the city during the week?”
He chuckled. “I have nothing against the city. I’ve always enjoyed Manhattan.”
“Actually, I live in DUMBO, I just work in Manhattan. It’s too expensive to live downtown Manhattan.”
“What’s dumbo?”
“It’s a name, it stands for Down under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass,” I answered. “It’s a neighborhood in Brooklyn.”