Page 5 of Pucked Up (Punk as Puck #2)

“I like your laugh, even though you try to hide the sound. I like that you know what you want, and you’re not afraid to ask for it without hesitation or reservation.

” He pulled further back, and his gaze drifted from my toes to my eyes.

“I like that you’re hot. I like your scruff.

” He thumbed the hair on my jaw. “I like your terrible Canadian accent?—”

“Fuck you.”

He laughed again, and God help me, I smiled.

He looked utterly triumphant. “I like the way that you’re fighting yourself for this because you know you want it.

You know that I can make you feel so good.

And I think that scares you. I’m looking forward to seeing your face when you realize that with me, there’s nothing to fear. ”

“Spoken like a true serial killer.”

He leaned in and spoke right against my ear. “If I am, I promise that I will make you the loveliest lampshade anyone has ever seen.”

Oh hell. Tabarnak .

I wanted him out of my head. But I also wanted him on me.

“Take me to the bed. And,” I added just before he started moving. I hesitated another long second. “My rules are simple. Everything you read, yes, but also, don’t treat me like I’m broken. I’m not.”

“It hadn’t occurred to me for even a moment, petit feu.”

I met his gaze and held it. “I won’t break either. Give me space to let go.”

He traced a touch over my jaw. “You’ll be safe with me. I swear it.”

My heart hammered in my chest. “And you can kiss me. Whenever you like.” That felt like too open-ended of a promise, but I wasn’t going to see him again after that, so it didn’t scare me like it should have.

He let out a satisfied moan, gripping me by the jaw and leaning in. I thought for a moment he was going to devour my mouth, but he didn’t. Instead, he laid his lips against mine and…and he waited. He was waiting for me—maybe to prove that I meant what I said.

My fingers, stiff with anxiety and tension, curled into his shirt. I tugged him close and parted my lips, taking his between my teeth and biting down just enough until he gasped. When he moaned again, I soothed it with my tongue before pushing it into his mouth.

He tasted like the fruity lambic the bar served in the spring, and like something else, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was just…him. Jean-Luc, or whoever the fuck he was. It didn’t matter anymore. He was mine.

Entirely.

Completely.

And just for the night.

He must have grown tired of waiting for me to take more of a lead because after a forever of kissing like horny teenagers, he started backing me up toward the bed. The backs of my knees hit the mattress, and I collapsed, and he went with me.

His hands planted on either side of my head, and he pressed his thick, hard cock against my thigh, rocking against me.

My own tried to meet his, threatening to break through my zipper.

He chuckled against my mouth, sliding a hand down my chest to where I was aching to be touched.

The heel of his hand began to press, to stroke, and for a moment, it felt like I was going to lose my mind if I didn’t get his bare skin on me.

“Too many clothes,” I mumbled in French. It was a relief to speak my language. English came too easily to me now that I’d been living in Turenne for so long, but there were moments I wanted my mother tongue, and this man allowed me that moment.

Dipping low, he kissed along my tendon as his hands began to ruck up my shirt. When I was free of it, my fingers attacked his buttons. I didn’t have very refined motor skills for buttons, which was why I never wore them. But he was patient with me.

He waited, staring down at me like he enjoyed the frantic expression on my face.

He smiled with each little pop, pop, pop, and then he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders.

His chest was bare, thick, and covered in dark hair.

I ran my fingers through it, suddenly obsessed with the way it felt against my palms.

He grunted softly when I went for his nipples, humping my thigh with each little twist. Fuck, could I make him come like this? Would he let me if I could?

I hadn’t expected him to be so responsive, but even the lightest touch had him gasping.

“Wait,” he said softly. “Wait, wait. Petit feu, I’m going to embarrass myself and come too fast.” He took my hand and brought it to the tent in his trousers. It was soaked.

“I would be flattered if you did.”

He blinked at me, then grinned, sunny to my storm cloud. “Yes, but I have plans. I want to ride you, to come on you. Don’t deprive me of that.”

I wanted to tell him we didn’t need to stop. We had all night if he wanted. But he was also older than me, and I had no idea how quickly he would want to escape once we were done. I had my rules, but I was sure he had some of his own.

“Take your pants off,” I said.

He nodded, leaning back to go for his zipper and button. Before he freed himself, he pressed his palm over his bulge. “May I undress you?”

There was no reason to hesitate now, so I didn’t. “Yes. Then help me sit up against the pillows so you can jump on my dick.”

He threw his head back with a laugh, then surged down, shoving his tongue in my mouth. I nibbled and sucked, scraping my teeth over his lips before he pulled back. The tips of his ears were cherry-blossom pink, and I wanted to bite them, to see if they were as warm as they looked.

But he gave me no time. Instead, he pulled all the way off, then shimmied out of his black trousers and white briefs, showing himself off. His cock was as impressive as the rest of him. It was shorter than mine but fatter, uncut, and so wet at the tip.

He squeezed his hand around it, then rocked into his fist, his foreskin sliding heavily back and forth .

I grunted, my own dick kicking, dribbling inside of my boxers.

“Please. Let me do that. I need to touch you.” I flushed. Since when did I beg?

He didn’t seem bothered. He gave a firm nod, then let himself go and dropped to his knees with a heavy thud. Fuck, he looked so good there with his puffy, red mouth and his hazy eyes. I wanted to tell him that, to guide his mouth toward me, but I watched instead.

He went for my shoes first, perfunctory and matter-of-fact as he removed them.

He didn’t spend time lingering on my feet as he tugged away my socks.

He went for my jeans next, a careful tug of a button, a slide of a zipper, and then he had them and my boxers to my knees.

They caught the way they always did on the top of my orthotics, but with a little shimmy to each side, he freed them.

My clothes fell away, and then the room filled with the soft sound of Velcro. One, two. Then three and four. The moment he pulled the orthotics off my legs, my feet turned in, and my calves began to spasm.

He paid them no mind. He pressed hot, heavy palms to the top of my thighs and used my body to brace himself as he lifted into a higher crouch. “How can I have you?”

No one had ever asked me that before. I had never been a man they asked permission for. They’d simply…taken.

Reaching behind me, I pushed the pillows out of the way, then scooted backward until I was braced against the headboard. “Tuck those under my knees,” I instructed, pointing at the sad, sorry sacks of fake down.

If I didn’t sit right, I would pay for this night in pain I couldn’t really afford. But he was careful as he lifted one knee and propped it up, watching my face as he spread my legs until he saw me relax. He must have heard my sigh of relief because he chuckled, then did the same to my other leg.

I felt entirely on display, but I didn’t hate it. My body was my own and deserved to be worshipped as much as any other’s. And the way he looked at me—Jean-Luc—I felt treasured.

Shit. That was not a road I wanted to walk down. It was dangerous. I had no time.

Focus, damn it. Find something gross on him. A mole, a pile of nostril hair, some snot stuck up his nose? Uhg, what about that gross thrushy white shit some people had on their gums?

But no. He was hot from head to toe. Then he set his knee on the bed, and I noticed a couple of dimples in them. Okay, that wasn’t…ugly, but it wasn’t attractive.

Knee dimples. I can’t be with a man who has knee dimples.

“Knee dimples?” he murmured.

Oh my fucking Christ, was I talking out loud? Fuck me.

“I will,” he said.

I was doing it again. I slapped a hand over my mouth, and he laughed, staring down at me as he reached behind him. He had one of those free lube packets from the box of condoms, and he put the edge between his perfect white teeth and tore the corner off, making a face as some dribbled onto his lip.

“Not flavored,” he said, then smeared half the packet onto two fingers. “How careful do you want me to be?”

“I want to feel it after,” I told him.

His grin was sharp and toothy as he leaned on one hand, his other snaking between my legs. There was no real preamble, no real foreplay, though I’d argue that the way we’d been dancing around each other since we got to the room was foreplay enough.

He turned away from me, then reached behind him and circled two fingers around his hole…then pushed.

“Ah, God!” I couldn’t help myself. He was too fucking glorious.

“Close,” he growled. “Keep talking.”

I grabbed my dick and tugged, grunting as he pushed his fingers in deeper, adding a third without waiting for his hole to relax.

I liked it. I liked watching him so much. It was everything I’d ever fantasized about when walking into the bar. He was every man I hoped I’d find: dangerous and hot and a little mean.

His fingers spread apart, and he gasped. My hips trembled as I attempted to thrust into the circle of my hand, but that wasn’t going to happen tonight .

Or ever, if I was being honest with myself. But it didn’t matter. I was going to fill him soon. I was going to sit here and watch as he took my dick.

“Is that enough?” I asked.