Page 31 of Pucking One Night Stand

I feel her hands scrunching my wet hair, her breathing getting heavier and heavier.

“BL-A-AKE...” Her loud groan falls out on her breath, and I can taste her pussy as her juices start to flow.

She’s getting more and more worked up, fisting my hair.

“Uhhh-uhhh, yes-yes,” she screams, her body starting to quiver.

Her climax rises higher and higher until she’s shaking and screaming.

“JESUS,” She’s now flying out of her mind with her orgasm.

As she shakes, I stop dead and watch as her body quivers. Then I stand, holding her tightly, lifting her as both of her legs wrap around my waist.

She shakes. I momentarily stop, and her body quakes.

She takes my shaft in her hand and rubs it over her pussy, whispering, “Fuck me, Blake Mitchell. Fuck me!”

I slide it into her wet pussy, whispering back, “With pleasure, Ms. McCullum, with pleasure,” then start pumping in and out.

Her arms drape over my shoulders, and I hold her tightly, thrusting, gaining momentum faster and faster. In and out, in and out.

“Oooohhh...” she moans, our bodies molding into one.

The water sprays over us, steam swirling as we grind faster, harder, and harder, until, “Oh, Blake, YES, YES, YES...” Her next orgasm crashes over her, and she sinks her teeth hard into the skin of my shoulder.

I'm already there, and with one last feverish thrust, “Uuuhh...” I freeze as my seed spurts, filling her right up inside.

“BLAKE... Ahhh...” she moans, clinging to me as the last glob of cream fills her. Motionless and silent, bodies together, we desperately catch our breath.

Then her lips crash onto mine like we’ve both hit our limit. It’s messy. Wild. Desperate. Teeth, tongue.

Her fingers rake through my wet hair, as my hands lock around her perfect naked body, pulling her tighter, like I can’t get enough, like I’ll never get enough.

And then—

Gone. And just like that, I open my eyes. No Cassy. Just steam, white tiles, hot water, and me. Alone.

My chest is still heaving like I just finished a third-period overtime. My pulse refuses to calm down, and my throat is dry even as water slams into my mouth and onto my skin. Everything lingers like it actually happened. Like I can still taste her on my tongue.

I reach for the tap, my hand unsteady. The water slows, turns cold, and then stops with a final hiss.

My fingers are wrinkled to hell. Every muscle is tight, and with my head spinning, I step out as water drips down my legs, pooling at my feet.

I reach for the towel and wrap it low around my waist, grab a second, and scrub it through my hair, not bothering to look at myself in the mirror.

Steam curls around the bathroom like it knows what just went down in my head.

Christ.

I walk out into the cooler air of the suite, still damp, feeling like a goddamn idiot. Looks like that girl’s in my bloodstream, and no amount of hot water’s going to wash her out.

***

After a solid night’s sleep, light mobility drills, warm-ups, our morning skate, another round of stretching, a slow meal, and too many hours pacing around waiting for puck drop, here we finally are. About to do battle with the Vancouver Stormhawks.

The tunnel is tight. Dim. Feels like it’s closing in with every step we take.

My skates click against the rubber flooring, echoing louder than they should. The cold leaks in from the concrete walls, crawling up my neck and through the pads. And that smell—sharp, fresh ice, mixed with sweat, gear, and tape—wraps itself around me like a warning.