Page 18 of Tricky Puck

He thumbs a text and slides a look at me. “I’m letting Gram know I won’t be home tonight.” He slips the phone back into his pocket and gathers me in so close and tight that I wonder how those butterflies in my chest can still fly around so wildly. They should be crushed or smothered by now.

“When I left, I told her I’d be home early. But that was before…”

My eyes widen for a blink. “Before…?”

“Before you intrigued the hell out of me and drove my cock wild.”

“Is it still wild? I think I’d like to see that.”

He grins with too much wickedness and yanks my hand to his crotch, placing it directly over the mighty bulge—not that I hadn’t noticed and felt it earlier, but a girl can hardly get enough of that kind of magnificence, so can you blame me? Through his dress trousers, his cock jumps and sears my hand with its scorching sting.

“Oh. My. God.” I’m looking down at his pants, and he chuckles.

He removes my hand from his cock as the elevator dings and the doors glide open. A deep blush of pleasure-shame—or is it shameful pleasure?—heats my face, and I stumble after him down the hallway, my knees watery with all my strength taken up by my sex nerves—although the whiskey could be playing a part.

He stops at a door, and I run into him, but it doesn’t matter because he’s so solid and strong he absorbs me into him, and his arm wraps around me as he taps the card on the lock and shoves the door open. Kicking it wide, he hauls me through and slams it behind me.

“I hope you’re not too attached to those clothes.” His voice rumbles as his hands slide under my blouse.

“Ditto,” I manage to say as I slide my hands under his shirt. Not that I’m all about copycatting, but a good idea is a good idea.

We manage to get all our clothes off, tossing them carelessly as he backs me up to the bed.

Surprising me, he sweeps me into his arms and pulls me on top of him as we land in the pillowy bedclothes.

“How did you manage to land my pussy directly on top of your manhood?”

“My manhood?” His eyes sparkle as he tries to suppress his laugh.

I roll my eyes and squirm around, which calms his need to laugh. “Your boner, cock, dick, penis, or whatever pet name you have for him. Do you have a name for your dick?” I lean forward, liking the idea, and press myself against him, feeling him swell against me and feeling the power and pleasure in one heady gulp.

“I’m not the name my dick type of guy. I’m straightforward. You might have noticed.”

“You called me hot pants.”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

I laugh as I watch his eyes darken, his pupils almost drowning out the green sparks, but not quite. I have the feeling those green sparks in his eyes never go out, that he always retains some control deep down, no matter what.

The idea latches hold of me that making him lose everything, every ounce of control—to make him relinquish it all—would be the most amazing accomplishment and would make me feel all-powerful, giddy with excitement, and on top of the world, a woman to be reckoned with.

“My mission tonight is to make you lose it, Milano. I want to own your body and soul tonight.”

“Funny,” he says, licking his lips and not looking the least bit intimidated, “but I’m on the exact same mission. I’m going to own you tonight, hot pants, and you’re going to love every minute of it.”

He punctuates his words with a flip of our bodies, and I end up on my back with him over me. Damn.

His words shake me, and I believe him.

“We’ll see.” I can’t let on that I feel doomed because I want to win our game.

But his words come back to me, and I can’t help shuddering. Don’t worry, hot pants. There won’t be any losers in this game.

I clamp my hand down on the enticing length of his magnificent cock, standing and wavering over my belly, and hold it with both hands as he hisses out a breath. The satiny feel doesn’t hide the granite-hard power of him, and the sheer size and weightiness should be intimidating, except it’s so mouthwateringly sexy.

Dragging my thumb to the tip, I run it along the seam where a drop of pre-cum escapes, and he twitches. I sit up then, pushing myself up on one elbow and then pushing him back on his heels. He doesn’t stop me, and although he could, it doesn’t diminish my sense of power because he’s letting me, and taking control when he could stop me gives me a rush of adrenaline and heady excitement.

Lowering my mouth, I keep my eyes on him and the tick in his jaw; the tension on his face and the intensity of his silent stare telling me, yes, ignites a rush in my blood, heating me and moving me to wrap my mouth around his tip and suck with everything I have.