Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

I tuck the bowl under my arm, refill my glass, nab my purse from the counter, and go to my room. It’s small; the double bed takes up almost half the space. I drop down on the mattress and flip open my laptop, which is one of Sunny’s old ones. It’s really nice. My phone buzzes from inside my purse. I fish it out, and my stomach does some flip-flops as I scroll.

I have several texts from Sunny, which isn’t unusual. We’re together a lot—except when she’s at school, teaching yoga, or volunteering at the animal shelter and I’m not working at one of my two jobs. It’s the messages from Randy that make my stomach feel like it’s trying to jump out of my throat.

I ignore all of them to test my self-restraint and log in to my computer. As soon as the browser opens, I type in “spontaneous orgasms.” I don’t get much in the way of helpful information. Mostly it’s a bunch of nonsense and hypothetical crap. One article is about a woman who has more than a hundred orgasms a day. It sounds awful, and embarrassing. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I had unprovoked orgasms every time I saw Randy. Or maybe I can.

My whole body gets hot and my toes curl at the memory of his mouth on me. Did I really let him eat me out in a bathroom? In the arena where I work? I’ll never be able to use that bathroom again without having some kind of hot flash.

I chug my water and perform another search, this time with “Randy Ballistic” and “girlfriend.” I’ve been cyber-stalking the guy since I ruined his underwear and he ruined my vagina with his fingers and his mouth.

Here are some interesting facts about Randy: he’s a serial short-term dater. From the research/stalking I’ve done, I discovered an online group for girls who have “dated” Randy and been dumped. Four of them have his name tattooed somewhere on their body. The hip seems to be popular. One girl went so far as to have his face tattooed on her boob, except it’s a bad tattoo and he looks more like a caricature of that guy from Sons of Anarchy than Randy. I’d feel bad for her, but she’s a bunny, so it’s her own damn fault.

The message is disconcertingly consistent: Randy’s awesome in bed. Ballistic is definitely a fitting last name. He has a great sense of humor. He has amazing fingers. He has incredible stamina. His dick is enormous—there could be some exaggeration here. I’m not for sure on that since I have yet to see it. Based on my stroking, it’s substantial. They seem to have missed the fact that his tongue is a weapon of sexual mass destruction.

Most interesting is this tidbit: he only has sex with the lights off.

When we were fooling around at Alex’s cottage, the light in the bathroom was on, so it wasn’t totally dark, but he pulled the covers over us. I thought it was cute because he wanted to keep me warm. In August. Now I have things to ponder, such as is that a fetish? Is he thinking about someone in particular while getting busy? If so, who? And fuck her.

There are way too many questions I don’t have answers to. Not that I need them. I’m not getting trapped in a bathroom with him again. At least my intention is to avoid that scenario in the future. My lack of self-control is humiliating.

I have two weeks to prepare for Alex and Violet’s engagement party. By then I should have gained some will power. Nothing good can come of being a bunny, so here’s hoping.

My phone buzzes again. It’s Randy.You still pissed at me?Silence, huh? You hold a long grudge. U gotta know the car wash was a misunderstanding. I meant 2 tell u in the bathroom, but u jumped me, so I didn’t have a chance ;)The winky face annoys me almost as much as being called out on jumping him. And being reminded of the stupid car wash pictures that made me go berserk. I decide to be cheeky.Who is this?The humping dots appear right away.The guy whose face u came on earlier.Every muscle below my waist clenches. Blood rushes to my cheeks and then moves lower, tingles following. I chew my fingernail, unsure if I want to play this game with him. I should brush him off. The trail of emotionally crippled bunnies with his name tattooed on their bodies should be the equivalent of CAUTION tape. But those orgasms…

My phone rings, startling me. I answer it before I can appropriately weigh my options.

There’s no hello, just Randy’s deep, sexy voice low in my ear. “Still a little foggy, Lily? Having a hard time remembering? Wanna come by my hotel so I can refresh your memory?”