Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

“It’s okay, sweets. Don’t feel bad about wanting a piece of this.” Miller motions to himself, more specifically his crotch.

“I’ll be back in a minute. I need the ladies room.” I set my glass on the counter and turn to Randy. “Keep an eye on these two; they keep disappearing.”

“And that’s a problem why?”

I roll my eyes and head for the bathroom. I need to gather myself. I don’t like how territorial I feel about Randy, and we haven’t even slept together. I remind myself that this isn’t going to be serious. He lives in Chicago. I live in Canada. We’re having some fun. I need a break from serious anyway. I deserve this, and I can totally handle it.

I lock myself inside the bathroom, surprised and a little disappointed that Randy didn’t follow me this time. I turn on the tap while I do my business, then check my reflection in the mirror. Violet and Charlene had their way with my face. I didn’t let them do much, but I’m wearing mascara and eye shadow. I drew the line at lipstick and made do with gloss.

I pull out a package of wipes from my purse and tear it open. It smells like mint and cucumber. Violet gave them to me today and told me to thank her later. I drop my panties, which are edged in lace, and give myself a little rubdown. I want to be prepared for whatever happens, or doesn’t, tonight. The mint makes everything tingle.

I toss the wipe in the garbage, wash my hands, fix my hair again, and open the door.

“Took you long enough.” Randy steps inside and locks us in.

“What’s with you and bathrooms?” I back up until I hit the wall.

He steps in close. “What’s with you and always running away from me?”

“I wasn’t running. I had to use the bathroom.” If I could dig my nails into the plaster behind me, I would. As it is I’m fighting the urge to run my hands over his very hard, very big body. If I arch my back at all, parts of me will touch parts of him.

“I think maybe you were looking for a reason to make me follow you.” He braces his forearm against the wall beside my head. His shirt stretches tight over his bicep. God, he’s ripped.

“So what if I was?”

“Is that an admission?”

“You’ve been sexting me all week; what do you need an admission for?” I slide my hands behind my ass so I don’t do something stupid, like grab his face and ram my tongue down his throat. Again.

His knee rests against my thighs, looking to get between them. If he does, I’m guaranteed to start dry-humping. I hold them tight together. If he gets in there, I lose this game. I’d really like to be able to control myself until we can make it to a location that isn’t a bathroom.

“You’re the one sending all the racy pictures.” His eyes drop to my mouth.

Game on. “Racy pictures? You mean of me in my skating outfit?”

“And the one of you fucking up my view with those tennis balls down your shirt.”

Cleavage selfies are not my specialty. Especially compared to that slutty bitch’s from last week. Not that I’m fixated on that, or anything.

I’m so, so screwed tonight. Any hope of rational decision-making has gone out the window. Not that I was honestly planning on making rational, smart decisions.

The pressure against my thighs increases, so I squeeze tighter. Randy’s breath leaves him on a heavy exhale. He smells vaguely of some fruity drink. I tip my chin up; it’s as close as I’m getting to caving.

“That skating outfit gave me hours of enjoyment.” His mouth descends on mine.

As soon as our lips connect, I part mine and welcome his tongue. I also part my legs and welcome his thigh by grinding on it like I’m pole dancing. Randy doesn’t seem to have a warm-up button. He caresses the outside of my leg, reaching the hem of my skirt.

“Please tell me this means we’re fucking tonight,” he groans into my mouth.

“Uh-huh.”

We’re rubbing up on each other like cats in heat. I don’t even know what the hell is happening. His hands are all over the place: under my skirt kneading my ass, over my dress palming my boobs.

“I need to get you into a bed,” he mumbles.

“I have a room upstairs.”

“Why are we in here then?”

“Because you followed me like a creepy stalker.”

He breaks free from our kiss. “Creepy stalker? Is that what you really think?”

His gaze is intense. I gauge the tension in his posture and run a soft hand down the side of his neck. “No.”

“No?”

I decide now is a good time to be vulnerable. I’m not trying to take advantage of the situation, because let’s face it, this man knows his way around a woman’s body. My experience is limited to Benji—who I’m discovering wasn’t an awesome lay—and the few guys I hooked up with while we were on one of our breaks.