Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

“I don’t have a bush.”

I’m almost positive he’s gritting his teeth. “It’s a figure of speech.”

“Is it, now?”

I have eighteen years of figure skating under my belt. I’m strong, fit, and limber. I can do things with my body most people can’t—including remaining suspended in air for a significant period of time. I’m also heavier than I look. I might be what girls call “skinny,” but I’m one-hundred-percent muscle. Okay, not quite, but I have seriously low body fat. And I have zero cellulite. Girls hate my ass. Literally, it’s perfect. I got a nice ass instead of nice boobs; it’s a fair trade, I guess.

“Okay, maybe it’s more of a euphemism, but I’m not sure why that matters. Why aren’t you fucking me like you’ve been talking about doing for the past goddamn month?”

Randy lowers himself until my back hits the mattress again and his chest is pressed against mine. Then he shifts his hips forward. “You mean like this?”

And there it is. The reason for the Magnums. Mother of all things holy, is he ever equipped. I think I might moan. I’m not sure.

“Or do you mean more like this?” He starts to move—filling and retreating, over and over, harder and harder.

“Oh my God.” It’s definitely more groan than words—not like it matters. I’m sure the way I’m clinging to him is a decent indicator of exactly what I mean.

Randy throws the covers off, which is a relief because I’m getting sweaty under these blankets, and I’m wearing actual makeup. I don’t want it to start melting. At least the sheets are dark, so it’s not going to stain if any of it rubs off on them. He leans to the left, and the angle is beyond stellar.

All of a sudden I’m blinded by light. Not the light of orgasm, but the light of the bedside lamp. Randy cradles my head, his palm resting at the nape of my neck.

“Now you want the lights on?”

“I want to see your face when I fuck you.”

I don’t dare close my eyes. Blinking almost isn’t an option. Any snarky comment dies when he stops thrusting and starts grinding. Holy fuck. I’m not prepared for this. At all. I’ve never seen anyone look so… primal? Like he wants to… ravage? Consume?

The hand that isn’t holding my head skims my hip and hooks behind my knee, drawing it up until it’s at his ribs, making him go even deeper. I think I may actually implode when this orgasm hits. I can feel it, traveling through my spine, spreading like electric fingers across my skin. I figure I might as well go one step further and rest my ankle on his shoulder.

And there it is. My cells are grenades. My nerve endings blast like tiny land mines, centered in my clit. The tremor in my body is uncontrollable. It’s a whole-system failure. The moan that comes out of me is so loud I scare myself. I’m trying to keep my eyes open, but nothing registers aside from the orgasm.

And Randy keeps going, and going, and going, hips pumping and muscles straining as he holds himself over me. At least I can see again, for now. His jaw is tight, eyes on fire, breath washing over my face in hard pants. He’s so close, still watching me. Jesus. This man sure knows how to fuck.

I think I’m fully recovered from the last orgasm, and another one punches me in the clit. His name comes out all garbled. I latch onto his hair, then worry with my lack of control that I’ll rip it out, so I hold onto his shoulders instead. I can’t rip those off.

His steady thrust turns erratic and harsh, his coordination faltering. His eyes roll up and flutter shut briefly as this sound comes out of him—it’s exactly the noise I’ll associate with man-orgasms for the rest of my life.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re heavy and lust-soaked. He sinks into me, his weight pushing me into the pillows and mattress like he’s trying to get deeper inside, which isn’t possible because I’m as full up as I can get. Lily’s Vagina Emporium is at maximum cock capacity.

Randy’s mouth crashes down on mine, his tongue pushing past my lips. I’m not sure if he’s having a seriously long orgasm, or he’s drawing it out, or he doesn’t want to stop, but he’s still going. He’s changed from thrusting back to a slow hip roll. Eventually he stops moving and breaks the kiss.

He pushes up, the muscles in his arms twitching. “How’s it goin’?” It comes out all gravelly. Even his post-sex voice is hot.

I clear my throat. “Uh, pretty good.”

His eyebrows rise. “Pretty good?”

I blow out a breath. It makes his hair flutter around his face. It’s almost the same length as mine when it’s not up in his little man-bun thingy. I shrug. Well, I try to, but it’s not all that easy with the way I’m lying down, my head half sunk between two pillows. “Yeah, pretty good sounds about right. I’d give that a seven out of ten.”