Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

I get up on my knees, mirroring his position. Except I’m more than six inches shorter than he is, so I’m staring at his chest. His shirt-covered chest. I remedy that problem, drawing it up over his head. He takes over when I get to his shoulders, pulling it off and tossing it over the side of the bed. I’d like to move right in on the belt, but I’m thinking that’ll make him jumpy. Also, it’s hypocritical of me to think I can forgo the foreplay, since Randy makes sure we get it every single time.

I run my hands up his chest, circle his little man nipples with my fingernails and follow with my lips. I’m rewarded with one of his deep groans. Nice. He must like this a lot. While I distract him with my mouth, I manage to get his belt undone. I carefully flick the button on his jeans and drag the zipper down.

I look up, fingertips brushing the head of his cock through his boxers. “Can I take these off?”

Again, there’s hesitation. Eventually he nods, and I push his jeans over his hips, leaving his boxer briefs on. He tries to pull me down on top of him, but I straddle him and put a hand on the center of his chest. Circling my hips, I lean in slowly and brush my lips over his. “Randy.”

He skims my sides. “Hmm?”

I’m not much of a dirty talker. I’ve never felt confident enough to pull it off. I’m going to try now, though. “I want your cock in my mouth.”

Randy stills, and his eyes flare with panic. “You don’t need to do that.” It comes out all gravelly.

“I know, but I want to.” I bite my lip. I’m definitely feeling less than confident with the way he seems so uncertain. I’m not sure how I’ll feel if he rejects me.

“It’s really not nec—”

“Please?” If someone ever told me I’d beg to give a blow job, let alone to a professional hockey player, I would’ve laughed at them. Before it was curiosity that had me wanting to perform this act, now it’s a genuine desire to return all the favors.

Randy glances over at the bathroom where light filters through, cutting a line across the bed. When he doesn’t say yes or no, I start kissing a path down his throat, going lower, stopping at his nipples before I continue to the mysterious beast in his boxers.

I reach the waistband and peek up at him. His expression is tight, a combination of anticipation and what appears to be terror. I can’t understand what would be terrifying about getting head, unless sharp teeth are involved. I kiss the pale scar a few inches from his left hip and push his boxers down.

He’s maybe semi-hard. Every other muscle in his body is locked tight. His hands are balled into fists at his sides.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea.” He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, exhaling a long breath.

“You think me sucking you off is a bad idea?” I’m glad it’s dark, because I’m blushing at my own words.

Randy groans.

I drop a wet kiss on his scar. Instead of pushing his boxers farther down, I brush my nose along the length of his semi-hard erection through the material. When I reach the head I press my tongue against the cotton and suck. Randy’s abs tighten, and his hands flex by his hips.

I repeat the same series of motions, eventually slipping my fingers into the pocket to touch him. This time he doesn’t protest as I push the waistband down a little farther and follow the scar. It stops abruptly a few inches from his pelvis.

“Lily.” Randy reaches for me.

I take his hand before he can take mine. I bite his knuckle, then kiss it, licking his finger—mimicking what I plan to do to his cock. If he’ll let me.

“Please, Randy?” I lay my cheek on the damp fabric, right over his erection.

The noise he makes is pained, but he slips his thumb into my mouth, so I swirl my tongue around it. I push his boxers down again until the head peeks out. Keeping my eyes on his, I kiss the tip.

Randy exhales a shuddering breath, and his eyes flutter closed. I do what I did to his thumb, swirling with my tongue. At the shift of his hips, I cover the head with my mouth, applying the gentlest of suction.

“Oh, shit.”

I pop off. “Is that okay?”

Randy nods.

“I can do it again?”

“Yeah. That’d be great.”

I repeat the same kiss, swirl, suck pattern a few times before I ask, “Can I take these off now?”

His expression is heartbreaking. It’s obvious he wants to say yes, but he’s afraid to. Someone must’ve done or said something awful to him. His lids close in what looks like resignation, so I whisper, “Eyes on me, baby.”