Forever Pucked (Pucked 4)

“Violet, baby, it’s me.” Alex’s voice penetrates the haze of my terror. I stop trying to escape and turn to face him. There he is in 3D, standing in the middle of the fallen versions of himself.

“You scared the shit out of me!” I throw my purse at him.

He lunges to catch it before it can hit the floor. It was about three feet shy of hitting him.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to surprise you.” He’s smiling through his apology, which irks me.

I point at him. “It’s not funny. You almost gave me a heart attack! I thought some psycho had broken into the house.”

“I didn’t mean to do that.” His hands are raised, probably to reassure me that he’s not a hologram, but in fact my real fiancé, and that he really is sorry. I’m not sure I buy it; he’s still got a dimple popping. He takes tentative steps toward me, just in case I decide to kung fu him in the balls or something, I guess.

“Well, consider me surprised.” It’s a good thing I didn’t have the dairy or I would’ve shit my damn pants. “Why didn’t you call me to let me know you were going to be home?”

“It wouldn’t have been much of a surprise then, would it?”

I replay dinner in my head: all the texts the girls were getting, their excitement at going home to dick-free beds.

“How long have you been planning this?” I cross my arms over my chest.

Alex’s gaze darts down and stays there, despite the fact that I’m wearing a huge winter jacket and my boobs are hidden. “Only since we got stuck at the rest stop earlier today. I really wasn’t sure if we were going to make it home. Then we got back on the road, and I decided I’d surprise you. I got here about half an hour ago. I had just enough time to set this up.” He gestures to the fallen Alexes, and then to the beaver lying face down on the floor. “I see you got my present.”

I give him my bitch brow. I spent the last three hours thinking my beaver was sleeping alone tonight. I’m still getting over that, so I’m not as nice as I should be. “Thanks for sending it to my work.”

“You don’t like it? The pictures you sent me seem to indicate otherwise.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Which is why you love it.” He tucks my damp hair behind my ear, skimming my cheek with warm fingers.

I try to remain annoyed. “Where are we going to put it?”

“I was thinking we could bring it to the Chicago cottage. It can be our mascot.”

Alex has two cottages. He likes to buy property. The Chicago cottage is just as nice as his Ontario cottage and only two hours away, on Lake Geneva, instead of a plane ride followed by two hours in the car. The beaver would be appropriate at the Ontario cottage, since it’s in Canada, but I don’t think they’d let it on the plane. The Chicago cottage isn’t a bad second choice. Not that this is relevant to anything.

I haven’t seen Alex in eight days. It’s our First Real Date Sexiversary, and I totally didn’t expect him to be here tonight. Although my heart still feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest for a multitude of reasons, all I want is to rub up on him like a bear on a tree, or a beaver on some wood. Either way, there needs to be rubbing. Preferably leading to an orgasm.

He pulls me close, wrapping me in his arms, and I sink into him. He’s so warm and solid and perfect. “I’m glad you’re home, even if you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Me, too. I missed you.” His hands move to my ass, and he squeezes softly. He bends to kiss me, which is when I get a whiff of stale, oniony yuck.

I purse my lips and wrinkle my nose. “Smells like you made out with a Big Mac.”

He grimaces. “That bad, eh?”

He’s close talking, so even though I try not to breathe, I still get hit with another shot of grossness. He smells like diesel exhaust, sweat masked with deodorant, and fast food.

“What’d you eat? A plate of raw onions?”

“We stopped at a diner. I had a burger.” He sounds apologetic. Our dinners matched.

As much as I’ve missed him, I’m not having sex with him like this. I might have a year ago, but now I can wait until he showers and brushes his teeth. I should probably do the same.

“Let’s go get cleaned up,” I suggest.

Alex picks me up in a frontwards piggyback—a piggyfront—and carries me up the stairs. I don’t bother trying to make conversation; I’m too busy kissing his neck, which tastes salty, but otherwise fine. Alex adjusts his grip when we get to the bedroom and pushes the door open. Candles cast a dim glow around the room, and rose petals—real, not fake based on the smell—litter the comforter. No wonder he hasn’t had time to shower. He’s been setting up a romantic reunion—apart from freaking me out with the cardboard-cutout army, anyway.