Pucked Off (Pucked 5)

I spent years burying all the hurt and hate and fear. I found ways to deal with the ingrained expectation of violence. I did things I’m not proud of, and right now I feel like I need to atone for every single sin so I can have this gorgeous woman and deserve her.

I’m not sure how to do that. I’m still going to take her, though. As far as she’s willing to go.

I follow her up the steps to her door. A tremor in her hand makes me aware that she’s nervous. She turns the key in the lock and opens the door. Her smile is full of trepidation as she steps aside to let me in.

I help her out of her sweater and sweep her hair over her shoulder. Leaning down, I kiss her pale skin, and she shivers.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t take anything you don’t want to give me.”

She turns around, her eyes wide and innocent. “I know.” She pushes my jacket over my shoulders, and I shrug out of it, letting her hang it up in the closet I kissed her in last time.

I don’t want to hide in the dark with her any more. I want to see exactly what she looks like when I take off that pretty green dress.

She laces our fingers together and tugs, so I follow her down the hall. Instead of heading for the living room, she goes for the stairs.

“You don’t want to have a drink or something?” I ask.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?”

Well, this is unexpected. “Not if you don’t.”

The calves in her muscles work as she climbs the stairs. She doesn’t swing her hips, or hike up her skirt to give me a glimpse at what’s under there like a bunny would. She doesn’t act coy or demure. She just links our pinkies together and leads me to the second floor.

She opens the door, but doesn’t flick on the light. It’s unnecessary since a small lamp illuminates the room from a nightstand beside her bed, which I don’t think is even a queen.

The room is small. The walls are pale, almost white, and the comforter is minty green.

“This is my bedroom,” she announces, then blushes.

I take her face in my hands and lean down to kiss her. “What do you want to do now?”

“I want to touch you,” she says against my lips. “And I want you to touch me.”

Poppy is nothing like the women I usually end up in bed with. She’s not brazen. She’s not looking to break conventions. She’s the opposite, and I want to be exactly what she needs, except I’m not sure how.

I keep my hands where they are, holding her face so I don’t take things too fast. Beyond wanting to be what she needs, I also want this to last in case she regrets it and it’s the only time I get this close to her.

Poppy’s hands rest on my waist, and one moves up to curve around the back of my neck. I tilt her head to the side, and she opens her mouth for me, giving me the access I want. Need. Her tongue meets mine, stroke for slow, hot stroke.

I’m so fucking anxious. I’m worried this isn’t going to be like when I’m on her table—that when she touches me it’s not going to be the same, that I’m going to hate it like I do with everyone else.

When she moves her hand from my neck down to my chest, I tense and cover it with mine.

She tries to disengage from the kiss, but I slide my tongue against hers. After another minute, during which my hard-on kicks against her stomach, I let go of her hand. She slows the kiss and pulls back until she can see me.

“You can tell me if it’s not okay.”

I huff out an embarrassed laugh. “I should be saying that to you, not the other way around.”

Poppy links our pinkies again and tugs me toward the bed. “Come make out with me.”

I feel exactly like I did when I was a teenager and it was my first time. But there are some major differences. My first time wasn’t special. I didn’t actually care about the girl. She was some random hook up at a hockey party—which was intentional. I knew by then that female contact wasn’t welcome the way it should’ve been, and I didn’t enjoy it the way the other guys on the team seemed to.

I just wanted to know what the big deal was. And after that I learned sex was going to be about making someone else feel good, because it didn’t work that way for me.

As much as I want this, being with just Poppy means there are no distractions. I’m terrified of being the sole point of her focus. But I’m so tired of the emptiness. I’m tired of the endless ache, and I’m willing her to be the one who can fix that for me.