Pucked Page 101

“Holy shit,” Alex groans.

“I know.” I nod into his shoulder and bite down because, hot damn, it’s been a while and nothing has changed about the dimensions of his cock.

He lifts his head as he begins to move. I’m locked in his stare, unable to break it as he shifts his weight so his pelvis grazes my clit with each slow thrust. I thread my hands into his hair and exhale unsteadily. The warmth spreading through my body is reflected in his eyes. His love, his desire, our mutual need envelop me, sensation and emotion merging. When I come, it’s going to be unbelievable.

“Violet.” He slides his hands under my shoulders, holding me tightly.

I moan the words I’ve been too afraid of until this moment. “I love you.”

I hope I’m semi-coherent, or I’ll feel like an idiot if he asks for clarification. My eyes beg to close, but I won’t let them. I stay focused on him as the sweetest smile appears, followed by the unexpected reply.

“Oh fuck. I’m com—”

His lips part and his eyes glaze. He pushes into me, deep and hard, hitting the special place inside that makes me see stars and fireworks and leprechauns. Never mind the leprechauns, they’re creepy.

We must lie there, completely immobile, for five minutes, which feels more like forty-five.

“That was awesome.” I look up at him blearily. I’m orgasm-stupid right now.




Alex pulls the covers up, cocooning us in warmth and each other. “I love you, too.”


Our relationship isn’t magically perfect after Alex apologizes and we exchange I love you’s. We’re figuring things out and having fun while we’re doing it—and each other.

In the off-season, Alex trains almost daily, and much of his free time is taken up by promotional shoots. Apparently stealing one’s own thunder with a public declaration of love has an amazing impact on marketability. Companies are clamoring to use him for various campaigns. My personal favorite is his endorsement for Trojan condoms. Magnum, of course. I have a seven-foot cardboard cut-out of him in the corner of my bedroom. He wears only boxers. It’s the best jill-off inspiration I have. Alex turns it around to face the wall whenever he sleeps at my apartment.

I haven’t moved in with him yet. It’s only been a couple of months since we got back together, and I’m trying not to rush things. Alex is like a fairy tale prince. Not so much that he comes riding in like a white knight to save me, more like he dives into huge life decisions with absolutely no caution. He asks me to move in with him on a weekly basis. I’ve decided if things are going well by fall, I’ll say yes.

It would be easy to slip into a routine where all I do is go to his house and eat his awesome food and sleep in his huge comfortable bed. I do this no more than twice a week—okay, three times. We balance it out with the occasional sleepover at my apartment. Alex isn’t a fan. It’s not so much the apartment, it’s the lack of luxury. I feel it’s important to know what it’s like not to have millions of dollars and four thousand square feet of living space.

Tonight, Alex is slumming it at my place. We reserve his sleepovers here for Wednesday nights. This is purposeful on my part. Melvin, my smelly, death-metal-loving neighbor, goes out for his role play club every Wednesday. He always leaves dressed as a wizard.

Now it’s not that I’m trying to hide Melvin’s crush on me. Alex knows about it. Although he’s unaware Melvin still stops by on a regular basis to see if I want to play Guitar Hero.

What I am trying to hide is Melvin’s habit of listening to obscenely loud music every night between the hours of seven and eleven. I don’t want to give Alex more ammunition to convince me to move in with him. I’m not ready. I don’t think. Not yet.

Alex is sitting on my couch, nursing a light beer—he can’t drink the regular stuff because of pre-season training. He rarely takes a break from all the healthy eating. We’re watching Netflix since I won’t pay for cable, and I won’t let Alex pay for it either. Melvin should be out tonight with his friends. Instead, he’s serenading us with his music. I can sing along if I want to. Or scream, as the case may be.

“What the hell is wrong with that guy?” He glares at the wall separating us from the barely muffled sound.

“Maybe he has a hearing impairment.”

Melvin’s hearing is fine. I believe he plays it at this volume to cover up how often he whacks it. The only reason he can get away with it is because the neighbor on the other side is an old man who’s practically deaf. He also happens to be Ms. Bullock’s booty call—the old man, not Melvin. I discovered this when I caught him leaving Ms. Bullock’s apartment in her too-short zebra print bathrobe, his saggy old-man balls hanging out the bottom.

“How long does this go on for?” Alex moves around as though he’s uncomfortable, which is absurd. I fall asleep on this couch all the time; it’s like sitting on a cloud.

I shrug. I don’t want to tell him it’s nearly constant.

“Violet?” He cocks his sexy eyebrow, his tone demanding a reply.

“It’s not that bad.”

“I don’t believe you. I’m going to have a word with this douche.”

Alex stands, ready to tell Melvin off. I can’t let this happen. If Alex sees Melvin and Melvin says my name the way he usually does—like he wants to hump it—Alex is going to kick his stinky ass. I don’t want to get kicked out of my apartment, nor do I want Alex to be charged with assault.

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