Puck: Alpha One Security Book 4

by Jasinda Wilder

  “I’m gonna say that’s mostly on you, although that is a dirty trick to play.”

  I realized then that he’d used the distraction of the conversation to work his hand most of the way up my skirt. His fingers were passing midthigh, and I was suddenly hyperaware of his touch, of how close his fingertips were to my core.

  I reached up and tugged on his beard. “What’s your plan with that hand, Puck?”

  He smirked at me. “You aware of what you do to me when you tug on my beard like that?”

  I smirked back. “Let me guess . . . it makes you horny.”

  He flicked his gaze away from mine and down to his crotch. “I don’t know, why don’t you tell me?”

  My gaze followed his, and I could clearly see the ridge of his erect cock outlined against the material of his pants, thick and angled slightly to one side. Goddamn, what a cock. I swallowed hard, and forced my eyes to his.

  “Jesus, Puck.”

  He winked. “Tug on my beard like that, you’ll end up tugging on something else.”

  My breath caught, because now that I’d seen the outline, I wanted to see the rest. Hell, I wanted to end up tugging on his something else. I wasn’t about to let him know that, though.

  I let go of his beard and tried to shift away from his touch.

  He didn’t quite let that happen, though. He leaned into me, and his beard tickled my ear. “Keep pretending you don’t want it, Colbie. I’m enjoying our little game.”

  “I’m not pretending,” I whispered.

  His fingers had crept higher yet, and now my heart was pitter-pattering in my chest, and my thighs were tingling, and I couldn’t quite make myself close my legs to keep him away. His teeth latched onto my earlobe, and his tongue flicked, and his breath was hot, and I had to catch my lip between my teeth to keep from letting out the moan bubbling up in my throat.

  “Puck . . .” I whispered.

  Higher, higher. A fingertip nudged and brushed against the gusset of my underwear.

  “What, Colbie?” he whispered back.

  “Don’t.”

  He hooked his finger inside the gusset, tugged it aside, and I had to swallow a gasp.

  His whisper was hot against my ear. “Don’t what?”

  “Stop . . .” The word was more of a moan than a word.

  “Is that a ‘please stop’ or a ‘please don’t stop’?” He brushed his fingertip against my slit. “I’m not quite clear.”

  That little grazing touch, the nudge of his finger against my swollen nether lips . . . god, it was too much. And not enough. But I still refused to give in to the begging I knew he was trying to get out of me.

  I clenched my hands into fists and ground my molars together. Forced my eyes to stay open and locked on Puck’s. I was torn between wanting to knock his hand away to prove that I could, and wanting to scooch lower in the seat and widen my thighs so he could touch me more. So, I remained frozen, not moving an inch, barely breathing, neither helping nor hindering.

  He was amused, his brown eyes twinkling, searching mine, a ghost of a grin on his lips. “You’re a stubborn one, Colbie.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Couldn’t.

  He’d worked his fingertip between the lips, and my heart was hammering, and I was aching, and I felt wetness flooding me. I knew he had to feel that, feel how wet I was. Especially when he wiggled that finger deeper, deeper, until he was knuckle-deep inside me. Oh . . . oh shit. Shit. That felt good, so good, too good. And then he slid that finger out, and I think I may have let out a little sound, something like a cross between a mewl of pleasure and a growl of irritation. One finger, just one stupid, talented finger, and he had me clutching my knees with all my strength in an effort to keep from writhing, had me biting down on my lip so hard it hurt.

  Thankfully, the cabin of the aircraft was pretty noisy, which worked to drown out the sounds I was making, sounds I couldn’t help at that point. He was doing something to me, some sort of witchery. Sex magic, or something. Just a single digit, one stupid fucking finger, but I was going nuts, squirming, biting my tongue—literally. Sliding it in, then out, slowly, achingly slow, then back in, curling, rubbing deep inside me, then flicking upward, his finger now wet with my essence, to smear over the hard button of my clit.

  No hurry. Just a slow exploration of my sex with one thick, talented finger. I let my head fall back against the headrest, eyelids fluttering, chest heaving, thighs quivering. It wasn’t enough. Dammit, dammit, dammit—it wasn’t enough. I needed more. I was close, so close, I was teetering on the edge, shuddering on the brink, and he was so unhurried, just sliding that finger in and out, occasionally brushing my clit, and fucking hell, he had to know, he had to know he was driving me crazy, that I wouldn’t be able to come until he gave me more, gave me the pressure and friction against my clit. He knew. The bastard, he knew.

  “Puck,” I whispered. “Dammit, Puck.”

  He didn’t quite laugh, but I could hear the aroused, pleased mirth in his voice, saw it in his eyes when I turned my head to stare him down. “What, Colbie?” He plunged his finger into me, and I bit down on my lip to suppress a gasp. “You want something, all you gotta do is say so.”

  “No.”

  He did laugh that time. “Stubborn girl.”

  Make me, I wanted to say. Make me beg. Take control from me. But I couldn’t say it. The whole point was I wanted him to take it without having to be told.

  God, that sounded stupid and manipulative even to myself, but I wasn’t backing down on it. Wouldn’t. So I bit my lip and forced my breathing to slow down, and kept the moans locked down inside me, and forced myself to stay still, and refused to ask him to make me come.

  “You have no idea,” was what I whispered back to him.

  He made a sound that was halfway between an hmm of interest and a laugh of amusement. “Good thing I love a challenge, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I murmured, “good thing.”

  He leaned close again, his lips nuzzling my ear. “I can feel how close you are, Colbie. You want it, don’t you?” He gave me a tiny but potent nudge to the clit, enough to make me flinch as a bolt of zinging pleasure shot through me. “You’re crazy sensitive. A few little circles, and you’ll be coming all over my hand. But you’re so stubborn. You won’t give in, will you?”

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Because you’re a strong, stubborn, independent woman.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Problem is, Colbie honey, you’ve never met a man like me.”

  He accompanied that statement with another brushing touch of his finger against my throbbing clit; my inhalation of surprise became an involuntary whimper. My teeth ground together as I bit down on the sound.

  “I have absolutely no problem admitting that much, at least, is true,” I muttered.

  He slid his finger back in, and this time, he did it swiftly, a sudden insertion, fast enough that the movement gave off a wet squelching noise. I cringed, and my thighs clenched together.

  He did it again, and whispered in my ear. “Does that embarrass you?” Again, another squelch. “That embarrasses you, doesn’t it?

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  “It shouldn’t. It’s fucking hot, Colbie.” He nipped my ear and slid his finger a few more times then added a second finger, and I had to bite down with my molars so hard they ached. “That’s the sound of you being hot and bothered, sweetheart. You’re all wet for me. It means you dig this, what I’m doing to you. It means you’re fighting yourself. It means your hot, wet, tight little pussy wants more. You don’t have to admit to shit, babe. I know. I can feel it, I can smell it. I know exactly what you want, Colbie.”

  I was fighting it so hard. I did want it. I wanted more. I wanted to come. I wanted him to keep touching me. I wanted to hike my skirt up and rip my underwear off and ride him. Fuck, I wanted him to just give me that one goddamn finger against my clit, right now, just enough to let me come. I was trembling with need. He fel
t it, he knew it. Yet instead of letting me come, he slid those two fingers into me, drew them out, almost but not quite brushing my clit, and then back in.

  My underwear was in the way. The gusset was stretched to the side, preventing him from having a full range of movement. If he had his fingers inside me, the gusset would slide back into place higher up, and he’d have to fight them on the way out to have access to my clit. I wanted them off. Goddammit.

  I’d be damned if I’d admit it and double damned if I was to going to give him the satisfaction of watching me shimmy out of them. That’s what I wanted, but the battle was engaged now, and I refused to lose. Even though winning meant I was only piling sexual frustration upon myself. And on him.

  The whole thing was stupid. I should have just wiggled out of the stupid underwear and asked him to give me the orgasm and then, when we had more privacy, I’d let him fuck me, and I’d go my way and that would be that. End of story.

  That was how this would normally go. And for some reason, I wanted this to be different. So I held out.

  He slid his fingers out, and the underwear fought him, and he cursed under his breath. “These stupid underwear are in the way.”

  “Are they?” I breathed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  He laughed. “Oh yes you have. You want them off as much as I do, you’re just too stubborn to admit it.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  He didn’t bother responding to my blatant lie. Instead, he hooked his finger inside the gusset again, but this time, instead of sliding that finger into me, he curled it around the gusset and tugged down. Oh. Oh no. I froze, stopped breathing. He wiggled and tugged, and I felt the waistband roll down over my hips. He worked that finger back and forth, front to back along the length of the gusset, pulling downward. Slowly, inexorably, the underwear slid down. The waistband caught on my butt, yet all he had to do was give a firm tug and they’d skipped free, and then a few more tugs, a few inches, and they were loose, and he drew them down my thighs, letting them fall around my feet. Lifting one of my feet and then the other, he had my underwear dangling from his index finger.

  Shit. I stared at him, glanced at my erstwhile undergarment, and then back at him. They weren’t plain cotton granny panties. What I hadn’t mentioned, when we talked about what kind of underwear I preferred to wear, was that my idea of fit and comfort usually tended toward a full coverage bra and a thong. I just found thongs most comfortable. I didn’t like briefs—hated might be a more accurate term, really—and even when I did wear something with more coverage than a thong, it was still on the skimpier side. The only exception was if I was hanging around the house. When Puck talked about his mental image of me watching cartoons in nothing but a pair of little boy superhero briefs, he wasn’t far from the truth—the only detail he had wrong was that for Saturday morning cartoons, I wore my favorite pair of stretchy cotton boy short underwear.

  But at work, I rocked a thong. But not to feel sexy or any of that nonsense, just because I found them comfy.

  Which meant the underwear Puck had dangling from a finger was a tiny little scrap of blue lace—yes, I wore matching sets, sometimes. Not always, but occasionally. The day I was kidnapped just happened to be one of those instances.

  “You lied, Colbie Danvers.”

  I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Did not.”

  “You said you picked underwear for fit and comfort, not style or sexiness.”

  I reached for the thong, but he kept it out of reach, stuffing into a hip pocket. “Give ’em back, Puck.”

  He snorted. “Hell no. I’m keeping that shit.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “I didn’t lie. I just happen to find thongs comfortable.”

  He rested his palm on my thigh again, and I realized we’d be starting all over, his hand creeping gradually back under my skirt. Skip that part, I wanted to say. But, as per the rules of this idiotic game, I said nothing. Just held still and waited.

  He didn’t take as long, this time. He even went so far as to pull my leg aside. I didn’t fight that as hard as I should have, but hell, I was all worked up and still trembling from how close he’d gotten me to orgasm, and I wanted that release, needed it at this point. Dammit, I needed it. I wanted his touch, ached for it. He touched me like I belonged to him, like he knew exactly what I wanted.

  Somehow, I was lower in the seat, and my thighs were falling open. If Puck had drawn attention to that, I’d have sat upright and closed my legs, but he was a smart bastard, so he said nothing, just took advantage of it. Found my sex waiting, hot and wet and ready. Slid that finger into me, and immediately drew it out and brushed it against my clit. My eyes closed and my teeth ground together, and my chest heaved, because somehow that short reprieve as Puck removed my underwear had only served to make me wetter, more sensitive, more ready. Closer. God, so close.

  He was teasing, now. He’d slide his finger in and pull it out, tease my clit, then slide it back in. Two fingers, middle finger and ring finger, and then he’d tease me once more, and yet somehow he never quite gave me the pressure I needed to get any closer to orgasm. Yet the urge, the need, the heat, it all kept building. Each time he brushed my clit, each time he slid those fingers into me, I wanted it more, needed it more desperately, and each time I got the teasing burst of sizzling pleasure from the brief touch to my clit, I’d hope and silently beg that this time he’d let me come, yet he never did. And the desperation was intense, now. Almost unbearable.

  I had my fingers curled into fists, my jaw clenched. Eyes closed. I was breathing deeply, long, sucking inhalations and slow, shaky exhalations—resisting the urge to give in each time he touched me.

  And always, his touch was slow and unhurried and gentle.

  A squelch as he slid two fingers in.

  I bit down on a whimper when he brushed my clit.

  And this time, when I clamped my teeth around the breathy little sound, he did it again. Two fingertips stroking my clit, and my hips flexed. Again, and I felt my butt cheeks squeeze together, and my thighs tremble as I fought the urge to lift my hips, to grind into his fingers.

  “How long are you gonna fight it, Colbie?” His whisper was close, so quiet I had to strain to hear him.

  “I . . .” My train of thought was derailed when he grazed my clit a third time; the pressure, the pleasure, and the searing need were all tangled and wild and throbbing—one more touch like that, maybe two, and I’d be gone. “I . . . oh—”

  One fingertip, pressing firm against the bud of my clit, pressing, just touching, and I was shaking all over, barely able to breathe, fighting it, needing it, wanting it, refusing to give in. He wanted this; he had to take it from me. He had to know I never gave up, that he’d earned it.

  And god, holy shit, he was close.

  Because I was right there. And he fucking knew it. Yet he didn’t take it.

  Instead, he plunged his finger into me so deep his palm bumped against my clit, and I was rocked forward as a blinding clenching burst bit through me. Grind that palm . . . right there, right there. That was what ran through my head, but never passed my lips.

  Yet my hips were flexing on their own. A slight, subtle movement, but I knew he felt it.

  Out again, and that was it—one more even accidental nudge and I’d be toppling over the edge, coming harder than I ever had in my life.

  Yet he didn’t give it to me. He fucking knew exactly how close I was—how the hell he knew, I had no idea, but he knew. Frustration boiled through me, tangled with raw need and rippling desperation.

  “Puck—goddammit.”

  He had the audacity to laugh. “You want it, Colbie. You’re there, beautiful. I can feel it. Your thighs are shaking. You can’t breathe. Your hips are moving.” He slid his finger back in, agonizingly slowly. I gasped as I felt his finger press in. “Two words.”

  “Two words?” My eyes flew open and met his.

  In and out, in and out, slow, consistent—finger-fucking me. Hot, erotic, pleasurable,
but not what I needed. He was silent, watching me as his fingers glided smoothly through my wetness.

  “Two words, Puck?” I prompted.

  I couldn’t help it anymore. My hips were grinding with his movements, seeking what I so desperately wanted. I was crazed with it. I had to come. Had to. He’d been working me to the edge and back for I couldn’t remember how long. Forever, it felt like. Too long. If I didn’t come soon, I’d explode with frustration.

  “Please, Puck,” he murmured.

  “Fuck you,” I snarled, under my breath.

  “Got that backward, hot stuff. Pretty sure I’m the one fucking you.” He increased his speed, but never quite let any part of his hand touch my clit. “Say those two words, and you’ll be coming all over my hand so hard you’ll see stars.”

  “No.”

  “Fair enough.” He withdrew his touch completely.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, hating the edge of panic in my voice.

  “My wrist is cramping,” he said, a smirk on his lips.

  “Goddammit, Puck.”

  He trailed his touch back in, closer, closer, and my thighs splayed apart, a wanton gesture. “What’s wrong, Colbie?”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I am.” He teased my slit, tracing up and down, tickling, nudging in and out ever so slightly. “I think that was one of the first things I told you.”

  “Fuck.”

  I was normally not much for swearing all that much, but when I was worked up and horny and frustrated? Filter went away. And right then, I’d never been so worked up, never been so frustrated. Never been so horny.

  I just wanted to come. I just wanted to feel his fingers on my clit, just wanted to hit that high and shake and feel his fingers and daydream about what he could do if we were alone and naked.