PUCKED

by Helena Hunting

  It’s a dirty thing to say, and considering how many pussies Alex has likely been up close and personal with, it’s a significant, moderately backhanded compliment.

  Of course to prove it, Alex carries me to the bed and strips off my pants. He drops to his knees on the floor, puts his face between my thighs, and makes fireworks happen with his awesome mouth. Again.

  I’m not sure of the exact orgasm tally, but by the time he comes up for air, I’m loose-limbed and one word demands are all I can manage. “Naked.”

  He drops his boxers freeing the monster cock. It smacks him in the stomach with a loud thwack. I stifle a giggle and pat it, checking to make sure it’s okay. Alex’s expression is a mixture of amusement and desire as he joins me on the bed, reclining against the mess of pillows.

  There’s nothing between us now, just hot skin and wet need. Shimmying back, I slide my hands up his thighs. I have a plan. It might cause lasting damage to my jaw, but he’s gone south on me twice, and it’s only polite to respond in kind. Plus, I’m curious to see how much will fit.

  I run my finger from base to tip. The smooth skin is stretched tight, and I wrap my palm around him, in awe of how far apart my fingers are. I look up and touch my lips to the head.

  He does this jerky-shudder thing, which I take as a good sign, so I give it a test lick.

  The satin softness and slight wrinkle of foreskin fascinates me as I take more of him. I don’t get very far—halfway at best, probably more like a third. I bob a little and lick around the head. Alex is quite the vision; lids low and lips parted.

  He skims the contour of my bottom lip where it wraps around his cock. “I don’t want to come in your mouth.”

  Popping off, I say, “I wouldn’t mind.” Even if it tastes like shit, I’d swallow Alex Waters’ jizz. Then I’d get the T-shirt.

  “Maybe another time. I’d rather be inside you when I come.”

  He positions me to straddle him. I’m so wet. I couldn’t be more ready if I jumped into a pool of lube.

  “Shit, that’s—” Heavy breath follows a pained sigh as he reaches for a condom and rolls it on.

  Rising to my knees, I grip the absurdly thick shaft and assume the position. I sink slowly until I’m so full of cock it’s ridiculous.

  Alex holds my hips as I start to rock. His mouth is on my neck, my jaw, my chin, my lips. I push on his chest, and he lies back to let me ride him. It’s the most delicious feeling—the sensation of emptiness followed by the nearly painful fullness. I’m probably ruined for the next dick that comes my way. Alex is stunning below me. His face is set in intense concentration. A slight sheen of sweat covers his chest. His abs flex with every rotation of my hips.

  “Gimme that mouth, please.”

  With a palm on my nape, he holds me close, fucking my mouth with his tongue at the same leisurely pace as his cock inside me. When I gasp for air, he covers my throat and my breasts with wet kisses.

  “I should tell you I’m in love with your tits,” he says while doing that nuzzle thing again.

  “You can date them if you want. They like bras from Victoria’s Secret.” I half laugh, half moan when he sucks my nipple roughly.

  The combination of sensations—him inside me, the way my clit rubs against his pelvis with each shift of our hips, and his teeth grazing my sensitive nipple—sends me over the edge. He sits up, preventing my trembling arms from giving out. I’m coming so hard everything goes black and returns in bursts of gray and stars.

  “Is that good? Does it feel good? Jesus, Violet, I can feel you coming on my cock.”

  I’m chanting something incoherent into his neck. With absolute horror, I realize I’m repeating the phrase I love your cock. The possibility I might accidentally leave out the cock part and profess actual love is too shameful to fathom. Obviously I don’t—love him, that is. I am developing a strong bond with his penis, however. I bite his shoulder to stop the words, porn-moaning instead. It’s safer.

  He urges my head up, freeing my teeth from his skin. I’ve left a giant hickey. Actually, I’ve left several. His lips brush mine in a soft kiss. Alex whispers against them—how good I feel, how he’s going to come, how he loves watching me come. The orgasm keeps going, steamrolling over me; it’s a sensory explosion like no other. Alex groans through his final thrust.

  My eyes snap open, because dammit, I want to see his come face. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and a fine tremor runs through his body like a low level earthquake. For the first time in my life, I can feel the twitch and pulse of a man coming inside of me. I’m going to put this one in the bank for future jilling sessions.

  He flops down on the mattress, taking me with him. “That was even better than the first time.”

  Too exhausted to speak in full sentences, I say, “So awesome. Tired.”

  He laughs softly, stroking my hair. A few minutes pass, then he shifts my limp body, and pulls out. Alex sets an alarm for me and leaves the key card on the nightstand. I should get dressed and go, but my body won’t obey the command to move. I mumble about needing to be in my room early, but I’m not sure my words make sense. He turns off the light and slips his arm under me, drawing me against his side.

  “Fall asleep with me?”

  I pass out with my cheek on his chest and his lips on my temple.

  I wake with a start. My right side is sweaty. I can’t see the clock on the nightstand without my glasses. Alex’s arm is heavy as hell. He’s wrapped around me with his nose pressed into my hair. I lift his arm—it takes some effort—and slide gingerly out of bed. My thighs and my cooter ache, and my skin pebbles in the absence of Alex’s furnace-like body heat.

  The reality of what I’ve done hits me like a UFC uppercut. I’ve had sex with one of Buck’s teammates. I will invariably see him again. Repeatedly. This was a terrible idea. He’s a hockey whore, and now I’m a hockey hooker. I experience a swell of shame followed by desire as I stare at his fuckhot form lying alone in that well-used bed. He mumbles in his sleep, so I nab my key card and Spidey pants and tiptoe into the living room. I stumble around in the dark, searching for my shirt. It’s on the couch, but my glasses are nowhere to be found.

  A faint beeping sound from Alex’s bedroom means I’ve run out of time. For one terrified second I freeze. I hastily pull on my shirt, snatch my phone from the coffee table, sprint to the door, and let myself out. I take the stairs all the way to the sixth floor.

  Inside my room in the suite, I slide down the door, breathing hard. I hit the floor with a wince; my cooter has been in an epic battle—with a cock monster.

  I had amazing sex with Alex Waters. Twice. I have no idea how much of a player he is or how high profile. Not that it matters. It’ll be awkward regardless. I drop my head in my hands.

  What the hell have I done?

  ALEX

  The most annoying sound in the world permeates my sleep. I will it to stop. I want to kick its ass for interrupting my dream that includes soft, full tits I can use as a pillow.

  The sound is not stopping.

  Prying my eyes open, I check the clock on the nightstand. It’s six a.m., an unusual time for my alarm to go off on a non-game day. I palm my phone and cease the noise, then close my eyes, hoping to resume the dream; the perfect boobs, the hot, tight—it all comes back like whiplash.

  I had sex with Butterson’s sister. Stepsister. Both times were stellar. Unless it was part of my vivid dream. I lift my fingers to my nose and sniff. Yeah, it definitely happened.

  I sit up with a groan. My whole body is sore: my head, my face, and my legs in particular. I call out her name, but I'm met with silence. The bathroom door is open, so she’s definitely not in there. The sitting room is the next logical option. Flicking the light, I discover it’s as empty as the bathroom. My glass of Perrier and her mostly full grapefruit and soda water are on the table where we left them last night. Her phone is missing, so is her pajama top, and her glasses are on the floor beside the couch.

  Those glasses—
Christ, they’re hot. The Spiderman jammies, too. It should be illegal for a grown woman to look so sexy in comic book-inspired bed wear. That's when I realize she left without waking me up. I almost double-check the suite, but it’s clear she’s gone, which sucks. Disappointment deflates my dick.

  If I was like some of my teammates, I’d be relieved she left. I’m not. The puck bunny thing isn’t my game. That’s not to say I’ve never had a one-night stand with a bunny. It’s more that there have been very few in comparison to media speculation. I’m not all that keen on being someone’s claim to star fucking fame.

  Violet strikes me as the opposite of a puck bunny. She was reading Fielding, of all things, during the game. It was as offensive as it was refreshing. As I head to the bedroom, it occurs to me she may have tried to wake me with no luck. I’ve slept through fire alarms in the past, and I’d been up since six yesterday morning. Practice, the game, the fight, the bar, and the phenomenal sex marathon have worn me out.

  I drop facedown on the bed. The pillow smells like Violet, and it’s soft like her boobs. I haven’t touched ones that nice since freshman year in college.

  I roll over with her glasses still in my hand, unsure how to proceed. It’s too early to stop by her room and return them. Besides, she’s staying with her parents so that’s out. I settle on calling. Her phone goes to voice mail, which shouldn’t surprise me considering the early hour. Violet’s message is short and funny—it cuts off in the middle of a string of profanity—so I’m unprepared for the beep.

  “Uh, hi. Hey. It’s Alex. Waters. You spent the night—uh . . . Yeah. I’m sure you remember. Anyway, you left your glasses in my room. So I have them. I’ll hold onto them until you call or I see you. I’ll be back in Chicago in a week and a half. I hope you have an extra pair. Or maybe you wear contacts. You weren’t wearing glasses at the game. About last night . . . I—” The machine beeps, cutting me off. It’s the worst message ever. There isn’t even an option to rerecord.

  I don’t call again, afraid I’ll say something even worse. I set Violet’s glasses and my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. My head is pounding from too little sleep. As exhausted as I am, I can’t relax enough to pass out. I have Violet on the brain. I’m not sure what happened between the time she said she wouldn’t have sex with me and the moment she suctioned her face to mine, but I sure don’t regret her change of mind.

  Sleeping with my teammate’s sister, step or not, isn’t something to be proud of. Ironically, based on the media, it’s exactly what’s expected of me, and it blows. If Violet finds out about my reputation—assuming she hasn’t already—she may very well never want to speak with me again, no matter how many orgasms I fucked out of her last night. It’s thoughts such as these that keep me awake for the next two hours, wishing she’d call back so I can talk to her before someone else does. Especially Butterson.

  My phone rings on my nightstand. I grab it, hit talk, and grumble into the receiver.

  “Hey, man. Where are you? You’re holding us up.”

  “Darren? Dude, it’s early. What’s the deal? We don’t leave until—” I hold my phone out to check the time. It’s almost one in the afternoon. I was supposed to be on the bus twenty minutes ago. “Shit. I’ll be right down.”

  I throw on a pair of jeans and a wrinkled shirt. Tossing the rest of my clothes into my duffle bag, I run around the room like an idiot, hoping I don’t leave anything important behind.

  Stopping in the bathroom, I check my reflection. There’s a hickey on the side of my neck. I don’t recall Violet giving me one, but there it is. There’s no covering up what happened last night now. Annnnd now I’m hard thinking about other things she sucked on. It’s shameful that I have to force myself to focus on hockey stats so I don’t leave the room with a massive woody.

  The last thing I put in my bag are Violet’s glasses; I’m careful to wrap them in a shirt so they don’t get scratched. I throw on my jacket, grab my bag, shove my phone in my pocket, and check for my wallet. The elevator is empty. Stopping at Violet’s room on the way down is pointless since checkout happened hours ago. Besides, she hasn’t returned my call. I don’t like how that makes me feel.

  The whole team is already on the bus when I arrive. Coach is pissed I’m late because it messes with the scheduled stops on our way to Tampa. The team greets me with hollers and snide comments. I need to come up with a story for last night—I’m usually better prepared than this.

  I take the empty seat beside Darren. His brow furrows as he sniffs. “You smell like stale sex.” Darren has been my wingman on and off the ice for the past several years. He’s fully aware last night was an anomaly.

  I shrug, passing it off like it’s nothing. As much as I needed a shower, in a sick way, I’m glad I didn’t have time. All I smell is Violet.

  Kirk pops up from the seat behind me. “Who’d you bang last night?”

  “Some chick I met in the elevator.” My stomach turns. No matter how this plays out, I look like an asshole, and right now I deserve the title.

  “Oh, yeah? Only one? No Hat Trick?”

  Darren rolls his eyes, and I mumble a noncommittal response.

  At thirty-five, Kirk is one of the older players on the team, and this is likely his last season. He hasn’t come to terms with it. He’s been banging every chick he can lately, despite the wedding band he sports. It’s disgusting. In my rookie days, I used to think he was cool. Now he’s become pathetic.

  “Weren’t you screwing around with Butterson’s sister at the bar?”

  “She’s his stepsister. We were just talking.” I want to punch him in the face for being such a dick.

  Bringing Violet back to my room was bad form. I’ll be lucky if this doesn’t blow up in my face.

  There’s no justification for what I did. I don’t have a good excuse. This isn’t even close to normal for me. The most I do is flirt, especially with a teammate’s sister. Until last night. I’d been serious about not having expectations. I might have had a chance at resisting her if she hadn’t made the first move, or worn something other than those damn pj’s.

  Unfortunately, Butterson overhears my exchange with Kirk. He jumps up from his seat and stalks down the aisle. “Fuck you, dude. You were all over Violet. Now you hold us up ’cause you’re bunny fucking?”

  No way in hell am I admitting I was with her last night. “She kissed me, not the other way around.” My verbal defense is weak.

  “Bullshit. You followed her outside. She thinks hockey players are dirtbags. Next time she comes to a game, you better keep your hands and your mouth to yourself. She’s a good girl; she’s doesn’t screw around.”

  “If you say so.” If she’s witnessed Butterson’s antics I can understand why she thinks we’re all dirtbags, although I’d argue last night might have changed her opinion.

  Butterson grabs me by the shirt and hauls me out of my seat. “I’m not kidding around, Captain Asshole. Violet’s not that kind of girl. Lose her number.”

  As the captain, I can’t very well have the newest player on the team pushing me around, even if backing down is smarter. “You don’t want to start a fight with me, Butterson. Especially over something you know nothing about.”

  His jaw tics. It’s obvious he wants to punch me. His fist slowly unclenches from my shirt. “Stay the fuck away from her.”

  Coach stomps down the aisle, yelling for us to cool it. He sends Butterson to his seat and I follow him to the front so he can serve me a lecture. I deserve it, so I keep my mouth shut and take it.

  “You’re the captain, not some rookie dickhead. How do you think it impacts the team if you go fucking around with your teammates’ damn sisters?

  “I didn’t—”

  “Save it, Waters.” Coach holds out his phone. A picture of me with my tongue in Violet’s mouth takes up the screen.

  “Fuck.” I palm my face and lower my voice. “Has Butterson seen these?”

  “I haven’t shown him, but it’s only a m
atter of time before he does. What if one of these dipshits did this with your sister?”

  Coach makes a good point. If anyone touched Sunny, I’d rip his dick off and shove it down his throat with a ball-sac chaser. It’s something I should’ve considered prior to the wick dip with Violet. “I’m sorry, Coach.”

  “I don’t want apologies. I want you to keep your head in the game.” He taps his temple. “We’re halfway through the season, and we’re only behind two teams. If we keep going like we are, we’ll make the playoffs again this year. This is an important series, Waters. Don’t fuck it up with your dick.”

  “It won’t happen again. I’ll talk to Butterson and clear the air.”

  “You better. He’s a solid player. I need him on point for the next game, not fixed on revenge because you’re getting fresh with his sister.”

  “Stepsister.”

  Coach gives me a disapproving look. “Like it matters.”

  “I got it, Coach. I’ll get a handle on my handle.”

  He waves me off, shaking his head. I ignore Butterson's glare as I take my seat a few rows in front of him. Any conversation will have to take place without witnesses present, and I need time to figure out what to say.

  The lecture from Coach and Butterson’s outburst put last night into perspective. Clarity can be a bitch. I already had the impression Violet wasn’t really a one-night stand kind of girl. Not because she said as much—it’s what they all say before they get on their knees or their back—but because she truly didn’t seem the type. Even though she practically jumped me both times.

  She was nervous from the beginning—and hilarious. While I didn’t force her to come to my room or have sex—twice—if she hadn’t gotten locked out of hers, I might not have convinced her to come to mine. Regardless, I’d do it again if given the chance. It’s hard not to be into a girl who tells you she loves your cock repeatedly as she comes. This situation makes me the kind of jerk I never want to be.