Puck by Wilder Jasinda

  "Left side," Layla said. "Another one."

  "Colbie, roll down your window and get out of the way," Puck ordered. "Layla, get 'em."

  I depressed the button to lower the window and then pressed myself as far back against the seat as I could. Layla, rather than trying to switch spots, a laborious and time-consuming process, just draped herself across both Temple and me, bracing one hand on the bottom of the window opening, extending her pistol with the other hand. I heard a deafening concussion, and then another, and then another, making my ears ring. A slightly more distant BANGBANGBANG, and I felt the door panel jerk as bullets hit, and then again, and again, and then I felt something hot sting my calf. I scrunched down as far as I could, and kept my eyes shut, waiting for something horrible to happen. Layla was pressed against me, her frizzy, curly, crazy black hair tickling my nose, her shoulder against my chest, and I felt her body jerk every time she shot her pistol.

  I heard a window shatter, and Puck cursed. "SHOOT THE FUCKING DRIVER, GODDAMMIT!" Puck shouted.

  "I'M FUCKING TRYING!" Layla bellowed back, her voice muffled in my ears.

  "TRY HARDER!"

  Layla actually stopped what she was doing to level an icy fuck-you glare at Puck. "Think you can do a better job of shooting at a moving vehicle from a moving vehicle while lying across two people?"

  Bullets plinked into the side of our car, and smashed another window.

  "Shiesse ihn--JETZT!" Ivar barked.

  That didn't need any translating. Layla turned back to the window, hesitated, took aim . . . and fired once. The silence from the absence of gunfire was deafening. I opened my eyes just in time to see the sedan go into a flat spin and then into a bouncing, glass-shattering roll.

  Layla shifted awkwardly off Temple and me, returning to her seat behind Puck. "Well that was fun," she said, without a trace of irony.

  "You two bicker like children," Ivar pointed out.

  "That's because she's basically like a really ugly, really annoying little sister," Puck said.

  "I'm sexy and you know it, bitch," Layla snarked back.

  Puck twisted and stuck his tongue out at her. "I'm not a bitch; you're a bitch."

  "Pussy."

  "Dick."

  "Twat."

  "Ass-face."

  Ivar sighed. "Enough, enough. You are making my head ache."

  I watched the whole exchange with bemusement. If any man ever called me any of those names, even in jest, I'd probably have--as my gang friends used to say--popped a cap in his ass. Of course, as a white girl from the suburbs, they never let me talk like that; it was kind of a joke among us. Puck and Layla seemed to have that kind of a relationship, though, where the vilest of insults were used as a way of expressing friendship. I thought for Puck, at least, it served as a reminder that she was one of the guys, so to speak.

  The rest of the hour's drive to the airfield was uneventful, if noisy, since several windows had been shot out. The airfield was . . . well, more of a field than anything I'd recognize as a place designated for airplanes to take off and land. There was a pair of those long half-barrel shaped hangars side by side, and then another pair facing them, on the opposite side of what I supposed was the runway--essentially just a wide, neatly mown swath of grass. A twin-engine prop plane waited, and the moment the Range Rover appeared, the airplane's propellers spun into life, flashing in the sun.

  I half expected a helicopter to appear, or a fighter jet, or more cars, guns blazing . . . but we loaded onto the waiting aircraft and took off without incident, Ivar waiting until everyone was loaded before following us into the airplane and closing the door after us, taking the co-pilot seat.

  I took a seat in the last row of chairs, and Puck settled into the seat beside me. I don't know if he saw or felt me tense as the props roared to full speed and the aircraft bumped into motion, but he seemed to know without having to be told that I was nervous.

  He threaded his fingers into mine. "Not a fan of flying, huh?"

  I shook my head. "Nope." I let out a frightened breath and squeezed his hand as we picked up speed. "Especially on a plane this small. It's always the little planes you hear about crashing."

  "It's gonna be fine, babe."

  "Is that it?" I asked, once we were airborne.

  "Is what it?"

  "Cain, the bad guys, the shooting."

  Puck winced. "Probably not, if you want the truth. We're not going directly back to the States from here, certainly not in a puddle-jumper like this."

  "Then where are we going?"

  "Prague, in the Czech Republic."

  "I think they're calling it Czechia, now, actually. And I am familiar with European geography, thanks."

  "Oooh, gettin' snippy, are we?" he asked, but the smirk and the twinkle told me he was teasing.

  "If you haven't already picked up on the fact that I'm just a tad sarcastic," I drawled, "then you really haven't been paying attention."

  He grinned at me. "Oh, I've noticed, believe you me."

  "You have, huh?" I couldn't help how flirty that came out, and at this point, it seemed kind of silly to keep resisting . . . except that it was so much fun to fuck with him.

  He gave a sassy little smirk and bobble of his head. "I don't mean to brag, but I'm kind of smart. I'm trained to notice these things."

  I laughed. "Things like the fact that I'm a serious bitch with a serious attitude?"

  "Tiny, minor little details like that, yeah."

  "So you don't deny that I'm a bitch?"

  He shrugged. "Why should I? Serious bitches with serious attitude make my cock hard. I'm weird that way."

  I shook my head, snorting in disbelief. "You're unbelievable."

  He touched my chin and turned my face to his. "I'm teasing, Colbie." He quirked an eyebrow. "Mostly. I do like your attitude. But you're not a bitch; you just don't take any shit. And that really does make me horny."

  "What doesn't?"

  "We've covered this already, remember? Nuns, centipedes, and the IRS." He let go of my hand so he could explore closer to the hem of my skirt. We were alone in the row; everyone else sitting in front of us, so there wasn't anyone to see where his hand went this time. "Some things make me hornier than others, though." His voice was pitched low enough that only I could hear him.

  "Oh yeah? Like what?"

  His hand snuck under the hem of my skirt, and I held stock still, barely breathing. "Like the fact that you're totally cool under pressure. No hysterics, no howling, no freezing, you just do what's gotta be done and don't whine or bitch or argue."

  "That makes you horny?"

  "What it says about you does. The fact that you're tough."

  I laughed. "Oh I'm tough, all right. Most guys find it intimidating. I don't take bullshit, I take charge, and I get shit done. I started as a PA at the firm where I work, and now I'm in charge of several of the biggest accounts we have in China and Russia. I got there by being tough, by never taking anything sitting down. And the guys I work with make no secret of the fact that they think I'm an ice queen bitch."

  "Then they're pussies."

  "I agree. The hypocrisy is astounding, though. They call me ice queen and bitch and butch and all sorts of names because I refuse to put up with misogynistic horseshit, and because I'm focused and determined and all business at work. Yet if I show so much as a hint of cleavage or wear a skirt that's anything less than business length, they'll go out of their way to hit on me and act like I must obviously be hankering to ride all of their dicks."

  "On the basis of a little cleavage and leg?"

  I nodded. "Pretty much."

  "Sounds like you work with a bunch of pieces of shit."

  I shrugged. "Not gonna hear too much argument out of me about that. Some of them are okay, like the four or five guys I play poker with. But they've accepted me sort of like you have Layla, as one of the guys. If I show up for poker night, it's in jeans and a T-shirt, with a baseball cap on."

  "I'd think you'd dress to k
ill, just for distraction value," Puck noted.

  I laughed. "I've done that, actually. Wore a killer push-up bra and a low-cut dress, teased my hair out to look all just-fucked, did a lot of leaning over."

  "Bet you cleaned up that night."

  "Hell yeah, I did. Didn't even have to count cards, and it was still a slaughter. They were so busy staring at my tits and daydreaming that most of the guys in the game forgot how to hold a poker face." I grinned, remembering. "I made twenty grand that night."

  "Damn, babe." He eyed me. "If I got to see you like that, I wouldn't mind losing all my money to you."

  "Something tells me you'd stare the whole night yet still win."

  He chuckled. "Got that right. Although I did lose two grand in one hand to a chick once, because of something like that."

  "And all she did was show some cleavage?" I teased.

  "Takes more than cleavage to distract me, sweetheart. No, she went full-on intentional nip slip. I watched her do it. She kept wiggling her shoulder all weird, and the strap of her dress kept drooping lower and lower, and I knew exactly what she was up to, but it still worked. Eventually the strap fell completely, and her tit fell out right as I was about to win on a ballsy fucking bluff. She called my shit, swept the table, and pulled her strap back up. Walked away with eight grand, and my eternal irritation. I don't like being played, especially when I can see the play coming and yet still fall for it."

  "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 ab
solutely 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 felt 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."