Puck by Wilder Jasinda
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.
God, I needed it.
"Fuck it," I breathed. "Fine. You win."
I twisted my head, reached up and grabbed his beard, pulled his ear to my mouth. "Please, Puck." I gasped the words as quietly as I could, finally relinquishing this tiny victory to him. "Please . . . let me come."
I felt his grin spread across his face. His unoccupied hand lifted, and he pinched my chin between finger and thumb, and I felt his breath on my lips, and his finger slid into me, gathering moisture. His lips brushed mine, and I stopped breathing entirely.
He kissed me, and his fingertip struck against my clit at the same moment his tongue slid into my mouth. I moaned helplessly, caught up in a tidal wave, toppled and twisting and crazy. Climax crashed through me with a blast of searing ecstasy, and he kissed me through it all, kissed me like I'd never been kissed by anyone, swallowing my moans and my gasps and my mewling shrieks. I came and I came and I came, and he held on to me, his hand around the back of my neck, crushing me closer to him as our lips fused. I reached up and scraped my palm over his scalp, cupping the back of his head, and I kept a grip on his beard with my other hand, and I gave in to the movement of my hips, flexing and grinding against his fingers as they whirled around my clit in a perfect union of speed and pressure and friction, touching me just right, exactly right, touching me so perfectly I couldn't have told him how to do it any better. I burst apart, felt something explode inside me. I was wrenched into spasms of gasping intensity, wave after wave.
When the climax finally subsided, I was left quivering, helpless. I collapsed against him, burying my face in the side of his neck, gasping for breath I couldn't quite catch. "Jesus, Puck."
He pulled his hand away from my sex, and I watched, mesmerized and horrified and turned on all at once as he licked his middle and ring fingers clean, sucking at the glistening essence from my pussy coating his fingers. "Two fingers, Colbie. Fully clothed, on a plane, surrounded by people."
I blushed hard, remembering for the first time that we were in fact in a small airplane cabin with five other people. "Ohmygod."
He laughed. "Relax, babe. Look around. Nobody is watching." And then he winked at me. "Now think what I could do if I had . . . say . . . an hour and you were naked."
I glanced up, looked around, and he was right. Layla and Kyrie were lost in conversation together, as were Lola and Temple, and Ivar was in the co-pilot seat scrolling on his phone. None of them even glanced back this way. Then the last part of what he said registered, and became an image, a daydream--me, stripped naked, lying on my back on a bed, Puck's face between my thighs, his tongue lapping at me, his big strong hands fondling my breasts . . . his huge, hard cock driving into me . . .
"Dammit." I breathed the curse, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to pretend I wasn't still quaking from the orgasm, trying to pretend I didn't want Puck more than I'd ever wanted anyone or anything.
"You want this, Colbie." Puck's voice was in my ear, speaking the truth I was too stubborn to voice myself. "You can pretend you don't all you want, but you ain't foolin' me, sweetheart."
"I'm not trying to fool you," I muttered, the words spilling out unbidden.
He just palmed my cheek, smirking at me with that stupid, sexy, knowing smile of his. "I know that too."
Of course he did. Obviously, I wasn't fooling either of us.
7: Teasing
Holy motherfucking shit--Colbie Danvers having an orgasm was hands down the most erotic thing I'd ever witnessed. My cock was throbbing, and I was pretty sure I was leaking pre-come in my underwear. I hadn't even seen her tits, much less gotten a glimpse of the pussy my fingers had just been in, but I was already half in love with the woman's body.
Maybe that wasn't a smart thing to joke about, though.
Only, I wasn't really joking, was I?
I'd give up another finger to get thirty minutes alone with Colbie, and I'd be content with my bargain even if all I got to do was look. If I got to touch--and kiss and lick and fuck--I would die a happy man.
I knew she was still freaking out, which I understood. She'd clawed her way out of hell, and when you do that on your own like she had, giving up even the tiniest amount of control was like surrendering your soul. I got it, I really did. I respected the hell out of her, and that was the damn truth. What she'd come out of, what she'd fought her way through, that shit took guts, it took balls--which I meant in the euphemistic sense, obviously--and it took furious determination and fierce strength, along with an unwavering sense of independence. I respected that shit down to my fucking toes, inside and out. But I also knew--or rather I strongly suspected--that there was another part of her deep down that wanted to be able to let go, just for a minute. She couldn't, she didn't know how, she flat out refused. Which I also understood. She'd fought me down to the last possible second; she'd made me earn every inch I took from her. She wasn't just going to fall onto my dick, and she wasn't going to be dropping to her knees anytime soon just because she felt sexual desire for me. If she wanted easy no-strings sex, she could get it anytime she wanted, and I thought she knew that. I wasn't under the impression that she was that kind of girl, but you never knew. It didn't matter. The point was, she and I both knew she could get sex whenever she wanted it. This dance of ours wasn't about sex. It was about control, it was about trust--it was about sex, too, yes, but not sex of the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am variety. It was about . . . something more. What, I wasn't sure.
Maybe it was about me earning her trust enough that she'd eventually give me control. I wasn't a dominant, not in the traditional sense. Not even close. I didn't care how shit went down, most of the time. I had no problem letting a chick tell me how she wanted it, and I had no problem going with that. I'd go along for the ride, because most of the time, we both got our pleasure and that's what it was really all about. For Colbie, it was about more than body parts, about more than who touched whom where. It was about more than orgasms. She could give those to herself, if that was what it was about. Was it about deeper meaning? Emotions? I wasn't sure. I just knew I had to play this right, or it would vanish in a heartbeat--she would vanish. She'd shut me out, shut me down, and tell me to go to hell. So even though I knew she wanted me, knew she wanted this with me, I also knew she wouldn't give it up easily.
I glanced at her; she was still breathing hard, her beautiful chest rising and falling swiftly as she sucked in deep breaths and let them out. Her eyes were closed, but I knew she was awake. She was twisted in the seat slightly, facing me, her reddish-brown hair draped over her face and obscured her lovely features. Her skirt was still slightly rucked, showing me a bit of her legs. And god, those legs. Long, smooth, elegant.
As I watched her, Colbie's eyes flicked open and met mine. "In the name of honesty and fairness, I have to admit that you were right about one thing, at least."
I quirked an eyebrow up. "And what's that, honey?"
She dropped her voice to a whisper so soft I had to strain to hear, even when I leaned close enough to feel her breath. "I've never come that hard in my life."
The smile that curved my lips then was pleased and satisfied. "Colbie, sweetheart . . . that was just a little teaser."
She furrowed her brow. "I'm still feeling aftershocks."
"When you have multiples, they build on each other. Each one is stronger than the last. Give me the opportunity, and I swear, no lie, no exaggeration, I'll have you begging me to let you stop coming." I grinned broadly. "And that's when I'll take you."
"Oh really?"
I nodded, letting her see how serious I was. "You'll be dizzy and shaky and hypersens
"Holy shit," she breathed. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"
"That's what I've been fantasizing about since I met you."
"You're serious about that." She stared at me hard. "You really intend to do all that?"
"Why would I joke about it?" I grabbed her hand and placed it on the aching ridge of my erection. "Does that feel like I'm joking?"
She jerked her hand away as if burned. "Jesus, Puck. Are you gonna be all right? You feel a little . . . stiff." She managed to say this straight-faced, somehow.
I winked at her. "I'm kinda achy. Wanna help me out? Relieve the pressure a little?"
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I'll just go down on you right here and now."
"I wouldn't argue."
She snickered. "No shit. You'd love that, wouldn't you?"
"Actually, as much as it does ache, I'd rather wait until I can get you alone."
She tilted her head to one side. "Really?"
"Sure." I shifted, adjusting myself as she watched, trying to relieve some of the pressure. "If and when you go down on me, I'll want you naked. I'll want you to take your time."
"So you're not an exhibitionist?"
I shook my head. "Not really, no. I like to be daring, yes, but the thrill is in the danger of getting caught, not in actually getting caught." I jerked my chin at the rest of the cabin. "There's no way we'd pull that off without someone noticing."
"I could give you handy." She smirked, and I knew she was just fishing for what I'd say.
"And put the come where? It's not gonna be a little bit, sweetheart." I adjusted myself again, more for her benefit this time. "When I come, it's gonna be a flood."
"I see." She couldn't seem to keep her gaze from wandering back to my groin, to the visible outline of my still-erect cock.
"And babe, if I were you, I wouldn't make suggestions you don't have any intention on following through."
She met my gaze boldly. "What, you think I wouldn't?"
I huffed a laugh. "No, Colbie, I don't think you would."