Puck by Wilder Jasinda
And, apparently, that's what broke through. She didn't shake, didn't sob or howl or wail or do any of that shit. She just . . . cried. Softly, quietly. I felt her tears wet my shirt, heard her sniffle now and again, felt her body wrack now and again, and I just kept doing what I'd been doing, gliding my hands in circles around her back, massaging her shoulders, teasing my fingers through the mass of her hair.
And then I was seized by some mushy, fuckin' stupid-ass impulse--I kissed the top of her head.
I hoped she'd let it go, just accept it and not make a big deal of it.
But Colbie wouldn't be Colbie if she weren't a ballbuster.
Her crying paused, and she twisted her head to meet my gaze; her eyes were red and damp, and curious, and . . . I wasn't sure what else. "Did you . . . did you just . . . kiss my head?"
I rolled a shoulder in a not-quite-a-shrug movement thing. "Yeah, I'm not sure what came over me."
She did a weird thing where she sniffled and tears slipped down her cheek, but she also smiled at me and laughed. "It was sweet."
I swallowed hard. "It was weird. It's like my mouth was possessed or something."
She wriggled and somehow ended up closer to my face, and it took a shitload of focus to not make it sexual, to not let my dick do the deciding.
"I liked it," she whispered.
"Yeah?"
She nodded, her hands resting on my chest, now. "It was sweet. You should do it again."
She didn't tip her head forward or lay it on my chest, so I improvised--I kissed her forehead. Like before, it was a slow, soft, hesitant thing, entirely outside my realm of experience. But if she liked it, I was willing to go with it.
Colbie's smile spread and brightened, and she wriggled farther up my body again, and it was harder to stop myself from ripping her robe off and doing some serious ravaging. I was glad I didn't, though, because what Colbie did next blew my mind. She kissed me on the cheek. Her lips were tender and sweet as sugar and warm and wet, and the slow, delicate kiss to my cheek above my beard made my heart thump and hammer and pitter-patter like the bunny rabbit from that stupid Disney movie about the orphaned deer baby.
My adrenaline gland was, like, broken. Skydiving, firefights, car chases . . . my pulse stayed flat. Physical exertion got it pumping, of course, but that was different. Women, well . . . they never made me sweat, much less made my heart go pitter-fuckin'-patter.
I thought I stopped breathing when Colbie Danvers kissed my cheek.
"Wow," I breathed. "Never been kissed like that before."
She frowned. "Never? By anyone? Not even your mom?"
I managed an approximation of a casual shrug. "Nah. Ma was a hooker, and she vanished when I was like three or some shit. I don't remember her, and she sure as shit wasn't the type to kiss my face."
"And Raquel--"
"Wasn't like that."
"How about another one, then, to make up for lost time?" She slid closer and ever so gingerly touched her lips to the other cheek, and my eyes fluttered closed and my heart clanged and pounded like I was suffering from cardiac arrhythmia. My other heart--the nonphysical one--did all sorts of weird shit, feeling things I didn't have words for or the emotional understanding to quantify. My dick was screaming GET SOME, MOTHERFUCKER! and my hands were twitching with the need to grab on and never let go, and my mouth was . . .
Stupid.
My mouth was stupid.
I kissed her cheek. A gentle touch, a brush of my lips against her velvet skin.
And she angled her face just so, nudging her lips against the corner of my mouth. I felt her breath, felt her chest swell and contract against mine, and I felt her heart slam just as hard as mine, felt her fingers on the skin of my chest just above the neckline of my T-shirt tremble.
She didn't move away but held where she was, trembling, breathing on my lips.
Waiting.
As obvious an invitation as I was going to get, I realized.
So slowly, giving her plenty of time to tell me I was misreading things, I slid my hands into her hair and cupped the delicate curve of the back of her neck and pulled her mouth to mine, sliding my lips against hers, tracing the parted seam of her mouth; her teeth and then her tongue was gliding on mine, searching and scouring and tasting and tangling.
Oh.
Oh.
This wasn't just a kiss, it was . . . a Kiss. The kind of kiss that required the capital letter because it was something more, a kiss that transcended the mere connection of mouths, but was a door to the soul, hers and mine.
A Kiss.
Colbie pulled away first. "Wow," she breathed. "Never been kissed like that before."
I laughed at her use of my words. "Me neither, sweet thing."
"Maybe we could do it again?"
"At least once more. Maybe twice."
"At least. I mean, we don't have to limit ourselves," she whispered back, a smile on her lips.
"Limits are stupid."
My heart palpitated and my hands shook on her cheeks, and my cock was hard, curling painfully against my zipper, unable to stretch fully erect, but I didn't want to let go of her, didn't want to break the kiss because it was everything, and I didn't care if I breathed, didn't care if I ever came up from this kiss. I could've died then and have been content, because her mouth on mine was enough to erase everything that had gone before in my life, good or bad.
She slid downward to her back, bringing me with her. Her thighs parted to accept my weight, and I levered over her, one hand now cupped under her neck, the other braced in the cushion. Her heels hooked around my back, and her hips flexed, ground against me, and her hands groped me wherever she could reach, as hungry for my skin as I was hers. I felt her fingers plucking at my shirt, finding the hem, and then she ripped it over my head, only breaking the kiss long enough to admit the collar past my face, and then her lips were on mine again, hungry, devouring, eager.
HOLY SHIT.
This girl. This girl.
I paused for breath, but only because I was actually dizzy. She gazed up at me with her gorgeous gray eyes, heavy-lidded, lust-hazed. "God . . . damn, Colbie."
"You're wearing too many clothes," she whispered.
10: Give Him The Crazy
Once I committed to something, I was all in, no holding back, no half measures. I got aggressive, and I didn't let anything slow me down or stop me; this quality had served me well in the business world, had helped me acquire accounts other reps in my department hadn't been able to land because I didn't quit and I didn't accept no and I never gave up.
I was committed to this moment with Puck. I accepted as much as I could and I had no idea what was going to come after. I might get emotionally invested and have my heart broken, but I knew I could survive that. I'd throw myself into work and probably take a vow of celibacy, but I'd survive it and wouldn't go back to drugs.
Or maybe I'd get some insanely good orgasms out of it and that'd be that.
Ha, right. I didn't believe that as the thought crossed my mind. I mean, it wasn't like I was falling in love with the guy--I'd just met him, after all. But you could be deeply emotionally invested in someone without some kind of TRUE LOVE, right? And if he fucked as good as he kissed, I was totally going to get emotionally involved. Hell, I already was. He saved me. He got me. I already didn't want this night to be over, and we hadn't even started yet. I was still totally clothed, and he wasn't halfway naked yet. I got rid of his shirt, at least, and damn, was I glad I did.
He was a beast. He was built like The Mountain from Game of Thrones--a foot shorter, granted, but the same essential build: solid slabs of heavy, hard muscle. Huge power, rather than sharply etched and finely toned magazine-cover shred. Massive arms, a heavy hard chest, shoulders like mountain ranges, abs so hard you could crush stones on them. There was a layer of fat on them, but a slight, small one, which told me he ate because he enjoyed food, but he also ate healthily, the right foods, a lot of it, and he didn't deprive himself of the thing
I ran my hands over his body, exploring his skin and muscle, enjoying his physique with my hands as much as my eyes. I didn't hide my appreciation, nor my lust.
I wanted him.
I was going to have him, and I was going to get every last little bit of pleasure and fun and enjoyment out of this as I could, for as long as I could. If it ran its course and ended, so be it, but I was all in until that moment came.
I slid my palms over his back, across his shoulders, around to his abs, and then reached for his fly, gliding my hand over the huge bulge at his zipper. Instead of allowing me to touch him, he grabbed my wrists and pinioned my hands over my head.
"Puck?" I questioned.
He held my wrists there against the armrest until he was satisfied that I wouldn't move. "Hush a moment, babe. I want to focus on this."
"On what?"
"I want to memorize the way you look, just like this."
My body was bare, and I gasped for breath, needing him, wanting to be touched, to be kissed--to touch and to kiss. I arched my back, pressing my breasts into the air, toward him. "Don't make me wait long, Puck, please."
He didn't answer. I was naked, completely bare to his gaze, and his eyes were wide with lust and appreciation. I didn't wax or shave, but I did trim down to a barely there fuzz, and even that fuzz was damp with my leaking essence; I was soaked, dripping with desire.
He just stared at me, his eyes raking from my face to my tits to my pussy, and back up, over and over, as if he couldn't decide which he enjoyed looking at most.
"Puck, please. Touch me," I breathed.
He bent forward, and his mouth covered my left breast, his tongue swirling around my nipple as his lips suctioned hard, making me suck in a sharp gasp as a string of heat lanced from my nipple to my core. His fingers found my right nipple, and he was licking and sucking, switching, right and left, kissing and pinching. His chest was covered with a light smattering of coarse, dark hair that brushed against my belly, scraping and tickling and teasing.
"How's this?" he asked, palming my breast, kneading, squeezing, pinching, flicking.
"So good."
"You have perfect breasts."
"They're small."
"C-cup, or I'm a monkey's uncle."
"So?
"So they're perfect." He cupped one of my tits. "Just slightly more than a handful. Absolutely perfect."
I flexed my hips to press my pussy against his waist. "Puck, please."
He laughed and slid downward, slinking off the arm of the couch, and then grabbed me by the hips and yanked me toward him so my ass was on the arm of the couch and my upper body on the cushions. My heels were over his shoulders and my pussy spread open, and I felt his warm breath on my thighs. I stopped breathing, and my eyes fluttered closed; I forced them open so I could watch.
His bald scalp was all I could see between my thighs, and then I felt his tongue.
"Ohh. Oh . . . holy shit." I cupped his head, holding him there. "God yes."
He flicked his tongue up my slit. "You like this, huh?"
I flexed my hips as he dragged his tongue through my sex, moaning. "More."
He rumbled in laughter, and I felt two fingers pry apart my pussy lips, baring my clit, and another finger slid into my channel; his tongue lapped against me, and now my moan was almost a wail, a sound of raw, distilled ecstasy. Two slow swipes of his tongue, his finger sliding in, curling, and finding that perfect magical spot nobody else had ever found, and I rocked on the edge of orgasm.
He didn't pull me back from the edge. He felt me quaking and shuddering, heard the breathlessness in my moans, and knew how close I was. He pressed his finger against that spot inside me and massaged, and his lips closed over my clit and he sucked hard, his tongue flicking wildly, and I was consumed, fire eating through me, an orgasm wrenching met with twisting power. I arched, and I wailed, and he didn't slow down. He added a second finger inside me and ground them in and out, and he released his suction and returned to slow circles around my clit, not quite touching it directly. I ached, the orgasm shaking me still, his tongue and fingers preventing the climax from receding.
He let me teeter there, shaking in the throes of aftershocks.
And then he scraped his tongue-tip against my clit, once, twice, and I was arched and spasming, gasping, unable to moan or scream as he sent me over the edge again. A wave of climax hit me like a freight train, sending me higher than any hit of smack I'd ever put into my veins, but this time the only drug was Puck, his fingers and his tongue. I could indulge in this drug as much as I wanted and never get enough. Oh fuck, fuck--the orgasm crescendoed and I found my voice in a sudden and hoarse wailing scream, yet he had no mercy on me. His fingers squelched in and out of me hard and fast, curled to grind against my G-spot, and his tongue was wild, crazy, fast, tireless.
I couldn't stop. Didn't try, but couldn't have even if I had. Again, and again, and again, quaking, wracking, wrenching waves of fiery bliss, nonstop.
I realized, in a dizzy blast of awareness, that Puck did exactly what he'd promised: made me come harder than I'd ever come in my life, too many times to count. I'd never begun counting, and I wasn't sure if each wave was its own orgasm or one continuous rushing explosion.
I was utterly powerless.
He refused to let me down from the heights of climax, and I couldn't stop him, didn't try, didn't want to. He kept me there, fingering my channel and tonguing my clit, and now I felt his fingers that had held me open for his tongue, release me and slide up my torso to pinch my nipple, adding a whole new layer to the orgasms coruscating through me.
The orgasms built, multiplied, intensified, and I lost track of time, of how long Puck had been inducing this rapture within me, lost track, drowned in it, reveled it.
He allowed me a moment to breathe, slowing his fingers and tongue, sliding those thick, strong fingers in and out slowly, gently, his tongue lapping lazily, and I shook and shuddered each time his tongue touched my clit, flinched, quaked, gasped. I felt the movement of those fingers as a tease, as a poor imitation of what I really wanted.
Yet I was incapable of speech, could only whimper and shriek as he ramped up the speed once more, building me back up to another series of jarring, juddering, explosive climaxes, and I didn't know how that was possible, how he could do that, how he knew my body and my reactions so much better than anyone else ever had, including myself.
I felt faint.
He brought me to the edge, then slowed, brought me to the edge, then slowed. I'd been at or over that edge so many times that my body wanted to live there, stay there, get there, but he'd prevented me every time, teasing me now that I was at the raw and ragged end of my limits, gasping, limp, unable to flex my hips or grind into his touch anymore, whimpering nonstop, moaning and nearly crying with the intensity of it all. Needing desperately to reach that edge one last time.
He palmed my breast, squeezing, fondling, flicking my nipple, and then he suckled my clit in a sudden rough scrape of hypersensitive erect flesh between his teeth, and his fingers pinched my nipple so hard I screamed and he added a third finger and began fucking me with them hard and rough and fast, squelching wetly, and I was nothing at all but his touch, I was only the blinding bliss he dragged out of me. He didn't stop, this time, and I knew this orgasm would be too much.
"PUCK . . ." I whispered, breathless.
At the edge . . .
Teetering, rocking, gasping . . .
And then I toppled over it, dizzy, lungs aching, my whole body spasming wildly.
Screaming so loud my throat went hoarse.
Blackness subsumed me, and I felt myself fall under, twisting into darkness.
I woke up lying on the bed, my shirt and bra removed from my wrists. I blinked my eyes open, and Puck was standing beside me, sucking on his fingers.
"You weren't kidding, back in Kiev." I sat up, reaching for hi
He smirked at me. "Told you, some things I don't joke about."
His zipper was bulging still, but he was slightly out of reach. "Come here, Puck." I slid off the bed, hit my feet, but my legs were wobbly and weak and gave out.
Puck caught me. "I made you come so hard you can't walk," he said, letting his hands roam. "And you've been unconscious for almost a full minute."
I held on to him, let him hold me upright. "No kidding. That was more intense than all the orgasms I've had in my life combined." I bit his lower lip between my teeth, sucked it into my mouth, and then kissed him, tasting my essence on his lips, on his breath, on his tongue. I moaned at the taste of my pussy on his breath, and he moaned back as his hands cupped my ass.
"Jesus, this ass."
"Mmm-hmm?" I moaned, making it a question.
I was too busy to actually ask the question, since my mouth was otherwise occupied on his throat, his cheek, his ear.
"God yeah," he breathed. "The things I want to do to your ass, Colbie."
I found my feet, and my legs finally decided to hold me, which thank god left my hands free, since I didn't need to hold on to Puck for balance. I used this to great benefit, clutching at the broad, hard curves of his body, the bulging muscles. Chest, arms, abs . . . so much muscle, so hard, so beautiful, so much to touch, and I touched it all, humming in pleasure as I slowly, unhurriedly found my way downward.
"What do you want to do my ass, Puck?" I found the button of his fly, and popped it open. "Tell me."
"Once you free that beast, babe, foreplay is over," Puck warned.
I lowered the zipper and grabbed the waist of the jeans to shove them down, using my foot to press them against the floor, and he stepped out of them. His boxer-briefs I took more time with, toying with him. Running my finger around the elastic waistband. Tugging it away so his cock sprung upward, then letting the elastic snap back into place, but he was so huge and so hard the tip peeked up over the band. I rubbed the tip with my finger, teasing him.
"That's the plan," I murmured. "Now, you never answered. I want to know your plans for my ass."
He palmed the bubble in question, squeezing and kneading and cupping and caressing. "God, everything."