Home > Pucked (Pucked #1)(9)

Pucked (Pucked #1)(9)
Author: Helena Hunting

“Thanks for the mouth fuck,” I whisper as I pass his phone back.

He winks. “Anytime.”

I shove Buck’s shoulder as I pass—he doesn’t even have the decency to move an inch—and make my way through the bar to the elevator bank. As disappointed as I am that Buck interrupted my fun, it’s better this way. Alex is way too hot and far too good a mouth fucker to be safe.

My parents are locked in their room, so I don’t have to engage in mindless chitchat. Sometimes Sidney walks around in his underwear. I’m used to dealing with his abundance of chest hair, but the white briefs are too much. I have a solid understanding—pun completely intended—why my mom married him, beyond his stellar personality.

I tiptoe through the suite and lock myself in my room. My first stop is my suitcase. It’s beaver time. I giggle, finding the term in reference to lady parts comical.

After dumping out the contents of my bag onto the floor, it becomes evident I’ve forgotten my travel dildo, along with every other important item. I did bring plenty of extra socks and my one, awesome bra.

The make out session with Alex has left me all horned up, so I’m forced to use my own damn fingers to jill off. I don’t even have the magazine with the milk advertisement in it—which I now know is Alex—to help with a visual.

Paranoid I’ll be overheard, I take care of business in the bathroom with the fan on. It takes me fifteen minutes to come. The sore wrist and finger cramps eliminates the relaxing element of the whole process. Finished riding the masturbation express, I search the pile on the floor for my pajamas, laughing upon their discovery. I haven’t seen this particular pair since high school. I didn’t even realize I still had them.

They don’t fit well, but they’ll have to do. The top is stretched tight across my chest, like an Ace bandage. The pants, complete with fly flap, are now capris. The waist sits so low, it barely covers my ass. Whatever. It’s not like anyone’s going to see me in them.

The usual nighttime routine goes as follows: wash face, brush teeth, take out contact lenses, and search for glasses since I’m not smart enough to make sure I have them with me in the first place. I find them on the floor between pairs of clean socks and my lone pair of clean underwear, which I need to save for tomorrow. The muffled sound of my phone ringing comes from under the pile of discarded clothes. It’s probably Buck, making sure I didn’t get kidnapped on the way back to my room.

“What do you want, douche-whore? Haven’t you ruined my night enough by interrupting my mouth fucking session with your fuckhot teammate? Now you have to disturb my masturbation session, too?”

I cover the receiver to stifle my laugh. Masturbation discussions make Buck uncomfortable. Probably because he believes he once asked if watching me jill off would constitute incest. It’s the same incident in which he believes he groped me. I may have twisted his words in my recount of the events.

There’s a whooshing air sound reminiscent of Darth Vader followed by “Holy hell.”

This is not Buck.

“Hello?”

“Violet?”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Alex, the fuckhot teammate.” I can imagine his cocky smile.

“Oh. Hi.” Well, this is unexpected and rather humiliating. Although I suppose he’s aware of his hotness, so it shouldn’t be new information for him. Also, the mouth fucking earlier is a clear sign I like the way he looks.

Silence follows. Three seconds too late, I have six witty retorts. Sadly, the moment for cleverness has passed.

“Are you really masturbating?” There’s the whooshing sound again.

“No, I’ve already . . . stroked my beaver.” I giggle. I’m so immature. “Are you masturbating?” The way he’s breathing into the phone makes it sound possible. I enjoy the visual this incites; I bet he gets really into it.

“What? No,” he says quickly. Almost too quickly.

“Are you sure? I mean, you didn’t even hesitate at all. In fact, you didn’t even wait until I was done asking the question.” This is totally untrue. “Maybe you’re lying and you have your hand down your pants.”

“What? No. I’m not, I swear. Wait a minute—did you do that?” His voice drops a couple of octaves. He sounds intense. I try to picture the matching facial expression.

“Do what?”

“What you said about your beaver, is it true?”

It sounds so ridiculous; I laugh uncontrollably.

“Fuck me,” Alex mutters.

I stop laughing. First off because I think it’s an actual request. Secondly, I have this fantastic image of me underneath him.

“It’s true.” My voice is all breathy and soft, courtesy of the porno running through my head.

“Seriously?” He sounds excited. Like really, really excited.

“About stroking my beaver? No. Beavers are dangerous. They shouldn’t be stroked.”

“Can you stop saying 'beaver'? Look, what are you doing right now?”

“Drinking beer and watching porn, why?” Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be appropriately ashamed of the content of this conversation. For now, I’m thoroughly entertained.

“Because I’m standing outside your suite. Do you want company?”

I sit up so fast, the room spins. “You are not.”

“I am. Suite six-oh-nine. Want me to knock?”

“No! Don’t! Hold on.”

   
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