Page 78 of The Puck Bunny

He wants me.

I moan and take his face in my hands, pressing my mouth to his, letting my greed for his lips and tongue have its way.

He groans—no, make that, growls—and that sends a zap like an electric current to my pussy as I press into his solid-as-petrified-wood cock.

“Sweetheart, you’re killing me. Let’s—”

I release him. “I’m sorry, I lost my head. I mean—”

He covers my mouth with his hand and it shouldn’t be such a sensual experience, but I taste his salty flesh as I lick his finger and breathe in the manly spicy sent of him. When I realize his hand is shaking, I want to faint with the heady power, knowing I make him shake with need.

Wrapping an arm around me, he leads me down a hallway to the double-door to his bedroom. There certainly is a bed. It’s gigantic.

I stop and stare at it, the bed clothes messy, a thick charcoal comforter trailing onto the floor, and I don’t know how many pillows heaped in the middle.

“It’s so big.”

He laughs and tugs me onto it, pulling me on top of him as he lands on his back.

“You haven’t even seen it yet.”

I laugh. “No, but I’ve felt it.” The heat of a giddy blush rises to my cheeks at my bold flirting.

He squeezes my bottom to emphasize my point and my breath catches. My face is close to his so that when I see the look in his gorgeous eyes, my heart races as if it’s running for its life.

“Do I need to bring you home? Will your parents be worried?”

He shakes his head while I bite my lip, wondering if I can get away with lying that I’m living at Billie Mae’s.

“Those are words I never thought I’d be saying again. I haven’t had to ask about worried parents in way too many years to think about.”

“I know. It’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t need to go home. No need to worry about my parents.” I lie my ass off because Mom will be livid. But it’s worth whatever grief I get because I’m an adult and I need to act like one.

“Won’t they worry about you?”

“No. I spend the night at Billie Mae’s all the time.” It’s a partial truth. When I do that, I usually bring a bag and let them know I’m staying out. Crap. “But I’ll send Mom a text to make sure.”

“Good girl,” he says like he’s an old man and I bite my lip again. Maybe he is too old for me. But the flood of sensations protest the idea that he’s too old. And if he is too old then too bad because I want what he has, everything, all of it, even the more mature parts.

What about him, though? Maybe he’ll regret being with a girl too young for him?

What the heck am I thinking? He’s only eleven years older than me. That’s nothing. Dad is older than Mom, isn’t he? And they’re perfectly happy. Sort of.

I get up and get to go find my bag for my phone and he latches onto my dress.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“My phone—”

“Use my phone.” He reaches into his pocket which is a feat because his pants have become impossibly tight, and pulls out his phone.

“How’d you fit that in there with your giant…”

“Cock?”

I nod.

“We have to work on your dirty talk, sweetheart.” He grins like it won’t be a hardship and hands me the phone. “I assume you know your mother’s number, right?”