Page 17 of Tricky Puck

We stop at our booth briefly to pick up our food and coats. Link stuffs more money into the leatherette bill folder and turns to me with eyes that mean business—the kind of business that makes my pussy clench automatically, like a whole new take on Pavlov’s experiment.

“I’m not sending you home tonight.” He wraps an arm around me and pauses as if expecting an argument from me. I don’t have one. The only thing I have is a stray butterfly loose in my chest like a damn overexcited teenager. He walks me to the door with powerful strides like he’s in a rush to score—or whatever—get a goal…?

My butterfly multiplies, and my thighs practically quiver as he pushes the door open, freeing us into the New York City night air filled with fumes, noise, and lights.

“Neither of us are going home,” he says. “Call whoever you need to call to let them know. I’ll get you back first thing in the morning, whatever time you need to be there.”

We stand in front of the restaurant with a misty rain falling. He surrounds me with his body, protecting me with his leather jacket shared over our shoulders so that there’s not a breath of air between us as I press against his solidness.

Lifting an arm, he hails a cab. In Manhattan, getting a taxi is quicker than getting a rideshare, and I don’t suppose he cares about the cost.

“Are we going to your grandma’s house?” I ask because it hits me that if neither of us is going home, where the hell are we going? Maybe I should be afraid, but all I can muster is more of the same lusty butterfly excitement, like I’ve neglected my need for excitement and kept it jailed up for too long. Now, I’m in the grips of it, and those butterflies are not about to fly back into their cage—not tonight.

He leans in so his rough jawline scrapes against my cheek. “As much as I’d love to show you my boyhood room at Grandma’s house, the walls aren’t soundproof enough in that house for how loud I want to make you scream my name.”

A taxi stops in front of us, and he pulls me inside—needlessly because I’m all in for this adventure and would happily chase him wherever he goes. As he pulls the door shut, I find myself sitting on his lap.

He whispers with his mouth touching my ear so that the heat of his breath gives me a logic-defying chill. “Come to think of it, I’m not sure a wall exists that will contain your screams tonight.”

I shudder hard and deep, feeling his whiskey-laced words on my neck, sending a fresh pool of lust honey to my drenched and pulsing pussy.

“I wonder if the taxi driver would mind if I screamed now?”

He chuckles as his hand slides under my skirt to the inside of my thigh, unerringly finding the edge of my useless panties. “I say we find out.”

He touches me like a branding iron sliding over my slick folds, scorching my nerve endings and making me dizzy, and even when I open my mouth, I’m mute. My hips buck, and he presses his thumb on my swollen nub, holding me in place as I vibrate. When a delirious moan of pleasure finally escapes me, he covers my mouth with his, swallowing my scream as his name tries to escape my mouth, sending it down his throat.

He answers with a deep vibrating groan that sends me past the point of thought to an explosion of nerve endings so that all I can do is feel. Waves of euphoric pleasure shudder through me, outrageous and wonderful, as I grip his arms, kissing his lips, licking his teeth, sending my tongue as far as it’ll go to explore and taste every intimate part of his mouth. Words I don’t know fall from my mind as I fly so high I can’t see or hear.

But I can feel, and in my super heightened sensual state, the abrupt removal of his hand from my panties and the stopping of the car jolts me back to reality. He slips his hand from under my skirt and holds onto me with his arm wrapped around my shoulders, staring at me.

I stare back, unblinking and filled with awe and horror and far too much needy warmth, missing his touch and feeling the intimacy between us like it’s a sledgehammer destroying all my barriers, making me more vulnerable than I’ve ever been my life and scaring the shit out of me.

“We’re here—at the hotel. You still with me, hot pants?”

“Hot—” I can’t believe he just called me hot pants. Worse, I can’t believe my mouth turns up in a smile.

I nod because even as scared as I am, he’s right. My pants are very hot, and I need more of that, please. More of him. He pushes open his door and pulls me out of his side of the car with him as if I’m an invalid. I suppose I am because when I stand, my legs are wobbly. I’d be embarrassed at my compromised state, but it’s all his fault.

And I enjoyed every last second of my undoing. Shit. Am I in trouble, or is this the beginning of one fucking memorable night to look back on someday to sigh with pleasure?

He hands the driver a couple of bills, large ones. I note he likes paying with cash and overtipping by an obscene amount. He takes my hand as the taxi pulls away, squeezing it as he leads me through the hotel doors to a gathering of chairs in the lobby.

“Wait here, and I’ll check us in.” He has one arm around me, and I look up at him. “You okay? You haven’t said much⁠—”

“I must be speechless. Proud of yourself?”

He smirks, then softens his eyes and brings his mouth close to my lips, without touching. “I’m looking forward to seeing who wins the contest of most proud.”

I shake my head. “Of course. You’re making this a competition.”

“Don’t worry, hot pants. There won’t be any losers in this game.” With that, he lets me go and lightly presses me back into one of the chairs. Then he walks off to take care of business.

I notice his swagger belatedly because if I’d seen that swagger in another place or time, out somewhere, at a bar or a party or on the street, I would have told myself he’s one to avoid, the kind of guy I’d never want to get involved with. A pirate.

Now? I’m way past that red line and well into the danger zone. I’m practically walking the plank.

On the way up to the hotel room, he slips out his phone, and I try blocking my disappointment, bordering on resentment and ebbing toward the jealous zone. Who could he be texting now, as we’re on our way to a hotel room for a night of wild hockey-boy sex? I’m not sure what that is or why I’d think of it that way, but I’m looking forward to finding out since my imagination draws a blank on the details, though I have no trouble imagining the resulting multitude of delirious orgasms. But it’s not too crazy to expect his attention to be on me, right?