Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(68)

I help her out of her sweater and sweep her hair over her shoulder. Leaning down, I kiss her pale skin, and she shivers.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t take anything you don’t want to give me.”

She turns around, her eyes wide and innocent. “I know.” She pushes my jacket over my shoulders, and I shrug out of it, letting her hang it up in the closet I kissed her in last time.

I don’t want to hide in the dark with her any more. I want to see exactly what she looks like when I take off that pretty green dress.

She laces our fingers together and tugs, so I follow her down the hall. Instead of heading for the living room, she goes for the stairs.

“You don’t want to have a drink or something?” I ask.

“I don’t think that’s necessary, do you?”

Well, this is unexpected. “Not if you don’t.”

The calves in her muscles work as she climbs the stairs. She doesn’t swing her hips, or hike up her skirt to give me a glimpse at what’s under there like a bunny would. She doesn’t act coy or demure. She just links our pinkies together and leads me to the second floor.

She opens the door, but doesn’t flick on the light. It’s unnecessary since a small lamp illuminates the room from a nightstand beside her bed, which I don’t think is even a queen.

The room is small. The walls are pale, almost white, and the comforter is minty green.

“This is my bedroom,” she announces, then blushes.

I take her face in my hands and lean down to kiss her. “What do you want to do now?”

“I want to touch you,” she says against my lips. “And I want you to touch me.”

Poppy is nothing like the women I usually end up in bed with. She’s not brazen. She’s not looking to break conventions. She’s the opposite, and I want to be exactly what she needs, except I’m not sure how.

I keep my hands where they are, holding her face so I don’t take things too fast. Beyond wanting to be what she needs, I also want this to last in case she regrets it and it’s the only time I get this close to her.

Poppy’s hands rest on my waist, and one moves up to curve around the back of my neck. I tilt her head to the side, and she opens her mouth for me, giving me the access I want. Need. Her tongue meets mine, stroke for slow, hot stroke.

I’m so fucking anxious. I’m worried this isn’t going to be like when I’m on her table—that when she touches me it’s not going to be the same, that I’m going to hate it like I do with everyone else.

When she moves her hand from my neck down to my chest, I tense and cover it with mine.

She tries to disengage from the kiss, but I slide my tongue against hers. After another minute, during which my hard-on kicks against her stomach, I let go of her hand. She slows the kiss and pulls back until she can see me.

“You can tell me if it’s not okay.”

I huff out an embarrassed laugh. “I should be saying that to you, not the other way around.”

Poppy links our pinkies again and tugs me toward the bed. “Come make out with me.”

I feel exactly like I did when I was a teenager and it was my first time. But there are some major differences. My first time wasn’t special. I didn’t actually care about the girl. She was some random hook up at a hockey party—which was intentional. I knew by then that female contact wasn’t welcome the way it should’ve been, and I didn’t enjoy it the way the other guys on the team seemed to.

I just wanted to know what the big deal was. And after that I learned sex was going to be about making someone else feel good, because it didn’t work that way for me.

As much as I want this, being with just Poppy means there are no distractions. I’m terrified of being the sole point of her focus. But I’m so tired of the emptiness. I’m tired of the endless ache, and I’m willing her to be the one who can fix that for me.

Poppy climbs up on the bed and moves over to make room for me. She pats the mattress, looking at me expectantly. I don’t even bother to take off my shirt before I join her. I adjust the pillows and lean back against the headboard. If she were a bunny, she’d already be naked and ready to straddle me. If she were Tash, there’d be someone else involved.

Facing me, Poppy slides in close, kneeling beside me until her hip is against my knee. She doesn’t unbutton my shirt. She doesn’t put her hand on my thigh, or stroke my hard-on through my pants—all of which might actually be welcome at the moment.

Instead she skims the contour of my jaw with the back of her hand and traces my features with her fingertips. “How does this feel?

I close my eyes for a second. “Nice. Good.”

Her fingers travel the same slow pattern on my skin until they’re replaced with her lips. “And this? Does this feel nice?”

“It feels better than nice.”

“Better than nice sounds good.” Her lips move from my temple to the corner of my mouth. I turn my head and slide my fingers into her hair so she can’t take her mouth away.

I’m the one who rearranges her body so she’s straddling my lap. Her dress rides up high on her thighs. I run my hand along the bare, pale expanse of her legs, but I don’t go any farther than the hem.

I just kiss her. I’ve never really gotten used to doing that. It’s too intimate, and it invites too much in the way of hand-to-skin contact, because that’s when they’re liable to wander. But with Poppy, I don’t mind. She makes these sweet, soft sounds and arches her back, pressing her breasts against my chest. In doing this, she also presses up against my hard-on. I groan into her mouth—it’s a loud, pained sound. I’ve been hard since I picked her up.