Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(80)

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It’s the middle of the week, and I should probably already be in bed, but Lance is currently stretched out on my couch—one leg on the floor, one propped up on the back of the seat—so I’m inclined to stay up. He’s wearing boxers, and only boxers. The position highlights the outline of his somewhat-hard penis. We’ve already had sex once. After I gave him a massage.

Well, I made it about halfway through the massage before he decided there were particular parts of his body that required my attention.

He was pretty excited when I offered my services in exchange for orgasms. I haven’t actually made it through a full-body massage since we struck that deal a few days ago, but he’s also far less tense, so he won’t have to see the team therapist as much, and that’s a positive.

In the ten days since he took me out for dinner, Lance has become sort of a fixture in my house. He’s spent nearly every night here. In my bed. He missed two nights while he was off on the away series, but when he’s had games here in Chicago, he shows up afterward. I’ve had a lot of orgasms and not a lot of sleep.

Tomorrow he’s leaving again for another away series. We still haven’t had a relationship-defining talk, which made those nights he was away somewhat stressful. But he messaged every day he was gone, and no party photos showed up on social media, so that helped a little. I need to address it before he leaves tomorrow though, because I don’t think I can handle that level of anxiety again, especially not for five days rather than just two.

As much as I’m not excited about the separation, my girl parts could use a few days off from all the attention. I’ve never been with someone who has such a high sex drive. Being wanted this much is as thrilling as it is overwhelming.

I approach the couch with my hands behind my back. “I have a surprise.”

“Oh yeah?” Lance tears his eyes away from the TV. He’s watching hockey, which is normal. I’ve also discovered he’s a huge fan of Sudoku. When the commercials come on, if he’s not looking to make out, he’ll have me help him with them. Not that he needs the help. He’s far more math minded than I am. But I secretly find it sexy. Or not so secretly.

I hold up a bag of Jelly Babies. They’re a British treat my grandmother used to send me every Christmas. I recently found a store close by that sells them, and I know Lance loves them almost as much as he loves gummy bears. And sex.

He grabs for the bottom of my shirt—which is really his shirt—but I jump out of reach. “You have to share.”

“What if I don’t want to share?”

“Then I guess you don’t get any.”

He considers this for a few seconds. “Fine, I’ll share. Now come here.” He pats his chest, and I climb up on the couch and stretch out on top of him. His half-hard-on twitches against my stomach.

I expect him to steal the bag from me, but he doesn’t. Instead he folds one arm behind his head, thick bicep flexing. He traces the contour of my face with the fingers of his free hand and tugs the end of my ponytail while I tear the bag open. I pop a jelly in my mouth before I offer one to him. He bites it out of my fingers and mmmmmms his candy enjoyment.

“I have nae had these in years.” The hint of Scot creeps in.

“They were always my favorite. My nana used to send me a package every year at Christmas and my birthday. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“The blackberry ones.”

I dig around in the bag, searching for one. If I let him have the bag, he’ll snarf them all down, like he does with gummy bears.

I find one and hold it up. He takes it carefully in his teeth and watches me while he chews.

Things have been intense. We haven’t gone out at all. It’s just been Lance showing up at my house after work and staying the night. On the plus side, I haven’t had to cook since Lance always brings takeout. He also likes to bring me flowers, and sometimes treats. There are bouquets strategically placed all over the main floor.

We talk, we have sex, we watch a lot of hockey on TV, but I haven’t been invited to his games. Not that I’d expect an invitation to the away games, but maybe a home one would be nice. He hasn’t asked to take me out on another date, either. Technically he owes me a coffee.

“What’s your favorite flavor?” He tries to stick his hand in the bag, but I clutch it in my fist. “You know I can take that from you if I really want to.”

I give him a look. “I like the orange ones.”

“Of course you do.”

The next time I try to feed him one, he grabs the bag.

“Hey!”

He holds it over his head, far enough away that I have to sit up. He winds an arm around my waist and flips us over so he’s on top. “You’ll never win, precious.”

He proceeds to dump a hefty portion of the bag into his mouth, as predicted. Then he digs for an orange one. He doesn’t offer it to me directly, though. Instead he finishes chewing his massive mouthful and puts the orange one between his lips.

I try to take it with my fingers, but he pulls back and shakes his head. “Take it wif yer teef.”

I roll my eyes but lean up as he leans down. Before I can take it, he flips it into his mouth, then sticks his tongue out. “Geb it now,” he urges.

“Ew! No. It’s covered in your spit.”

He removes it from his tongue. “That spit thing again? I have my tongue in your mouth all the time and you don’t seem to mind at all.”