Shameless Puckboy (Puckboys Book 3)

I AM SO … confused.

Not confused enough to pull back and ask what the fuck he’s thinking though.

Lane doesn’t kiss the way I’ve been imagining it. For some reason, I thought he’d be passive.

He has these hard edges to him, both physically and with the way he speaks to me, but whenever I’ve fantasized about this—about his mouth on mine—I’ve pictured something soft. Gentle.

There’s nothing gentle in the way his mouth claims mine, the hardness in his set jaw as he controls the pace and the force behind it. His tongue is demanding and rough, and so are his hands as they grip my hips.

His fingers dig into my skin, and even though the part of me that wants to hit pause on this so I can work out why Lane is suddenly doing all the things I’ve been dreaming of since meeting him, the confident way in which he’s taking charge of this has me becoming pliant in his arms instead.

I moan into his mouth and then whimper when he pulls away.

“I need you to say it,” he growls.

“I’m sorry.” That’s what he wanted me to say, isn’t it?

Lane backs me up, pushing me against the wall, and when his hand closes over my throat, I’m torn between being scared or coming in my pants. I think I am scared, which only makes my dick harder, so I guess it’s a bit of both.

“Say you and Aleks aren’t happening,” he clarifies.

“Not in this moment, we aren’t.” I want him to grip my throat tighter, but instead, his fingers loosen, and I whine. “Aleks and I will never happen.”

I should come clean and explain what really happened back in the locker room, but he doesn’t give me a chance.

Lane’s hand is back at my throat, his mouth is on mine, and his tongue pushes past my lips.

I melt under his touch, and all thoughts of telling him the truth about Aleks and me fade away. My dick is harder than granite, but when I try to push my hips forward, his free hand pins me to the wall, and he breaks his mouth from mine.

“I know you’re terrible at taking direction, but if you really are as desperate for sex as you say you are, you will do everything I say.”

“Whatever you say.”

His lips quirk. “So that’s the trick to getting Oskar Voyjik to do what I want him to.”

“Have I made that some kind of secret? The promise of an orgasm is the only way to get me to do something. You could have already learned that ten times over if you’d listen to me when I talk.”

“No talking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s words, Oskar.”

I mime locking my lips, even though I want to ask what he’s going to do with me.

He glances over my shoulder, out the window that’s over my kitchen sink, and then pulls me off the wall and leans me against the counter instead.

Then his whiskey-colored eyes meet mine, and his lips quirk. “Your neighbor is on her balcony, watering her plants.”

I turn to look when Lane’s firm grip takes hold of my chin.

“Don’t look. I want you on your knees, and you’re going to suck me off while your neighbor watches.”

“Why does this feel like a trap? Or a test? Am I supposed to say no here? To prove I’m not the fuckboy you think I am?”

“I know you’re that fuckboy, and if I’m going to have to sleep with you to save our jobs, I’m willing to do it, but this is on my terms, and you’re going to do what I say.”

This still feels like a test, but Lane should know I’m not going to turn this down. “But—”

“No more words,” he says, his voice doing that growling thing again. “Knees.”

Damn, it’s hot. This whole thing is one of my biggest fantasies. Blowing someone I shouldn’t where someone else could see us.

I immediately get to my knees on the kitchen floor. The counters are high enough to shield me from Mrs. Huxley, but the challenge for Lane to keep a straight face so she doesn’t know what we’re doing in here drives a need inside me. The thought of having him slip, just a little—the look of pure need and pleasure on his face brings out my competitive side, and I can’t wait to get started.

I reach for his pants to undo them, but he swats my hands away.

“Did I say you could do that yet?”

I groan because nrgh. His orders turn me on something fierce.

“Now, if you’re a good boy and do as you’re told, I might even let you touch yourself while your mouth is on my cock.”

My lip trembles, and I breathe out the frustration that’s building in my gut. It’s the best kind of frustration where I yearn for permission—to follow whatever he tells me to do.

I wasn’t lying when I said sex is the only way to get me to obey orders. I don’t know where that need comes from. It could be that when I use my body for pleasure and let others use me, the praise gives me that acceptance that I’ve been looking for my whole life. All my life, I’ve worked to get attention. Any attention to fill that void of loneliness.

“Take your cock out,” Lane says, and I immediately start on getting my jeans open. Lane gazes out the window and lifts a hand to wave at the neighbor. “I think she’s almost finished. We might want to hurry this up.” Lane opens his fly and shoves his suit pants and underwear down his thighs.

His dick juts out, and my hands freeze in trying to free my own because Lane Pierce has an amazing cock. Of course he fucking does.

It’s not the longest I’ve seen, but it’s disproportionately thick compared to the rest of him. It has a perfect mushroom head that’s red and leaking, and his shaft is super veiny.

I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in total love with a cock before, but I want to marry it.

The guy it’s attached to, I could take or leave. He’s hot, and I love seeing him flustered and annoyed, but he’s always too serious.

Though in this situation, that’s a bonus.

“You still haven’t done what I said.” Lane hasn’t even glanced down at me.

“How did you know?”

“Because you stopped moving completely. If you want my dick instead of just staring at it, you need to do as I say.”

I fight with my jeans, pissed at myself for wearing my tightest pair today, but finally free my cock. I need to stroke it to give a moment of relief, but the second I do, Lane takes a step back.

“Did I say you could do that?”

I complain. “You said if I was a good boy. I’m being a good boy.”

“You can’t touch yourself until I come down your throat.”

“Then why did you tell me to take my cock out? Now it’s out there, all lonely, wanting attention, and I’m supposed to ignore it?”

“Yes.” Lane crooks his finger under my chin and lifts my gaze. “Because if you want this. If you want to have sex for the foreseeable future, you’ll do what it takes. I’m putting everything on the line for you. You can follow a simple direction for me.”

I nod eagerly.

“Now, how are your deep-throating skills?”

“Top-notch. And I’m offended you’re even asking. You saw the CCTV footage.”

“It was too grainy to tell. All I saw was a fuckboy on his knees for someone who wasn’t me. Just like when I saw you with Aleks. You make poor decisions, and I’m done trying to do this the professional way.”

“So, you’re stooping to my level?”

“Yes. Get to it. Give me your best fucking blowjob, and try to make Mrs. Huxley suspect what I’m doing standing at the kitchen sink without a dish to be seen. Let her know how desperate you are for me that you got on your knees and didn’t care who saw.”

Lane really knows how to push all my buttons.

I practically dive on his cock. He’s so thick that my lips have to stretch wide to fit him all in my mouth. I don’t take my time easing into it, and as his fat head hits the back of my throat, I almost gag and choke, but I get it under control.

My eyes are already watering, and my abandoned cock is complaining, but the sooner I can get Lane off, the sooner he’ll let me come.

I glance up at him between my lashes to see if he’s got the look of lust and sex across his face yet, but he’s as stoic as he was when we started.

He must have had Botox because how is this not the hottest blowjob of his life? It’s mine, and I’m not even on the receiving end.

Then he glances down for a split second, and I see it. The heat is in his eyes, but his mouth is drawn into a tight line. I can work with this.

I bury my face in his groin, relaxing my throat so he can fit, and then alternate between sucking him and squeezing his balls with my hand.

I can’t see his face anymore, but his breathing quickly becomes stilted and erratic. He groans, and even though I can’t see it, I can picture him biting into his lip to try to stop his face from telling.

His hand weaves into my hair, but it’s the sounds that get me. He complained about me being loud on the road, and here he is, providing my ears with an encouraging porn soundtrack that drowns out my wet slurps.

Lane’s grip tightens, my mouth fills with a faint salty taste, and I know he’s close, so instead of alternating between my sucks and squeezing his balls, I hold them firmly.

They draw up tight, ready to unleash, and I can’t wait to drink him all the way down.

“Don’t pull off.” He grunts.

Then he fills my mouth, finally letting go, and I can’t get enough of it.

When I glance up again, I want to gloat. Because there he is, head thrown back, mouth open, and letting out a cry so loud I imagine what would happen if Mrs. Huxley heard it.

And fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. That thought alone—the image of Mrs. Huxley looking through the window and seeing how tense his whole body is while he orgasms, I fucking come.

Untouched.

I keep him in my mouth while I unleash all over my clothes and the floor, but when I shudder, Lane pulls out.

“Are you oka—oh.” He sees what’s happened, and I expect to get in trouble for— “Did I say you were allowed to come?” Yup, there it is.

“All you said was I’m not allowed to touch myself. And I didn’t.”

He steps away from me completely and pulls up his underwear and pants. “Did that at least tide you over for a while?”

I stand and reach for the paper towels hanging out on my kitchen counter to wipe myself down. “Depends on your definition of a while. A couple of hours? Yes.”

“Keeping up with you is going to be a challenge.”

I release a breath of relief because I was expecting him to do that annoying thing guys do after sex. Particularly straight guys, though Lane is very much not straight. But the whole “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it. Wah, wah, wah.” Calm down, it’s just sex.

“We’re doing this, then?” I ask to be sure.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Aww, you’re desperate for me. That’s actually really sweet.”

“If you want to be deluded enough to take it that way, have at it. I’m done trying to get you to see it my way.”

“On a scale of one to never hooking up again, where do you lie if I do a victory dance?”

“An eighty-six.”

“Okay, fine. Internal gloating it is.” And I’m going to be doing that for at least the next twenty-four hours. Or until I’m ready for another orgasm. Whichever comes first.