Table of Contents
Pucked Under
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Epilogue
About the Author Helena Hunting
Connect with Helena
Other Titles By Helena Hunting
Fractures in Ink Chapter One
Helena Hunting
Copyright © 2016 Helena Hunting
All rights reserved
Published by Helena Hunting
Cover art design by Shannon Lumetta
Cover font from Imagex Fonts
Cover image from LoveNBooks and Franggy Yanez
Back cover image from @egorrr at Depositphoto.com
Formatting by CP Smith
Editing by Jessica Royer Ocken
Proofing by Marla at Proofing with Style
Pucked Over is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are all products of the author's twisted imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Dedication
This one is for my Hustlers, my Beaver Den and all Randy lovers out there
and of course, hubs, who is the only reason I remember to breathe.
Acknowledgements
Husband, you’re my leading man. You make everything worth the effort.
Mom, Dad, Mel and Chris, your support means everything, so thank you for being so generous with it.
Deb, my sister wife in authoring; I love you a lot. We should be neighbors and not have to look at each other through a screen every day. We make crazy happen without even trying.
Kimberly, you know how much I love having you in my corner. Thank you for getting behind me and helping me through the fun stuff and the hard stuff.
My awesome team at RF and Bookcase—thank you for making wonderful things happen in other languages.
Nina; you will always wear the sparkle cape.
Jessica, there is no one quite like you. Honestly, I’m so lucky to have such a fabulous editor who makes me work harder and laugh my way through the crazy I sometimes throw at you.
Shannon, sweet lord this cover. Thank you for working your magic every time. You’re such a rare talent.
Ellie and Franggy, this cover is beautiful because of you. Thank you so much.
Teeny, you’re an awesome human. I love how beautiful you make the insides.
Erika, the broken ones are always the best.
Susi, muffin, man buns for the win.
Sarah—every author needs a right hand, one that isn’t attached to their body but still manages to be just as important. That’s you. Thank you for being so incredible. I could never keep track of my life the way you do.
Hustlers, you are incredibly amazing and wonderful and I love you. Thanks for the daily dose of beard to keep me breathing and inspired and thank you for always being there to celebrate the little things. Like Friday.
Beavers and Wood, I am so lucky to have all of you. Thank you for always keeping me entertained and feeling loved.
To my Backdoor Babes; Tara, Meghan, Deb and Katherine, every time we do something weird I think it’s normal.
My Smut Saloon ladies; Melanie, Jessica and Geneva, there is nothing more exciting than remembering what we were supposed to do.
To my Pams, the Filets, my Nap girls; 101’ers, my Holiday’s and Indies Tijan, Vi, Penelope, Susi, Deb, Erika, Katherine, Alice, Shalu, Amanda, Leisa, Kellie, Melissa, Sarah, Tracey, Teeny, you are fabulous in ways I can’t explain. Thank you for being my friends, my colleagues, my supporters, my teachers, my cheerleaders and my soft places to land.
My WC crew; Angela, Jo, Gillian, Mandie, Peter, Jeremy, Cathy, John and Dave, thank you for celebrating this journey with me and for being my friends even though I don’t get to see you every day anymore.
To all my author friends and colleagues; I’m so fortunate to have such an amazing support system in this crazy, awesome industry.
To all the amazing bloggers and readers out there who have supported me from the beginning of my angst, to the ridiculous of my humour; thank you for loving these stories, for giving them a voice, for sharing your thoughts and for being such amazing women. I’m honoured and humbled and constantly amazed by what a generous community you are.
To my Originals; my fandom friends who were with me back in the day when Wednesday postings were the way of things, thank you for giving me the gift of your feedback and your excitement. It’s such an honour and a joy to know that you’re still with me, on this road and that you’re reason I took this journey in the first place.
1
THE SMELL OF ORGASMS
LILY
I prop my skate up on the bench to tighten the laces. After this session, my sexy, NHL-player boyfriend, Randy Ballistic, is picking me up for a weekend getaway with our friends. The cottage we’re going to belongs to one of Randy’s teammates, Alex Waters, who I’ve incidentally known my entire life since his younger sister, Sunny, is my best friend.
The off-season is about to come to an end, and training camp will start in less than two weeks. This last-hurrah weekend will be at Alex’s Chicago cottage, not the Ontario cottage where Randy and I first met. As much as I’d love to revisit that location, any kind of weekend away with Randy and my friends is welcome, and this cottage is much closer.
With Sunny being pregnant, I’m sure things will be different from the usual booze fest and overly late nights. Or maybe not—Alex’s wife, Violet, and her friend Charlene Hoar are going to be there. Those two can drink like fish, and they like to stay up all hours of the night. I’m sure there will be dirty Scrabble games and shenanigans, both of which I’m looking forward to.
I’m not used to having this much down time. Prior to moving to Chicago, I’d always worked more than one job, so only having one means a lot more freedom to pursue hobbies. Not that I worry too much about being idle; Randy keeps me busy when I’m not teaching skating lessons. I don’t have the opportunity to get bored—especially not since I moved in with him about four months ago and he enrolled me in beard riding classes.
I figured maybe once we were living together his insatiableness would wane, at least a little. It hasn’t. While I’ve been teaching this morning, he’s been texting me all the places he thinks we should have sex when we get to the cottage. Ironically, a bathroom hasn’t even made the top five. The forest is a prime pick. He’s mentioned playing hide and seek more than once, but the way he says it makes me think his version will be a lot different than the game I played with Sunny as a kid.
The door to the changing room squeaks as it opens. Someone needs to get out the WD-40 and deal with that. I’m around the corner, out of view, so I call out a hello to avoid scaring whoever it is. I get nothing back. A chill runs up my spine at the sound of distinctly non-feminine footfalls. Relief forces my heart back down from my throat when Randy peeks his head around the jamb.
“What’re you doing in here?” I ask, double knotting my skate before lowering my foot to the rubber-padded floor.
He scans my outfit, and a devious grin pulls u
p the corner of his mouth. “Stopping in for a quick visit.”
“In the women’s staff locker room? What if someone else was in here with me?” It’s a reasonable question. Occasionally I’m not the only instructor on the ice.
His eyes widen, and he checks over his shoulder. “Is there someone else here?”
“No. But there could’ve been.”
“But you’re telling me there isn’t,” he confirms.
I nod. “Still. What if you’d seen one of the other girls naked?”
He frowns and runs a hand over his beard, looking anxious. “I didn’t think about that.”
“Just imagine how embarrassed I’d be if someone else’s boyfriend walked in while I was naked.” Now I’m messing with him.
The furrow in his brow deepens, and his eyes go dark. If I didn’t have a session in fifteen minutes, I’d be excited about that look, because it typically means very good things for the Vagina Emporium. Sadly, she’s covered in multiple layers of fabric. And I’m hours away from any kind of relief for the ache that’s flared low in my belly.
“Only I see you naked,” Randy barks.
I snicker-snort. Sometimes Randy can be so very irrationally male.
He stalks forward to loom over me. “You think that’s funny?”
“Someone else seeing me naked? No, I don’t think that’s funny at all. Your reaction to the unlikely possibility is, though. When we get to Alex’s cottage, should we put you in a loincloth? We’ll rename you a random sound, and you can club me over the head and drag me into the forest. We’ll live in a cave, and you can battle bears to entertain me.” I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in my laughter.
Randy cracks a sheepish grin. “That was pretty bad, wasn’t it?”
“Uh, yeah.”
He brushes a few strands of hair, imaginary or not, away from my cheek. “I’m a little greedy when it comes to you.” He traces the edge of my jaw, the pad of his thumb sweeping my bottom lip.
“I’m aware.”
Prior to me, Randy had seen lots of women naked. I thought I had a thick skin until I started dating him. As the girlfriend of an NHL player, I get personal messages from his former conquests about how they’re a way better lay than I am, among other fun things. It was shocking at first, but at least I have friends who get what I’m going through.
I’ve had a total of five sexual partners, including Randy. I’m assuming Randy’s had at least ten times that. Maybe it should bother me, but it doesn’t. Now that we’ve decided to be together, he’s never given me a reason to worry about him being unfaithful. His dad’s history of cheating isn’t one he wants to repeat.
“You still have a few minutes before you have to be on the ice, right?” he asks.
“I should get out there soon, but yeah.”
Randy makes a noise but doesn’t respond with words, which is sometimes his way. He’s very much an action man. I knew he loved me a long time before he said the words out loud. All the little sacrifices, all the sweet things that come unprovoked are perfect examples of how he feels. And I feel the same way. But I don’t think he’s here to tell me he loves me. Not based on the gleam in his eye or the bulge making an appearance in his pants.
“What’s up?” I pat the hard lump under the jeans. “Other than moody dick.”
He covers my hand with his. “Wanna have a quickie?”
“I don’t have enough minutes for that.” I put my palm on his chest when he leans in. My resistance to Randy’s advances is minimal, even with time constraints.
“I can be superfast. I bet you’re halfway to coming already.” A smirky grin tugs the side of his mouth. That smile used to infuriate me. Occasionally it still does.
Randy may be right; he has the incredible ability to get me off with very little physical contact. He’s rather cocky about it. Being in a public locker room where someone could walk in any second should be a deterrent. But it really isn’t—for either of us. Also, Randy takes much longer to come than I do. It’s one of the positive side effects of the accident he had when he was a kid—the one that nearly robbed him of half of his amazing cock—and I have my doubts he’ll be able to get off in under ten. His record is twelve minutes, and he was just crazy excited; it was the first time we went without a condom. Now he’s gotten used to going in bare, so his longevity is astounding.
“There’s no way you’ll come before I have to get on the ice, and then we have to sit in a car with Sunny and Miller. You’ll have to behave yourself for two hours with blue balls. How pleasant is that going to be for you?”
“I’m already gonna have blue balls, so it’s not like it actually matters if I come. I can take care of myself after I take care of you.”
I’m straddling the bench, so he plants a knee between my legs and leans forward. At the same time, he twines his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, angling my head back as if he’s planning to kiss me.
“You can’t wait until we get to the cottage to get me off?” It’s taking a superhuman amount of self-restraint not to shift against his strategically placed knee.
“I can, but I don’t want to.” He drops his head so his mouth is close to mine. “Come on, luscious. You send me all these pictures of you in your skating gear; now you’re gonna deny me what you’ve been enticing me with for the past four hours?”
He smells fantastic, like the cologne I bought him for Valentine’s Day. “You asked for those pictures.”
“I know. Now I want to thank you for them by making you come.”
“How are you planning to make me come?” It’s a challenge to remember why this isn’t a great idea with him looking so good and talking about giving me orgasms.
“How ’bout with my fingers?”
“I’m fully dressed.”
“Like that’s ever stopped me before.”
He has a point. He can make me come just by rubbing up on me. Our chemistry is ridiculous.
I finally give in when he kisses me. I should feel bad that I’m about to receive an orgasm at work, in the changing room, but Randy’s good at persuasion, and providing pleasure, so it’s hard to feel anything other than excitement.
He brings his knee forward, and I start grinding on him right away.
I can hear his smile. “That’s it; take what you want, baby.”
I nip at his lip, aware he’s playing with me. I’ll get him back later. He slips his tongue in my mouth and starts a slow, stroking rhythm that in no way matches the slightly desperate way I’m grinding against his knee. Randy has that effect. He knows it, and he likes to use it to his advantage.
His hand stays where it is, cradling my head as we kiss. I keep rolling my hips, wishing he was hitting my special spot with a more precise body part, such as the fingers he talked about. I reach between us and palm him—he’s extra hard—through his pants. Now I wish actual sex was an option not impeded by the barrier of clothing, which I’m beginning to think is part of his master plan.
Randy enjoys getting me all amped up and then leaving me hanging—well, not totally. I always get to come, but he won’t, and I don’t like the inequity in that. I’m already close though, so I’ll make it work until we have the opportunity to do this naked. With more privacy. Just as the tingles begin to spread, Randy backs off. I groan and grab for his belt buckle, but he breaks the kiss and puts one wide palm on the center of my chest, urging me to lie back on the bench.
“What’re you doing? I was almost there.” I’m snappy. It makes him smile.
“I said I was gonna use my fingers.” He pushes them under the elastic of my leotard and skims the hot, damp skin between my legs, still barred by a pair of tights and panties. The palm on my chest moves lower, his fingertips gliding over my left breast and down my stomach. When he reaches the leg hole, he slips that hand under as well.
Finding the waistband of my tights, he yanks them roughly over my hips, pulling them down until they reach the crotch of my skating outfit. Then he goes back for my panties
and does the same.
“Do you have any idea how often I think about fucking you like this?”
Randy has a thing for my skating outfits, as evidenced by our current situation. We’ve had sex while I’m wearing one of my competition leotards—the kind with all the sequins and decorative crap. There weren’t any panties or tights to get in the way, though. It was just a matter of moving the crotch to the side and getting in there. That sex was insane.
“I assume it’s a daily thing,” I say snarkily.
“You assume correctly.” He shifts the material so he can access my Vagina Emporium. Threads strain and snap.
“Careful.” I don’t want my outfit totally stretched out in the name of an orgasm.
“I’ll buy you a new one when I wreck this.”
I note there’s no if. “I don’t have a spare here.”
Randy is either too focused on getting his fingers where he wants them, or he’s ignoring me. I assume it’s a combination of the two. He caresses my clit with the back of his fingers as he tries to make room for his hand. I gasp and bite my lip to stifle my moan. The walls in here are cinderblock and great for acoustics, not so great for covert orgasms.
He fumbles around in his back pocket, producing his phone.
I prop myself up on an elbow. “Seriously? You need to do that right now?”
“You actually need to ask that question? This is like…” A few facial tics follow, and he opens and closes his mouth before the words finally come. “If they actually made figure-skating porn, I’d have a real problem.”
“I think you already have a real problem.”
Randy disregards my sassitude and hits the record button. “This woman right here is my number-one fantasy, and she’s all mine.” He maneuvers his hand in the limited space between my panties and tights, which are cutting into my thighs, they’re stretched so tight.
“But only for the next ten minutes,” I add.
He pushes two fingers inside and offers a low “fuck, yeah.”
Pucked Under (Pucked #4.5) Page 1