Pucks & Penalties: Pucked Series Deleted Scenes and Outtakes Version 2.0 (The Pucked Series)

by Helena Hunting

  His smirk makes an appearance. “So you’re cool with me starting another sleeve?”

  He knows I like the tattoos. I trace them all the time with my fingers, and sometimes my tongue, which is exactly what I want to do right now. “Why wouldn’t I be cool with it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe one sleeve is enough? Maybe you only tolerate my ink because you love me.”

  I snort. “Your tattoos have nothing to do with why I love you. They’re just a bonus.”

  I wasn’t even really a tattoo lover until I met Randy last August. And it isn’t that I didn’t like tattoos before then; I’d just never understood the obsession with them. Then Randy had come slamming his way into a bathroom while I was shaving my legs, with his tattooed hand shoved down the front of his shorts. As enraged and embarrassed as I’d been, I’d still noticed how hot he was—especially his tattooed arm.

  After being with him for the better part of a year, I have a serious appreciation for ink. Particularly his. So much so that I’ve even entertained getting a tattoo myself. Not a sleeve or anything, just something small and pretty and meaningful. At least to start.

  I keep following the outline of the forest on his forearm until I reach the crook of his elbow. It’s a sensitive place on Randy, as is the inside of his arm close to his biceps. Sometimes when I’m horny and he’s distracted by game highlights, I’ll start tracing the designs there. It’s usually enough to bring his focus around to where it belongs: Me.

  “Wanna guess which one’s my favorite?”

  “You have a favorite?”

  I nod, then tug on the bottom of his shirt.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I can’t show you my favorite tattoo when half of them are covered by your shirt.” I’m full of shit. Most of his tattoos are visible, except for the ones on his shoulder. But now that we’re talking about tattoos and I’m thinking about how much I love the way his arm looks when he’s using his fingers to get me off, or holding on to my boob when he takes me from behind, I figure getting closer to naked is a good plan.

  “Oh. Well, then.” He raises his arms over his head. The sudden movement startles Wiener. He barks and jumps off the couch, pacing around Randy’s feet before he trots off.

  I take advantage of the newly available space and straddle Randy’s thighs. He’s already sporting a semi. It’s straining against his pajama pants. The elastic waist is super convenient. I lift his shirt, exposing the defined ridges of his abs until his man nipples come into view. I might run into those with my nails, just to watch his abs flex.

  Randy’s body is insane. He’s all cut lines and lean muscle. He’s put on a little weight since it’s off-season and his workout schedule is a lot lighter, so he’s a bit bulkier right now.

  I, on the other hand, am struggling to keep my weight from dropping thanks to Randy’s ultra-high sex drive. Apparently when he’s not expending energy on the ice, he needs to find a way to get rid of it. Getting freaky with me happens to be one of his preferred ways.

  I pull the shirt over his head and toss it to the floor. I’ve messed up his beard and hair on purpose so I can perform one of my favorite pre-sex activities. Before Randy can fix his face, I run my fingers through his hair, and then smooth out his beard with my fingernails.

  He makes this deep sound in his throat, somewhere between a man-purr and a growl, as he runs his palms up my bare legs, stopping just before the hem of my shorts. So I keep stroking his beard a while longer.

  When I stop, he grabs my wrists. “You should keep doing that.”

  I lean in until I can feel his hard-on between my legs. It’s not a semi anymore. Now it’s a fully. “I thought we were talking about my favorite tattoo,” I whisper, my lips close to his.

  “I thought that was a bullshit excuse to get my shirt off.”

  “That’s because all you think about is sex and hockey.”

  “Not true. I have other thoughts.”

  “Such as?” I drop a kiss on his neck, right where his beard ends.

  “Such as how long it’s going to take for you to stop pretending you’re not ogling my chest.”

  “You’re pretty full of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Not as full as you’re going to be pretty fucking soon.” He slips his hands under my shirt.

  I clamp my elbows against my ribs to prevent him from getting it over my head. “Oh? You think so, eh?”

  Since I’m barring his way under my shirt, he goes for my shorts instead. “Are you even wearing panties?”

  “We’re not talking about my wardrobe choices right now; we’re talking about my favorite tattoo.” I don’t stop him from feeling his way around in there, but much to my vagina’s disappointment, as well as the rest of me, he doesn’t make a move to verify my lack of panties.

  “You should hurry up and do that so I can tell you about all my favorite Lily parts.”

  “Don’t you want to guess?” I run my fingers through his hair one more time, skimming the short sides with my pinkies. Even his hair is sexy.

  “Sure. If it gets us past this part of your foreplay faster.”

  “Who says this is even going to lead to sex? Maybe I just feel like talking tonight.”

  Randy’s brow lifts, then furrows. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I slow-blink at him and give him my best fake-confused face. “Just because I’m sitting in your lap and you have your shirt off doesn’t mean we have to get totally naked.”

  He nods somberly, but I can tell he doesn’t buy it for a second. And he shouldn’t. “Of course not. You can wear your shorts if you want to, even if that makes it more difficult for me.”

  I snicker and follow the contour of his abs down to the waistband of his pants. I take my time, because—as stated earlier—Randy’s abs are incredible. He has the most amazing six-pack in the world. I like it best when it’s flexed, either because I’m riding him or he’s riding me.

  “How about if you guess right, I have to do whatever you want tonight, but if you guess wrong, you have to do whatever I want?”

  He’s focused on my fingers, which are trailing back and forth along the waistband of his pants. His eyes lift, his expression devious. “If I guess right, I get whatever I want?”

  “Within reason.”

  I can practically see his wheels turning. “Just to be clear, we’re talking about sex, right?”

  “Sex? I was talking about board games. I was thinking Monopoly would be fun. You know how that can go on forever and ever.”

  Randy grabs me by the waist and flips me over so I’m sprawled on the couch. I don’t have time to get my legs closed before he gets between them and stretches out on top of me.

  I put my hands on his chest and push, but he’s heavy. “Hey! We’re having a conversation, remember?”

  “There will be no Monopoly tonight,” he growls.

  “There will be if you guess wrong,” I threaten.

  He pushes up so he’s doing a one-armed plank. Holding his tattooed hand in front of my face he wiggles his fingers. “I’m going to say this one.”

  “You’re so smart.” I lift my head enough to bite one of his knuckles. “Do you know why it’s my favorite?”

  “Because it’s like I have your name tattooed on my hand?” The flower is a lily. Since we started dating, I’ve come to discover it’s his mother’s favorite, and that’s why it’s there. But I like that there’s an unintentional connection to me, and that sometimes people come to the inaccurate conclusion that he had it put there because it represents me.

  “If I say yes, does that make me egotistical?” I’m working really hard to keep my legs from wrapping around his waist.

  Randy’s tongue peeks out to sweep across his bottom lip. “Not even a little.”

  “Good to know, but that’s not the primary reason it’s my favorite.” I press my knees against his hips, but keep my feet glued to the couch.

  “No?”

&nb
sp; “Nope.”

  Randy runs his hand down my side and gives my thigh a gentle squeeze. “You gonna tell me why, or are you gonna keep me guessing?”

  “I like that you’re this big, badass hockey player with a pretty tattoo right on the back of your hand. It’s sexy.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Mmm.” I bite my lip, being intentionally coy. “Wanna know why else I love that tattoo?”

  “Why’s that?” Randy drops his hips so his amazing hard-on is now pressed against my stomach.

  “’Cause it looks hot when that hand is between my thighs.”

  “Is that right?”

  “It is.”

  “You mean like this?” Randy pushes up, folding back on his knees between my spread legs.

  I’m momentarily disheartened by the lack of moody dick contact. Moody dick is my nickname for Randy’s penis. He took a skate to the groin as a kid, resulting in a pretty significant scar that makes his penis look sad when it’s soft and happy when it’s hard. He slips his fingers into the front of my shorts—thank Christ for the elastic waist—yanks them down low, and grazes my clit with his knuckle.

  I suck in a sharp breath. “Just like that.”

  He withdraws his hand just as fast as he shoved it down there. “I knew you weren’t wearing panties.”

  “Why bother when there’s a good chance you’re going to take them off anyway?”

  Randy eases his hands up the inside of my thighs, stopping too far away for anything good to happen. “I thought you wanted to play board games tonight.”

  “Naked board games?”

  “The board games part is where you lose me.” He’s still kneeling between my parted legs.

  I open them even farther. “How about just playing naked?”

  He grabs the crotch of my shorts—with his tattooed hand, of course—and makes a fist. At first I think he’s going to yank them off, which would be totally welcome at this point. Sometimes I threaten no naked time just to amp Randy up. Not that it’s necessary, he’s usually pretty amped as it is. But the sex when he’s been worried he isn’t getting any is often out of this world.

  Instead of taking off my shorts, he tightens his fist. His lip curls in a sexy sneer as he rubs his knuckles over my clit again. I groan and start to lift my hips, but he’s quick to put his free palm low on my stomach, keeping me from achieving any additional friction. This is Randy’s way of punishing me for my threats, even if he knows it was all a farce.

  “Why don’t you take your shirt off for me, luscious?” He adjusts his grip, his knuckles pressing right where I want them.

  Grabbing the bottom, I keep my eyes on his and drag the cotton up over my abs. Like Randy, I have a six-pack—mine is far less defined, but it’s definitely there. Randy’s eyes are on my stomach, moving higher as I uncover more skin. I may arch my back a little more than necessary as I expose the swell of my breasts. I don’t have big boobs, so the arching helps make them look more ample. It also makes Randy’s knuckles slide over the right spot.

  My nipples pop out, and I may or may not drag my fingernails over them and moan rather loudly—for effect, of course. Randy huffs out a small laugh because he knows my game. His lips part, that smirky smirk of his still making the top one curl. I’m in for some amazing orgasms tonight. I’m already on the brink of one thanks to the teasing.

  Now, let me be clear on something—prior to Randy, it used to take some work for me to have an orgasm. Whether it was with someone else or on my own, I required at least a good ten minutes of direct stimulation to reach that amazing state of bliss. But something about our particular brand of chemistry has changed that. I don’t know if our pheromones are in perfect sync, or we’re orgasm soul mates, or some other kind of soul mates, but all Randy has to do is look at me the right way, and I’m halfway to coming. It’s insane. I’m not complaining, though.

  Randy runs the hand on my lower abs up over my stomach to palm my left breast. He captures the nipple between his fingers, then leans over me so he can take the other one between his lips. His soft beard tickles my skin, and the pressure between my legs increases. He’s now hovering over me, and it’s a lot of sensation. Everywhere.

  He lifts his eyes as he flat-tongues my nipple, just like he’d do if his face was between my legs instead. His grin is pure evil when he closes his mouth over the tight peak and does the magic swirl with his tongue. I gasp and shudder when I feel his teeth.

  “You’re getting close, aren’t you?” His voice is muffled by my boob, but I still understand.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He circles my clit, and I’m done. I try to lift my hips, but I can’t do much with the way he’s partly on top of me. It doesn’t matter anyway, since I’m coming like I haven’t had an orgasm in a week. In reality, it’s been less than sixteen hours. We had sex before I went to work this morning. Like I said, Randy likes to get his fuck on. A lot.

  He releases my nipple from his mouth and sits back on his knees again. “That sounded like it felt good.”

  “So good,” I mumble. “You should give me another.”

  “You think so, huh?” He captures my still-sensitive clit between two knuckles.

  I jolt with the sensation, lifting my hips off the couch with a yelp.

  “Too much?” He doesn’t take the pressure off, waiting for my reply instead.

  I shake my head and take a few deep breaths.

  “I don’t think I’m gonna take these off when I fuck you.”

  Goose bumps break out across my skin at his words and the expression on his pretty, rugged, sexy face. “Whatever you want, baby.”

  “That’s right. I guessed right, so I get whatever I want.” His honey eyes drop to where he’s still fisting the crotch of my shorts. “How long you think you can hold this position?”

  With my shoulders and head resting on one cushion I’m sort of doing a half-bridge. It’s a lot easier on the floor where I have a hard, stable surface as opposed to the couch, but I’m sure I can hold it for as long as I need to if more orgasms and moody dick are involved.

  Sometimes Randy and I have plank-offs. Whoever wins gets oral. I’m up to six minutes now. I’m pretty sure I can hold this position at least that long. But it really depends on what’s at stake.

  “As long as you need me to,” I say.

  Randy’s grin is all devious sexiness. “Good answer, ’cause the longer you hold it, the more you get to come.”

  My clit throbs at the mention of coming. Oh, sweet Jesus, Randy’s on a mission tonight. I don’t point out that he’s the winner, so he should probably be the one having all the orgasms. He hasn’t mastered the male multiple O yet, so I’m happy to manage that situation until he does.

  Randy lets go of my shorts, which also means his knuckles are no longer pinching my clit. I make a sad sound, which quickly becomes a groan when he fists his extra-hard cock and gives it a stroke.

  “I’m pretty sure these shorts are screwed.” He slips a finger through what I imagine is stretched-out material. However, I can’t see it because my head is way lower than my crotch.

  “I guess so, since you’re about to screw me while I’m wearing them.”

  Randy rubs the head of his cock over my clit. It’s like a jolt of electricity is shooting through my body, and its end point is his incredible penis. I make some kind of unintelligible sound or word, or a sound and word combined. And then his magic cock is gone and the noise I’m making isn’t a happy one.

  “I forgot to do something important.” Randy crouches down and grabs my left ass cheek—I assume he may still be fisting his cock with his right hand.

  The hot press of his tongue against my clit makes me gasp, but the slow stroke up makes me moan. Then Randy does the one thing guaranteed to make me come fast and hard. He doesn’t swirl his tongue or lick me like I’m an ice cream cone he wants to savor. Oh no. Randy flattens his tongue against my clit and starts sucking. I have no idea why this feels as good as it does, but every time it
sends me right over the edge.

  He doesn’t stop there, though, because this is Randy Ballistic we’re talking about, and he can go forever when he wants to. Also, he likes to torture me with orgasms sometimes, and tonight seems to be one of those nights. Instead of giving me some time to recover, he keeps sucking. So of course I try to escape his suctioning mouth by dropping my hips.

  He releases my clit with a pop, and his beard skims over the sensitive skin. “Nuh-uh, remember what I said about holding this position?”

  I give him a bleary-eyed, questioning look, because I can barely remember my own damn name right now.

  “The longer you hold it, the more you get to come.”

  “I didn’t think you were actually serious.”

  “Oh, I’m serious.” To prove how serious he is, he re-suctions his mouth to my clit and resumes sucking until I come again.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been holding this position, but my legs are shaking, and I’ve got a serious head rush going on. Randy gets back on his knees between my legs, returning to his previous torture of cock-to-clit rubbing. When I’m close to coming again, he slides low and eases inside. Just the head, though.

  At this point the muscles in my thighs are burning, and I feel a calf cramp coming on, but I’m determined to make it through the sexing in this damn position, because if I do, the next time we play this game, and I get whatever I want, I’m going to make him do some kind of acrobatic stunt. Randy uses one hand to keep the crotch of my stretched-out shorts pulled out of the way so he can watch while he eases inside me.

  “You look so fucking hot right now, luscious.”

  “You should take a picture,” I suggest.

  Randy looks around for his phone, but it’s not on the coffee table. “Fuck. My phone is charging.” For a second it seems like he’s debating whether to stop what he’s doing and get it, or fuck it and keep going.

  He chooses the latter, which is definitely preferable considering how long I’ve been doing a half-bridge on the couch and also how much I’d like all of his dick inside me, not just the head. Randy smooths his tattooed hand up my thigh and pushes inside.