Page 8 of Her Pucking One Night Stand

“Because he prefers the dog paddle while swimming?” I try next, and both Odds and Doggie nearly tumble from their barstools in hysterics.

“No,” says the more serious Spandex, his gaze unflinching. “But if you go through with tonight, you’ll find out.”

Of course. I’m such an idiot. Doggie style.

My imagination takes off as the weight of his words hits me. I shouldn’t be intrigued, especially not by a position I’ve been in countless times before. I know I shouldn’t, but God, I am. Every part of me is drawn to the rawness of the idea, the dangerous thrill of it. My body pulses with a hunger I can’t ignore. I’ve barely touched any of these men, and they’ve hardly laid hands on me, yet my panties are soaked, drenched with need. It’s been so long since I’ve craved the touch of a man, and now here I am, on the brink of surrendering to three.

Everything’s moving in a blur—the flirtation, the tension building with every passing second. In the blink of an eye, we’re outside, hailing a taxi, hearts racing in sync. Less than twenty minutes later, we’re in a sleek elevator at the JW Marriott, the air thick with unspoken desire as it ascends, carrying us to a penthouse suite on the top floor, where every inch of space feels charged with anticipation.

The entire time, their eyes cling to me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine, like I’m the last piece of steak they’ll ever savor—hungry, desperate, as if they’ve been starved for eternity. I can’t remember the last time anyone looked at me this way, as though I’m a forbidden sin they can’t wait to feast on, each glance a promise of things to come, raw and untamed.

I have no doubt that they would be sucking my face against the shiny metal wall if it weren’t for the stately elderly couple intow. Both dressed to the nines, the woman practically drowning in jewelry, enough to make her seem like she might topple over. The pair get off on the same floor and aim their steps down the opposite corridor.

I think the only thing keeping these dangerously sexy men from losing all propriety is the sheer elegance of this place. Even the floor of this elevator is a statement—plushly carpeted and pristine, as if decadence extends to the very soles of your feet. The air smells of wealth, a subtle blend of leather and polished wood. I’ve never been anywhere like this before. Growing up, I was lucky to stay in a one-star motel with scratchy sheets and towels that reeked of bleach and mildew.

This place feels like a fantasy, and the way these men’s eyes keep caressing me makes it even harder to believe it's real.

Odds strides into their expansive suite, making himself comfortable on the long, plush suede sofa in the main living area. With a devilish smirk, he pats his thighs.

“Made you a spot to sit, Hottie. Or, if you’d rather…” He slouches back, his palms dragging down his clean-shaven face, his eyes locking on mine with a burning, territorial fury. He tilts his head up slightly, slowly slipping his tongue out—teasing, coaxing, a silent challenge to sit where he’s more than willing to please. His movements are deliberate, his gaze unwavering, as if it’s the only place I’m meant to be. Then, he shifts, drawing closer to the center of the sofa. “I’d be just fine with this spot, too.”

I gape at him, my breath catching. Maybe I shouldn’t be so shocked since I agreed to come up here with them, but the boldness of his invitation—so forward, so unashamed—is just… it’s not what I’m used to. But then, none of this is what I’m used to. The shots, the wild dancing with strangers, and now, three men I barely know offering me a night laced with promises of pleasure I’ve never dared to imagine.

None of it.

Doggie—I’m seriously unsure if I can keep referring to him this way—simply smirks and leans toward me conspiratorially. “The man is gifted in many areas, and eating pussy is one of them. If you’re comfortable with that.”

There’s no rule book for this, but maybe a woman embracing such debauchery doesn’t need one. For once, I don’t have to be Ava Sterling—the shy young woman, mistake-maker, queen of bad decisions.

Tonight, I can be whoever I want, someone free from the weight of who I’ve been. I can be just as anonymous as these men are. In fact, I already am, since they’re calling me “Hottie.” Maybe I’ll take a page out of their book and run with it, unrestrained and completely untouchable.

So, what would Hottie do?

I think she’d sit on Odds’ face.

Before I can overthink it, I begin to unbutton the daffodil yellow short-sleeved blouse I wore with my pale matching skirt. Since I knew today wouldn’t be a typical day working with clients, I chose to wear something dressy I could jet across the country in. As foolish as that was. At least it’s prettier than my usual scrub-like uniform.

I avert my eyes, fingers trembling as I part the halves of my blouse, revealing the plain white cotton bra beneath—a choice I regret now, not knowing anyone else would see it. I may be pretending not to be Ava, but I can’t ignore the potential fallout of what I’m about to do. My eyes flick to each of them, and I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my flushed complexion undoubtedly cranked up to eleven.

Hesitantly, I say, “I… I didn’t bring any… protection.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Spandex says, his features locked into an expression that’s equally lustful and stern.

“Yeah,” Doggie agrees, patting the back pocket of his fitted black jeans. “We’re always packing.”

“Never leave home without it,” Odds tacks on. I try to relax, remembering I’m on the pill. Moreover, Dean often double-checks to make certain I don’t forget my daily dose. Not that I’ve ever wanted to bring kids into that travesty of a marriage. Not with him as the father.

But none of that matters right now. I’m not Ava. I’m Hottie. And Hottie’s up for anything as long as she’s safe.

Doggie reaches out his palm in a request for my hand, so I offer it.

“D you enjoy sex, Hottie? Trust us that if you don’t like something, you can say so and we’ll stop, no questions asked. Do you like careful and tender?” He slowly traces each of his hands along the curves of my breasts, then down to my navel, sending a wave of shivers across my skin as goosebumps rise wherever his touch lingers. “Or something a little rougher?”

All at once, he brackets his hand to my throat, turns me around and drags my body to his. The peep-toe heels I’m wearing catch slightly on the carpet, the soft grating sound pulling a startled gasp from my lips. I blink in surprise, hyper aware of his hand around my neck. His grip isn’t tight—just firm enough to remind me he’s in control. And there’s no real danger, no threat of being choked, yet the commanding pressure has my nipples beading and panties growing even wetter.

Damn.

When I exhale, the breath quivers—not from fear, but something more primal. It’s desire, raw and unfiltered. Suddenly, I crave the feeling of his grip tightening just a little, desperate for more of that intoxicating pulse of power running between us.

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