Page 79 of The Puck Contract

That small tug pulls a groan from deep in his chest, the vibration traveling through my cock and up my spine like lightning seeking ground. Through the haze of pleasure, I register the hungry sounds he's making, the eager movements of his head, the way he presses his own hips against the mattress seeking friction. The realization hits me with startling clarity: he fucking loves this. Not tolerating it, not going through the motions—actively, enthusiastically enjoying the act of reducing me to incoherent desperation.

His tongue maps every sensitive spot along my shaft with scientific precision, returning to each place that makes me gasp or jerk with the dedicated focus of someone creating a detailed pleasure atlas. When he finds a particularly responsive spot, he works it mercilessly until I'm panting and writhing against his grip.

"Your taste," he pulls off to murmur, voice wrecked in a way that sends another spike of arousal through me. "Fucking addictive."

He dives back down before I can respond, taking me deeper than before, until I feel the head of my cock hit the backof his throat. Instead of gagging or pulling back, he swallows around me, throat muscles constricting in rhythmic pulses that drag a broken cry from my chest.

Heat gathers at the base of my spine, coalescing into pressure so intense it borders on pain. My legs shake, muscles straining as my body chases the release building just out of reach. Each slide of his mouth, each flick of his tongue, each hum of approval around my flesh pushes me closer to the precipice.

"Close," I warn, fingers tightening in his hair. "Ansel—fuck—I'm going to—"

He pulls back just enough to growl, "Give it to me," his voice absolutely destroyed in a way that sends another bolt of arousal through my system. "Want to taste you. Want to feel you come apart."

Those filthy words in that ruined voice snap the last thread of my control. He descends again, deeper than seems humanly possible, and then his throat contracts around me in a deliberate swallow that obliterates every coherent thought in my brain.

Orgasm crashes through me with violent intensity, every muscle locking as pleasure erupts from my core and pulses outward. I cry out—his name tangled with curses and pleas—as my body arches off the mattress. His groan vibrates around me as he swallows, throat working to catch every pulse, the sensation prolonging my pleasure until I'm genuinely afraid I might black out.

His hands shift to my thighs, gripping hard enough to anchor me as aftershocks rock through my system. He continues to work me through it, tongue gentling but still moving, drawing out every last tremor until the pleasure crosses the line into overstimulation.

"Stop," I gasp, fingers tapping frantically at his shoulders. "Christ—too much—can't—"

He pulls off slowly, pressing a biting kiss to my inner thigh that makes me yelp, before I feel him move up my body. The blindfold slides away, and I blink rapidly against the dim light as Groover hovers above me—lips red and swollen, hair sticking up in every direction from my grip, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the brown of his irises.

"Well?" he asks, voice sandpaper-rough in ways that send another aftershock through me.

I stare at him, physically incapable of forming coherent words. My body feels liquefied, muscles turned to warm jelly, skin buzzing like I've touched a live wire.

"I think you killed me," I finally manage, each word requiring separate concentration to form. "This is definitely the afterlife. Nothing that good happens in the real world."

He laughs, but uncertainty flickers beneath it, something vulnerable in his eyes seeking reassurance.

"Good death?" he asks, aiming for casual but missing by miles.

I grab him by the neck, yanking him down until our mouths crash together. The taste of mu cum on his tongue should be weird, but it just adds another layer of filthy intimacy to the moment. When we break apart, I bite his lower lip, pulling a groan from deep in his chest.

"Fucking transcendent death," I tell him, tracing my thumb along his jaw, feeling the rawness there from his exertions. "Like, completely rewired my entire understanding of pleasure death."

His eyes fall half-closed and he releases a prolonged exhale. My attention drops to the obvious bulge still trapped in his jeans, pressing urgently against my thigh.

"Your turn," I say, hands moving to his waistband with newfound determination.

He catches my wrists. "You don't have to."

"Shut up. I want to," I insist, stomach flipping with nerves despite my confident tone. All my research, all those hours of reading and watching, and I'm still terrified of disappointing him. "I just might not match your Olympic-level skills."

His expression softens. "Nobody's keeping score. We do what feels good, nothing more."

"But you're still—" I nod at his obvious erection straining against denim, creating a tent in his jeans that looks almost painful.

"Oh, I'm definitely interested," he confirms with a wicked grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. "But there are plenty of options." He guides my hand to his zipper, the metal hot beneath my fingertips. "Let's start with the basics and work up to advanced techniques."

The care in his voice, the way he respects my inexperience without making me feel inadequate, loosens something tight in my chest. No pressure. No expectations. Just exploration at my pace.

I nod, opening his jeans with hands steadier than I expected, the rasp of the zipper oddly loud in the quiet room. He lifts his hips to help as I tug the denim down his thighs, revealing black boxer briefs stretched taut over his erection. The wet spot at the tip makes my mouth go dry.

"Damn," I breathe, not meaning to say it aloud.

Groover chuckles. "Is that a good 'damn' or a terrified one?"

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