Page 63 of Pucking the Single Dad
"Come for me, baby—let me feel you squeeze me dry."
I was beyond words, reduced to whimpers and pleas, the pressure unbearable now, a white-hot knot ready to snap.
He pulled out abruptly, and I whined at the loss—until he flipped me onto all fours, one hand fisting my hair to arch my back just so. A sharp slap landed on my ass, the sting blooming into heat that made me push back, begging.
"That's it—take it all." He re-entered with a growl, burying himself to the hilt in one fast thrust, then fucked me from behind: deep, animalistic, the bed shaking under us as his grip bruised my hips, holding me steady for his pleasure.
Each snap of his hips jolted me forward, breasts swaying, the angle letting him hit even deeper, grinding against my cervix in a way that blurred pain and pleasure into ecstasy.
It built fast, shattering over me like glass—my orgasm ripping through with a scream, pussy spasming in endless, clenching pulses around him, soaking us both in a gush of release that dripped down my thighs. Waves crashed, vision spotting white, my arms giving out until I collapsed to my elbows, trembling.
He followed seconds later, thrusts turning erratic as he buried himself deep, roaring my name like a prayer. Hot spurts flooded my core, pulsing thick and endless, his body shuddering against mine as he milked every drop.
We collapsed in a heap, limbs entwined on the wrecked sheets, aftershocks still trembling through us like echoes. His arm draped heavy over my waist, pulling me back against his chest, our sweat-slick skin sticking as breaths evened out. The room smelled of sex—musk and salt and us—and I sighed, sated to my bones, a lazy smile curving my lips. God, I could do this forever.
Chapter 22: Serena
"And this is Miss Serena!" Finn's voice rang with pride as he presented his family project to his second-grade class. "She's our Inclusion Specialist but also she's teaching me about atmospheric pressure and she invented this breathing game where I'm a dragon and—oh! She makes grilled cheese sandwiches that are basically magic."
I pressed my back against the second-grade classroom's construction paper border, trying to shrink into the alphabet strips while twenty pairs of eyes dissected Finn's family project. My official observation clipboard trembled in my hands—I was supposed to be monitoring his peer interactions, not becoming the subject of them.
His poster was chaos perfected: photos scattered like confetti, connected by yarn in a complex web only Finn understood. There we were, flour-bombed from last week’s cookie disaster. Brad hoisting Finn skyward at the lake, me caught mid-laugh, hair whipping like an auburn flag. At the center, Finn had drawn us in aggressive crayon—Brad a giant stick figure with hockey stick arms, me a tangle of red spirals he insisted was "accurate," himself small but central, our cartoon hands linked in an unbreakable chain.
"Is she your mom?" Ashley asked with the surgical precision only seven-year-olds possess.
"She's Miss Serena," Finn answered simply, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.
Mrs. Rachel caught my eye, smiling warmly. But I noticed other parents watching me with expressions ranging from curiosity to calculation. Brad Wilder's girlfriend. Thewoman playing mother to his son. The teacher who'd hit the jackpot.
After Finn's presentation, the PTA president cornered me in the parking lot as I was heading to my car.
"Ms. Voss! Or should I say Serena?" Her smile could have stripped paint. "Since you're so... close with Brad Wilder, we were hoping you might leverage that special relationship for our fundraiser. Signed jerseys? Maybe arrange a meet-and-greet? VIP box seats?"
The words slithered between us. I felt my professional identity evaporating, replaced by something smaller, transactional.
"I don't—that's not really—"
"Oh come on." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You landed Brad Wilder. Might as well make it work for the school, right? Unless you want people thinking you're just another puck bunny who got lucky."
The implication hung between us like a slap. I wasn't Serena Voss anymore—master's in Special Education, three years of experience. I was Brad Wilder'sgirlfriend, a title that apparently erased everything else.
"I'll mention it," I managed, though the words tasted like copper.
PTA president’s smile widened, shark-like. "Perfect!"
As she click-clacked away, I slumped against my car. Inside the school, I was Ms. Voss, professional educator. Out here, I'd become something else—an access point, a convenient bridge to celebrity.
At home, I found Brad torturing his recovering knee in the gym, each rep a small act of war against his own body. Sweat darkened his shirt, and the sound of his breathing—ragged, determined—made my teeth ache.
"You're going to destroy what's left of that joint," I said from the doorway.
He didn't even glance up. "Playoffs are coming. Weak gets you benched."
"You're not weak." I moved closer, cataloging the white-knuckled grip on the weight bar, the micro-tremor in his bad leg. "You're also not invincible."
"Pot, meet kettle," he ground out, grinding through another brutal set.
"The PTA wants me to ask you for donations."
