Page 51 of One Pucking Secret
“Fuck,” I cry out when he increases the pace. “Harder, please!”
He doesn’t hesitate. His fingers dive deeper, move faster, and his thumb on my clit is relentless. It’s overwhelming—the kind of pleasure that teeters on the edge of too much, but is too good to want it to stop. Tears prick at my eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer intensity of sensation building inside me.
“Ah!” The climax hits me like a tidal wave, crashing through me with such force, I feel like I might shatter into a thousand pieces. He doesn’t let up, fingers still working inside me, drawing out every last tremor of ecstasy until I’m spent, a panting, limp, and satisfied heap.
We kiss, a soft counterpoint to the intensity that just passed between us. My breath comes in short bursts, mingling with his in the narrow space where our mouths meet and part and meet again.
“Wow,” I whisper against his lips, a single word that seems to capture the immensity of what’s just happened, even if it can’t encompass all the feelings tumbling through me. His eyes gleam with a mixture of pride and tenderness, and I know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.
“God, that was intense,” I gasp out, still trembling from the roller coaster of pleasure he’s just taken me on.
Wyatt hovers over me, his chest rising and falling with equal fervor. “I can tell,” he says, voice rough like gravel. But there’s a glint in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of what we shared.
“Now it’s your turn,” I declare, propping myself up on the couch. My fingers trace the outline of his jaw, a promise etched into my touch. “And I want you in my mouth.”
“Sounds like the perfect plan to me.” He stands, an imposing figure carved from desire, directly in front of where I sit on the edge of the couch. His boxers—the last barrier between us—are no match for my eager hands as I peel them away, revealing him in all his glory.
“So big,” I murmur, my breath hot against the sensitive skin of his erection. “I love it so much.” My words are half-whisper, half-sigh, full of longing as I wrap my fingers around him, feeling his pulse thrum through my grip.
His groan vibrates through the room when I place my mouth on his crown, a sound that sends shivers down my spine. “Yes, baby. Just like that,” he encourages, threading his fingers through my hair, guiding without pushing.
I work himin my mouth, tongue swirling, lips sliding—a dance as old as time yet freshly impassioned with each movement. My hands explore his length and girth, caressing the weight of his balls, intent in every stroke.
“Mm,” I hum around him, the vibration eliciting another deep moan from his throat.
“If you keep humming like that, I’m going to spill in your mouth,” he warns, but there’s a plea hidden in the velvet of his voice.
“That’s the plan,” I breathe out.
He takes the hint, beginning to thrust gently into the welcoming warmth of my mouth. I savor him, taking pride in my ability to evoke such raw responses, getting turned on by the power I hold.
The crescendo builds, his movements growing more urgent, and I brace myself for his impending orgasm looming ahead. When it breaks, his climax washes over us both, a release that fills my mouth with the essence of him.
“Jesus, Chloe. Keep it up, and you’re going to be the death of me,” he pants, his voice ragged, letting me know how close to the edge I’ve brought him.
I can’t help but pout playfully, feigning innocence even now. “Wouldn’t want that.”
Wyatt’s laughter is a warm blanket wrapping around us, an intimate endnote to our sighs and moans.
“Want to stay the night?” Wyatt’s voice is gentle, a transition from our previous fervor. He lifts me from the couch with an ease that speaks of his strength.
“I’d love to,” I reply, my voice light, floating on the possibility of spending more time wrapped up in this newfound intimacy.
He kisses my forehead, a tender gesture that feels like a promise. “I’m going to get cleaned up,” he says. “You can join me in the master bathroom if you want to do the same.”
I nod, still dizzy with the whirlwind of sensations, but follow him. Wyatt finishes quickly, leaving me to freshen up while he slips out. In the sanctuary of his bathroom, I wash away the remnants of passion from my face, the cool water a balm to my flushed skin. I find a new toothbrush tucked in a drawer, its bristles untouched and ready for me. As I brush, minty freshness chases away the lingering taste of him.
Stepping out into the bedroom, I’m greeted by the sight of Wyatt. He stands there, naked, muscles sculpted in the soft lighting—a vision of masculine beauty. Ethereal almost, as if hebelongs to another world where only the gods tread.
He catches my gaze, his blue eyes twinkling with a mix of mirth and something deeper. With a casual pat on the bed beside him, he beckons me over. I settle next to him, our skin whispering against the crisp sheets.
“Why’d you take the job, knowing you’d have to work with me?” His question isn’t accusatory. It’s tinged with genuine curiosity, but it still takes me by surprise.
I thread my fingers through his, feeling the calluses of a life lived chasing pucks on ice. “For Jasper.” I start, “To save enough for a down payment on a house. He needs a yard to run around in.” The image of my son’s laughter echoing through a sunlit garden fills my mind.
Wyatt’s nod is thoughtful, approving. “Jasper needs that space. A place to just be a kid.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice that tugs at me.
“And he’s had one hell of a mom to rely on,” he adds. I see the admiration in his gaze, feel it in the warmth of his touch.
