Page 16 of Revenge Puck

Her lips are parted and swollen from kissing. Her eyes are dark and wild and searching, like she’s trying to figure out what I’m going to do next.

“What?” she whispers into the faintly lit room, the only light coming from the city lights—and the full moon—outside the windows. Shadows bounce off the walls.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror; avert my eyes before I decide I don’t like what I see.

I swallow.

Shake my head. “Nothing.”

Her eyes meet mine, then she does something that steals the air from my lungs. She begins undoing the buttons of her baby blue shirt.

Deliberately.

One button.

Then another.

The fabric parts inch by inch, revealing pale skin, the smooth slope of her collarbone, the rise and fall of her unsteady breath. My gaze follows every movement despite myself as the shirt slips from her shoulders and she reveals herself.

Sheer lace bra.

Delicate looking; the pretty kind with a tiny bow between her tits. Absurdly sweet.

Ridiculously sexy.

Leaning down, I press my mouth to her stomach. She shivers beneath me, fingers tangling in my hair as I trail lower, kissing a path across her flesh, slowly heading south, fingers moving to the snap on her jeans.

I work it loose and ease the zipper down.

Pull the denim past her hips, thirsty for a sight of her pussy. For the taste of it.

A thrill of the unknown—but the all too familiar—zips through my body as I remove them, tossing them to the ground beside her bed.

My hands do not linger longer than necessary; they don’t explore. I don’t touch her tits or suck on them. I move with purpose, practiced and uncurious, positioning her because that part doesn’t require thought.

I could do this shit blindfolded.

In college, I probably did.

When it’s over, I sit up, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and slide off the bed, unable to give her any kind words to think about after I let myself out of her apartment.

She’s curled on her side, lashes resting against her cheeks, breathing slow and even. Peaceful. Pink ribbon finally unraveling around the halo of her hair.

I pause, watching her sleep, relieved that she’s passed out and we don’t have to…I don’t know—cuddle and shit. Letting her stay sleeping is kinder than lying about my intentions to see her again. Or make promises I’m not going to keep.

She shifts beneath the blanket, making a small sound in her throat when I pull her bedroom door closed behind me.

I pull on my shoes, glancing up at the wall in her small entryway.

Stop short.

Frames line the wall, photos I hadn’t noticed when I came in. Smiling faces. Group shots.

“What the fuck?” I whisper, squinting at a familiar jawline, and I step closer, studying it.

Declan Kennedy.

Older in one photo. Younger in another. Arm slung around the shoulders of the woman whose pussy I’d eaten out, moaning and gasping and withering on her sheets.