Page 86 of Never Pucking Ending

“You taste fucking amazing,” he moans.

“My cock is made for your pussy,” he tells me.

And it feels true. He fits me so well. Fucks me so well. Every movement builds me higher and higher, my strings strung so tight that I don’t know how long I can hold on. He’s going to make me come again, and I don’t know if I’ll survive.

His body moves over me, in me, like he never wants to leave. Like each thrust, pump, and mumbled curse can last an eternity.

“So beautiful,” he whispers.

“So mine,” he growls.

That proclamation is all it takes before I am biting the sheets, so I don’t scream his name for the entire neighborhood to hear.

“Can I come inside you?” he asks me, as if he hasn’t already done that plenty of times before.

“Y-Yes,” I say, trying to meet his hips.

“Fuck. Yes.” He grabs ahold of my body and slams inside one last time until I can feel his hot spurts of cum fill me. It keeps coming and coming and he keeps whispering sweet nothings into my back as he kisses me like he’s never experienced something so blissful as this.

My body feels limp when he pulls out, carefully setting me flat onto the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” he whispers, kissing the back of my head before disappearing into the attached bathroom and bringing back a damp cloth to clean me off with.

I’m sensitive when he wipes between my thighs, jerking at the sensation. He apologizes, wipes himself off, and then curls around me, pressing our naked bodies against each other.

I think I fall asleep within seconds of his arm wrapping around me, and I don’t know if I’m dreaming or not when I hear, “I love you, Belle.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Jesse

The crowd boos at the final score of our last game, and it’s a soul-crushing sound. Maybe if there hadn’t been so much speculation about this being my last game ever, I wouldn’t feel so pent-up about it. But the lingering headlines and questions regarding my retirement have been front page news since I haven’t outwardly addressed the rumors every time I’m asked.

And honestly? I have debated this being the end for me. Since my contract was only for two years with the Fireflies, with an option to sign on for a season-to-season basis, I could hang up my skates and decide to be done. I’m not getting any younger, my body is beat up, and I’m not sure how much more my joints have before some of them need to be replaced.

Richie is the first one to break the tense silence of the locker room. “I’m sorry, guys.”

We all know it isn’t his fault we lost. I could tell he was ready to break one of his crutches every time I looked over at the sidelines at him. I’ve been where he is—having to watch things unfold without the control to fix it. Sometimes, I wish I didn’t have to witness the annihilation firsthand because at least I could throw shit at home without cameras or eyes on me. But he showed up for us, and he lost with us, whether he was on that ice or not.

“It’s not your fault, dude,” I call out, getting a few murmurs of agreement. Everybody is solemn, and rightfully so. If this is anything like the last time we ended a season poorly, half of us will wind up at a bar getting fucked up on expensive liquor until they kick us out, where we’ll more than likely wind up at one of our houses to continue the pity party.

I know there are media outlets waiting outside to ask us how we feel and what we’ll bring next season. I’m sure I’ll be asked again about the rumors regarding my retirement, and if I’ll be re-signing my contract for next season. But I don’t want to talk to any of them. The only person I want is the woman who wore my jersey and looked as defeated in the stands as I did when the final buzzer went off and the opposing team celebrated their victory.

Unfortunately for me, as captain, I have to handle the sharks circling us in blood-infested waters whether I want to or not.

Coach Hoffman comes over to me and clasps my shoulder. “It was a good season,” he tells me, although I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself. “We had a lot of good games.”

We had far more bad ones, though. I don’t voice that thought to bring down the mood any lower than it already is. If this is my last game, I feel bad for letting fans and teammates down. For not doing better. Pushing harder. There are games I knew I could have, but nothing can be done about that now.

“At least you’ll have more time off with your family,” I reply, offering the only good news I can think of.

He huffs, knowing I’m right but not wanting to admit he’s looking forward to it considering it means we’re done early. “I suppose somebody has to look at the silver lining. Not surprised it’s you.”

I shrug, smiling even though it feels foreign on my face. I don’t want to smile. I want to slam my locker closed, kick something, and curse out the other team’s defense for being so fucking good. But I’m the level-headed one. At least, I’m supposed to be. That’s why I’ve been allowed to be captain for so many years, for multiple teams.

So, I don’t release any of that frustration no matter how hard it begs to be let out. I smother it to deal with later. Hopefully, Belle will distract me by then. I don’t even care how. She could put on one of her ridiculous brain rot shows and try convincing me that they aren’t scripted, and it would probably work.

Her mother couldn’t stay for the game like she’d planned because of some family emergency that involved her dog Taco getting into the pantry and eating an entire brick of eighty-eight-percent dark chocolate. Dad called her about it this morning, apologizing and saying he could take him to the vet alone, but she wanted to be there in case something happened. Last update we got, an hour before the game started, Taco had puked up the chocolate, the wrapper, and a receipt from Walmart that was somehow still legible.