Page 16 of Slapshot Kiss

In my head, the wheel never starts moving again. We stay right there at the top, just the two of us swaying in the dark.

I picture peeling her out of that soft cream sweater she wore tonight. Slowly. Dragging it up her body, watching her dark hair tumble back down over her shoulders.

She’s wearing a simple black tank underneath, nothing fancy, but it clings to her perky tits perfectly. I tug that off too. No bra. Just full, lush curves and tight little nipples begging for my mouth.

My hand wraps around my cock and strokes slowly.

In my head, I slide her jeans down her legs, taking my time, kissing the inside of her thigh as I go. She’s wearing pale pink panties made of soft cotton, innocent as hell, and the sight of them makes my mouth water.

I hook my fingers under the fabric and pull it aside instead of taking them off.

She’s already wet, her lips plump and swollen.

“Can I?” I ask her, even in my fucking fantasy.

She nods.

So I slide a finger inside her, fucking her with it slowly at first, then faster when I imagine her hips starting to move against my hand.

Back in my bedroom, I spit into my palm and wrap my hand around my cock again.

Up and down. Faster now.

I’m so fucking hard I could probably punch a hole through the wall with my dick.

Yeah, Quinn, baby. That’s it.

In my head, she’s getting louder, her thighs spreading wider for me as I keep fucking her with my fingers.

Keep going.

Then the fantasy shifts.

I’m gripping her hips and sliding into her in one slow thrust. Her back arches, and a broken moan falls from that pretty mouth. I can practically hear her gasping my name.

“Larkin…”

Then I’m fucking her deep, the car rocking with every thrust. I smack her ass hard, the sharp sound a whipcrack in the enclosed space.

She cries out, clenching around me. That mouth falls open in a perfect little ‘O’, eyes wide and glassy as she moans my name again, louder this time.

“Fuck, Larkin—”

I stroke myself faster, jaw clenched, breathing rough.

The fantasy shifts — her on top of me, riding me slow and deep, hair falling around us like a curtain, those sharp blue eyes locked on mine while she whimpers and gasps.

I come hard, hips jerking, her name trapped behind my teeth.

When it’s over, I lie there breathing like I just finished a suicide drill, staring at the ceiling again.

Pickles is still asleep on the couch.

Lucky bastard.

***

The next morning I stroll into the locker room like I own the place, because somebody’s got to. I’m halfway to my stall when Jordan’s voice rings out.