Reaper's Stand
Page 43
Just like that.
But her mouth would be hot and wet, and the thought of her pussy was so sweet it made his teeth hurt. And he’d find one with a sweet pussy for that first night outside. No nasty old bitches for him. Nope. Nothing but the best, because it was his fantasy and he’d damned well do what he wanted in it.
His cock swelled as he pictured sliding it into her slowly from behind. Favorite way to do it, looking down at their asses, all heart shaped and pretty. Jacking his hand slowly, he tried to decide what he wanted. Pale skin? Dark? Maybe some freckles, or just all creamy smooth? Hell, he’d order one of each, find a new one to play with every night.
Speaking of asses, he’d hit that, too. Yup. Mouth, cunt, ass. Then he’d get drunk and start all over again.
Fuckin’ beautiful. Too bad she wasn’t real. Frustration filled him, but Puck jacked harder, lust for his imaginary girl clashing with the cold, hard reality that a man’s hand just wasn’t enough. Not after thirteen months.
But his hand would have to do.
Fluid started seeping from his tip, and he caught it, slicking his way as he kept going. His heart pumped faster now, matching his rhythm. Sweet, tight, and hot. Young. Pretty. Maybe long hair, so he could hold on to it while he fucked her, because riding rough worked for him in a big way.
Oh yeah …
He liked the idea of pulling her hair, maybe giving her ass a little smack. The vision was so intense he practically heard the slap of his hand against her flesh, the way she’d tense around him when he did it. Fuck, that was good. The pressure inside grew tighter and he knew he was close. So fucking close.
His vision shifted—now she knelt in front of him, looking up with big, deep brown eyes as she wrapped her pink lips around his cock. Holy hell, that was perfect. Puck’s arm started to ache, but he didn’t slow down. Probably making enough noise for the others to hear and he didn’t give a shit. Painter was his brother—might not be with the same clubs, but brothers just the same. They’d done time together, forged a bond that couldn’t be broken. Shit like this meant nothin’.
And Fester?
He didn’t count.
The girl in his head pulled her mouth free of his cock, and glanced up at him playfully. Then she reached out with the tip of her tongue, poking the slit at the end of his length.
Puck exploded.
Jesus.
So fucking good. Fucking perfect.
For a moment he just lay in the dark, free in that instant. What a joke.
Too bad his little mama wasn’t real. And she wasn’t. Because here he was, stuck alone in the dark with two other men, one of whom was half in love with some bitch he’d probably never touch. Nope. Painter wouldn’t make a move even after they got out. Precious Melanie was too pretty and perfect up on her pedestal to get dirty, Puck figured.
As for Fester? He liked to eat his own crayons.
Pathetic. Both of them. Puck needed to get out, sometimes thought he’d go crazy if he didn’t get out.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Puck wiped off his hand and pulled up his pants. After tonight, only thirteen days left.
“Those was definitely her little titties pokin’ through that dress,” Fester whispered.
“God damn it!”
Painter was out of bed and across the room in a heartbeat, dragging dumbass out of bed so hard that Puck’s bunk shook.
“Don’t do it,” Puck snapped. “You fuck him up, could mess with our parole.”
Painter stilled.
“You don’t talk about her,” he said finally, dropping the other man to the floor. Fester gave a high, nervous giggle.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Mouth. Cunt. Ass.
But her mouth would be hot and wet, and the thought of her pussy was so sweet it made his teeth hurt. And he’d find one with a sweet pussy for that first night outside. No nasty old bitches for him. Nope. Nothing but the best, because it was his fantasy and he’d damned well do what he wanted in it.
His cock swelled as he pictured sliding it into her slowly from behind. Favorite way to do it, looking down at their asses, all heart shaped and pretty. Jacking his hand slowly, he tried to decide what he wanted. Pale skin? Dark? Maybe some freckles, or just all creamy smooth? Hell, he’d order one of each, find a new one to play with every night.
Speaking of asses, he’d hit that, too. Yup. Mouth, cunt, ass. Then he’d get drunk and start all over again.
Fuckin’ beautiful. Too bad she wasn’t real. Frustration filled him, but Puck jacked harder, lust for his imaginary girl clashing with the cold, hard reality that a man’s hand just wasn’t enough. Not after thirteen months.
But his hand would have to do.
Fluid started seeping from his tip, and he caught it, slicking his way as he kept going. His heart pumped faster now, matching his rhythm. Sweet, tight, and hot. Young. Pretty. Maybe long hair, so he could hold on to it while he fucked her, because riding rough worked for him in a big way.
Oh yeah …
He liked the idea of pulling her hair, maybe giving her ass a little smack. The vision was so intense he practically heard the slap of his hand against her flesh, the way she’d tense around him when he did it. Fuck, that was good. The pressure inside grew tighter and he knew he was close. So fucking close.
His vision shifted—now she knelt in front of him, looking up with big, deep brown eyes as she wrapped her pink lips around his cock. Holy hell, that was perfect. Puck’s arm started to ache, but he didn’t slow down. Probably making enough noise for the others to hear and he didn’t give a shit. Painter was his brother—might not be with the same clubs, but brothers just the same. They’d done time together, forged a bond that couldn’t be broken. Shit like this meant nothin’.
And Fester?
He didn’t count.
The girl in his head pulled her mouth free of his cock, and glanced up at him playfully. Then she reached out with the tip of her tongue, poking the slit at the end of his length.
Puck exploded.
Jesus.
So fucking good. Fucking perfect.
For a moment he just lay in the dark, free in that instant. What a joke.
Too bad his little mama wasn’t real. And she wasn’t. Because here he was, stuck alone in the dark with two other men, one of whom was half in love with some bitch he’d probably never touch. Nope. Painter wouldn’t make a move even after they got out. Precious Melanie was too pretty and perfect up on her pedestal to get dirty, Puck figured.
As for Fester? He liked to eat his own crayons.
Pathetic. Both of them. Puck needed to get out, sometimes thought he’d go crazy if he didn’t get out.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Puck wiped off his hand and pulled up his pants. After tonight, only thirteen days left.
“Those was definitely her little titties pokin’ through that dress,” Fester whispered.
“God damn it!”
Painter was out of bed and across the room in a heartbeat, dragging dumbass out of bed so hard that Puck’s bunk shook.
“Don’t do it,” Puck snapped. “You fuck him up, could mess with our parole.”
Painter stilled.
“You don’t talk about her,” he said finally, dropping the other man to the floor. Fester gave a high, nervous giggle.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Mouth. Cunt. Ass.
