Poetry On Ice (Totally Pucked, #1)

by Jesse H. Reign

“You owe me twenty thousand dollars.” An exasperated breath fizzles through his teeth. “I know.” “Good thing you earn almost as much as me, huh? So I don’t have to feel too bad about taking it from you.” He doesn’t reply, but I can tell from the weight of the silence that he’s likely plotting my murder, so to distract him, I hit him with, “Wanna go double or nothing?” He’s quiet for so long that I think he might have fallen asleep. “No, I don’t,” he says eventually. “Cool beans,” I reply, though I’m not sure that’s something people still say, and it’s certainly not something I’ve ever felt the need to say aloud before. “Does that mean I get to blow you whenever I want now?” “No.” A slow, sultry puff of air is released in my direction. There’s ice in his voice. Fire too. “It means you get to blow me whenever I want.” Oh damn, that’s hot.

I’m out of control. I see it. I know it. I know it’s not good, but I simply cannot stop putting my dick in Robbie McGuire’s mouth, no matter how often I tell myself it’s a bad idea.

I looked for a while, but I couldn’t find my pajama pants in the carnage we made of his bed, and honestly, there comes a point where clothing becomes arbitrary between two people. If you ask me, that point is when you’ve lain behind a guy naked and reamed his anal virginity into the wild blue yonder.

Before I have time to fully recover from the shock of seeing a totally naked Robbie McGuire less than five feet from me, he gets up and strides toward the bathroom, stopping at the door to look at me accusingly and say, “What are you waiting for?” like I’m some kind of idiot. “I, um…” I’m finding things a little hard to follow, but fortunately, my dick is quick to explain. He wants to blow you, bruh. Stop being a pussy and get in there.

I sleep badly. Not least because it occurred to me in the early hours that the reason I want a photo of McGuire’s sleepy, smooshed face is because that’s how he looks when he’s all happy and snuggled up beside me, nonconsensually cuddling the crap out of me right before we fall asleep in each other’s arms.

“Uh-uh,” he says when I get near his navel. “I meant it. No funny business, Princess. You took a fuck-ton of hits tonight. You got banged up. The last thing in the world you need is to subject yourself to more impact.” “But I like this kind of impact,” I whine. “This kind of banging is good for me. It helps clear my sinuses.”