The Pilot and the Puck-Up Page 17

  She pinches my nipples. “Something nice about my personality,” she orders.

  “You’re fucking hot when you give orders.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Get your dick in my pussy now.”

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  She lifts her hips. Jupiter leaps to his full height. He’s standing straight and tall and proud, and she has to lift herself higher to press down on his head.

  I grip her by the hips and strain to not buck up into her, because while I don’t think she’s a normal virgin, I’m not fucking this up.

  Joey’s not some random chick to blow off some steam with. She’s…Joey.

  I pull myself up to sitting and claim her mouth, because the angle’s better and I have to kiss this woman.

  I have to taste her. Touch her. Feel every bit of her.

  We’re both out of here in the morning.

  Tonight’s gonna fucking count.

  My dick glides into her folds. I squeeze her tits and suck on her tongue. She grips my hair, tilts her hips, and fucking puck on a platter.

  She’s sliding over my head, taking it inside her, gasping into my mouth while she rides my head.

  Right there.

  Just my head.

  In and out of her tight pussy, right at her entrance, squeezing the tip of me like that’s all she can take. I’m groaning and panting too, because fuck, I want more.

  I want so fucking much more.

  It takes so much control to not push the rest of the way into her that my ass is quaking with the effort. My abs. Fuck, even my boner’s vibrating with barely-controlled need.

  She inches down my shaft, and even with the condom on, I can feel that slick heat in the tight walls gripping my stick. “Fuck, Joey, that’s so good.”

  “Told you,” she pants. “Fucking…fits… Dog, so fucking big.”

  I squeeze her nipples.

  She gasps and rakes her short fingernails over my back and takes more of me into her tight channel.

  I’m seeing fucking stars.

  I’m not even coming, and I’m seeing fucking stars. “Need more,” I gasp.

  “Oh, yes, yes, right there.”

  She’s thrusting and pumping her hips, taking me inch by inch, higher and deeper and harder, and fuck, I want all the way in. I want so far in I’m never coming back in.

  I want to be so far inside her that she’s squeezing my nuts with her walls too.

  She’s not cradling my dick. No, she’s fucking strangling it with her magic pussy. Strangling and choking it and eating the whole damn thing, and now those stars are black dots in my vision.

  “More, baby,” I gasp. “Gimme more. You’re so fucking good.”

  “Don’t baby me. Fucking fuck me.”

  She pinches my nipples, the sun explodes in my chest, and I’m never fucking another woman as long as I live. Swear to pineapple tater tot casserole.

  My hips buck into her, driving my dick all the way home. She gasps, and I freeze. “Joey—”

  She lifts off me and slams down until she’s sitting on my subplanets. “More. Oh fuck, Zeus, more.”

  That’s all I need to hear. I lift us both, twist, pin her to the ground, and I drive home. Her legs clench around my hips, she thrusts into me, my nuts slap her ass, and she’s chanting my name.

  “Yes, Zeus, more, yes yes YES.”

  “Joey.” Fuck, I’m gonna come. She’s squeezing and pumping and riding me and she’s so hot and so tight and so slick and so fucking into me.

  Into me.

  “I’m coming,” she gasps.

  Those walls squeezing me clench around my dick like a vise, and that’s all it takes. I roar as my own release overcomes me, shooting and firing and exploding harder with every spasm rocking my cock.

  She’s not just coming.

  She’s pulling me over this cliff, harder, hotter, faster, stronger, making me come my eyeballs out. There’s no fucking room for me to come, there’s nothing left for me to give, but her pussy keeps squeezing and I keep coming so hard my dick’s probably never going to work again.

  This is better than a buzzer-beater. Better than floating weightless. I don’t know what’s out there at the edges of the universe, but swear on my monster cock, I just saw it.

  Joey goes limp beneath me. “Oh my dog,” she whispers.

  My cock’s still twitching inside her.

  Her pussy’s still trembling around me. Uneven and weak, but still so much fucking stronger than it should be.

  That’s Joey.

  Never weak.

  Never quits.

  Fuck.

  I fucking love this woman.

  The realization hits like an enforcer blindsiding me. She walked into my life, said show me what you got, and don’t you dare give me anything less than the best, and boom.

  She was mine.

  And it’s not as terrifying as it should be.

  I barely know her. She’s bested me at every single fucking thing we’ve done. She doesn’t take any shit.

  And I’m fucking head over heels in love with her.

  Her fingers brush my hair out of my eyes, and this time, I know exactly what that hot air balloon expanding in my chest is.

  “Won’t fucking fit,” she scoffs as she pants.

  Yeah.

  I’m gonna love this woman until the day I die.

  I lower my head and I kiss her.

  Suckle on her lower lip. Swipe my tongue over the inside. Cradle her head and explore her mouth.

  She hesitates only a second before she’s kissing me back.

  I’m not gonna lie and tell you it’s because she loves me. Or that I’m letting myself imagine she ever might.

  I’m a monster puckhead. She’s gonna fly her own ass to the moon without me one day. Probably won’t even remember me.

  But I’m gonna take every moment I can until it’s over. Even if it never comes again, I’m going to fucking have tonight.

  She traces my ear with one finger, Jupiter lifts a sleepy head, she giggles and squeezes her pussy around him, and it’s game over, lights out.

  Because I’m about to make love to this woman.

  And this one’s just for me.

  26

  Joey

  If you’d told me two nights ago that Zeus could give me a double orgasm before he took his own pants off, and then treat me to a triple courtesy of the same dick that was hair-trigger quick, I would’ve laughed in your face.

  Now, I’m pretending I still remember how to walk while we battle to see who’s going to play the gentleman and hold the door while the other goes into the hotel first.

  I’ve never had this much fun in my entire life. My cheeks hurt from smiling. Flying, hockey, sex—I’m happy. For this moment, I’m happy.

  “Fine,” he says. “I’ll go first. More cookies for me.”

  I’d say he already got his cookies, but damn. Smells like a fresh batch is sitting in the lobby.

  At two AM.

  Fuck being a gentleman.

  We rush through the door at the same time. He’s got the upper hand for hip checks, so I hit him with a well-placed squeeze to a pressure point in his elbow.

  He yelps and freezes in the doorway.

  I yelp because the two of us can’t fit through at the same time, and I’m stuck between his bicep and the door frame.

  Just inside the lobby, several eyeballs swivel our way.

  Ambrosia snickers. Ares makes eye contact with Zeus and clearly says something silently, but he’s got a mean poker face and I can’t tell what.

  Chase looks thoughtful. “I’ve seen this before… Now where was it?”

  “Shut up, glitter chin.” Zeus dislodges himself by stepping backward, I tumble forward and almost lose my balance, and he scores another point with me by letting me recover on my own.

  Nice to know that giving a guy your cherry doesn’t mean he forgets who you are.

  Not nice?

  That gas in
my chest that I can’t honestly blame on indigestion.

  Or the mild panic at knowing my time in Copper Valley ends soon. We’re wheels-up, taking Luna back to Huntsville, in mere hours.

  I’m busting crew rest big time. Not like me.

  But Monkey Butt and Boomer have us covered tomorrow, and my next scheduled flight isn’t for three days.

  I can have a night of fun.

  “Where are those cookies?” I ask.

  “If you have to ask…” Ambrosia muses.

  Zeus flips her a double bird on his way to the help-yourself coffee bar. He grabs the entire glass tray and makes eye contact with the night clerk. “Bring out all your dough. Man’s gotta eat. Pilot chicks do too.”

  I should get to bed. Even with my crew capable of flying, I have shit I need to be awake for tomorrow.

  Instead, I drop into an open seat in the lobby. Unfortunately, it’s beside Manning.

  He passes me a wine bottle. “Mead?”

  I take a swig. It’s like wine, but sweet enough to make my eyeballs burn. “Pansy-ass drink.”

  He grins. “Rather have some tree bark then? Maybe some rubber off a tire?”

  I want a hamburger, but I’m honestly too satisfied to be picky.

  Or care that the prince drinks girly drinks. He’s here. Gracie’s back home. She’s out of danger. “Does anything ever bother you?” I ask.

  “I’m a prince with no responsibilities and all the money in the world. Why would anything ever bother me?”

  He’s still smiling, but even in my sex-sated state, I can tell I hit a nerve.

  Not that I much care.

  Unless he’s still in contact with Gracie. Then I’m going to fucking care.

  Zeus hands me the tray of cookies. “Don’t let that royal fucker have any.”

  “Aren’t any royals to fuck in my country,” Manning says cheerfully. “We’re all male. Which would work out nicely for my cousin, I suppose, if he had the poor taste to be attracted to any of us.”

  “Was that an insult to you or your cousin?” Ambrosia asks.

  He winks. “You know my stepsister. I’m sure you can answer that for yourself.”

  Ambrosia’s still staring at him while I make short work of four chocolate chip cookies. “Were you the one who let the sheep loose in the castle the day her mom married your dad?” she asks.

  “I’m quite certain that was a wooly accident.”

  And as snorts of laughter break out around us, I’m certain I’m glad Gracie went home this morning.

  For many reasons.

  I take another swig off the bottle, then pass it to Zeus, who’s squeezed into a chair meant for a man half his size. He’s perched on the edge, his legs spread wide enough that his knee’s almost touching mine.

  And I wonder if the key card I have for his room will still work.

  Motivated by sex?

  No.

  Willing to jump on another opportunity to ride his rocket around the galaxy?

  Only live once. Gotta do what you can while you’re here.

  Even if it means you hurt tomorrow.

  27

  Joey

  I’ve been back in Huntsville four days, and I’m getting cranky.

  Not because things aren’t going well. Meemaw’s been moved to a rehabilitation center and has excellent round-the-clock care, so Peach and I are both in the office for the first time in over a week.

  I missed her ridiculously perfect face.

  Yesterday’s flight was just as fucking amazing as it was supposed to be. Couldn’t have asked for better weather, no one puked, and one of the passengers was a YouTuber whose video of the flight already has over a hundred thousand views. Our receptionist hasn’t taken a full breath since she sat down this morning for all the reservation inquiries we’re getting.

  She has managed to inhale all four cups of coffee I’ve brought her between calls though.

  Gracie drove the thirty minutes for a visit last night. If she’s harboring any lingering irritation with me over my interference with her little whatever-it-was with Prince Manning, she’s not letting on. Nope, she gave me shit for wearing an orange shirt with purple pants—both gifts from her—and raided my cabinets for my secret stash of jelly beans.

  But it’s not even the irritation that we don’t hang out enough rankling me.

  No, that’s all Zeus Berger’s doing.

  He had flowers delivered here yesterday.

  Fucking flowers.

  And not just any flowers. Big-ass pink frilly things with blooms the size of my head. Gargantuan monster flowers. They’re the Zeus Berger of flowers.

  Do I look like the flower type to you?

  I didn’t think so.

  But now everyone from Peach to my entire crew to Meemaw and Gracie knows that he sent me flowers.

  That fucker’s probably laughing his ass off at how annoyed I am right now.

  Especially since he followed it up this morning with a crate of giant Hershey’s Kisses. You know the ones—they’re like a half-pound each.

  Yeah. The fucking Zeus Bergers of Hershey’s Kisses.

  Swear to dog, if he sends me lingerie, I’m flying my ass up to Nashville and I’ll—I’ll—

  Dammit.

  I can tell myself I’ll track down his house, plant spider eggs in his curtains, and leave a lava lamp with a note that it was better, except I wouldn’t.

  I’d jump the dummy.

  And that’s what’s making me utterly furious.

  I let him in. I let him in places I don’t let anyone, and I’m not talking about my vagina.

  He’s in my head.

  I grab one of the chocolates and fling it at the basketball hoop hanging inside my office door, and I miss.

  It bounces off the rim and plops into the potted plant Gracie insisted I needed and Peach insists on watering, but instead of simply plopping into the dirt, it smashes the edge of the pot, and the plant goes rolling.

  I huff out of my chair and around my ancient metal desk to right the damn thing.

  And now I need to get a vacuum.

  Because I can’t work with dirt on my floor.

  Correction.

  I can’t work with wet dirt on the floor we just had professionally cleaned.

  I grab the whole plant—now properly squished by the giant Kiss—stumble through flinging my door open with my hands full, and march it into Peach’s office.

  She’s on the phone, so I slam it into her corner.

  “That’s right, Mr. Jett. You want to get crew-certified, you’re going to have to pay our full asking price. And since we all know damn good and well why you want you and your girlfriend crew-certified, I’m adding fifty million to the price.”

  I scowl at the gray carpet while I march back to my office.

  Yeah, I can work with dirt on my floor. I can work with mud, with grass, with sand, and probably even with moldy cheese if I had to.

  What I can’t work with is being the professional equivalent of a horror film chick.

  You know. The recently deflowered virgin who dies at the hands of the psycho because she slept with someone?

  That’s my brain.

  My brain died because I had mind-blowing monster sex with Zeus Berger.

  And I don’t mean monster in a bad way. I mean monster like stupendous, except for the part where stupendous and stupid share too many letters.

  Whatever.

  I can get over this.

  A run would help. Some weight lifting. Happy private time with my drawer of toys.

  I don’t need sex.

  My pussy gasps, bitch-slaps the three brain cells that led to that thought, and pulls a Carol Kane in The Princess Bride: Liar! LIAARRRR!!

  A horrible thought strikes me.

  What if it wasn’t Zeus? What if he didn’t send the flowers and the chocolate?

  What if someone—like Manning, that cheerful dickhead—is fucking with me?

  I bolt out of my chair as someone knocks on my doo
rframe.

  Nyla gives me the constipated goat look. “Uh, you have a—”

  She doesn’t finish, because she doesn’t have to.

  Zeus is in the hallway.

  He’s fresh-shaven. Got a haircut. His jeans fit him like a new paint job, there’s a pink sparkly troll dancing on a rainbow on his white T-shirt, and if that’s not cologne polluting my office, then he farts cupcakes.

  He saunters in. “Hey.”

  Nyla hesitates a moment. “Go easy on him, boss,” she whispers before she pulls the door shut.

  That big ol’ grin makes my heart do a pitter-patter, which is embarrassing as fuck, and I don’t care. “You sent me fucking flowers.”

  The grin gets bigger, and his eyes light up like rocket flares. “Piss you off?”

  “What do you think?”

  I reach for another one of the humongous Kisses and contemplate chucking it at his head.

  “Wanna screw around?” he asks.

  My eyes drift to the bulge in his pants, my pussy pumps a fist, and my nipples pop twin lady boners. “I’m at work.”

  He shrugs and pulls a novel out of his back pocket. I squint. It’s pink and girly, with a hockey player and cupcakes on the cover. “No problem. Brought a book.”

  This is getting weird.

  “Is that a romance novel?”

  “This? Yeah. My buddy Knox says it’s good.”

  I eyeball the pink troll on his shirt while he props himself against the wall and flips to the first page of the book.

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  “Not yet, but I can if you want me to.”

  “Why are you here?”

  “Missed you.”

  More fluttering, but this time waaaay north of where I’d prefer to be getting excited.

  I’m definitely making a face, and he’s definitely noticing.

  “What?” he says. “You’re hot. I’m hot. Training camp doesn’t start for—is that a spider plant? You have a fucking spider plant?”

  I look over my shoulder at another of the green things Gracie put in my office. “I don’t know.”

  He blows out a slow breath and rolls his shoulders back. “Nashville’s just up the road. No biggie to—”

  “Nashville’s two hours away.” By car. And he plays for Nashville’s team. So he probably has a house or an apartment or something in Nashville.