Page 48 of Pucking Revenge

Lennox: Let me guess: Brooks finally confessed his undying love for you?

Me: Why does everyone keep acting like this is a thing?

Lennox: Ha! He did!

Me: No. But I don’t want to get into it over text. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

Lennox: Okay, babe. Just remember, a good man always lets a lady go first.

Me: It’s not like that.

Lennox: Oh I said that wrong, a good man always lets a woman COME first. Make sure Brookie baby knows that.

Me: Goodbye you pervert!

Lennox: Love you!

Laughing, I throw my phone onto the bed. No wonder I say such ridiculous things all the time. My closest friend literally has no shame. For the first time in hours, I’m hit with genuine relief. Because Lennox will be here tomorrow. I need her more than I realized. She’s the only person I’ve ever completely opened up to about my family, about this job and what it means to me, and about my friendship with Brooks.

She knows everything about me. Or she did. But then Brooks and I started this fake dating thing. It’s not something I want to explain over text. The tangled web I’ve found myself in requires a face-to-face explanation. From her responses, it’s clear she already has the wrong idea. Brooks and I are just friends.

His horrified expression when I mentioned butt stuff this afternoon is proof enough of that. Or his reaction to the way I grabbed his finger and mentioned his hard cock yesterday. Or the way he couldn’t get away from me fast enough when I screamed about his monster cock poking me in the eye. Yeah, he could not be less interested if he tried. Not that I can blame him. I’m insane.

I can only imagine how demure and perfect the woman he really has feelings for is. She’s probably my exact opposite.

I slip off my work clothes and toss my hair up into a ponytail. Then I turn on the shower, making sure to crank the knob all the way to scalding, all the while considering what type of woman would catch Brooks’s eye. What is his type? In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never so much as seen him flirt with a woman.

Standing under the spray, I run my hands over my torso, hissing when I brush over my nipples. Shit, just thinking about Brooks has me turned on. What sort of crazy is that?

With my lip caught between my teeth, I eye the dildo that’s suctioned to the shower wall. I really shouldn’t. Fake dating Brooks is one thing, but fucking myself in the shower while I think about him?

Heat pools low in my belly when I remember waking up and discovering his cock pressed against my cheek. I glance at the dildo again, running my tongue over my teeth. Is it possible he’s bigger than that? I grip it with my hand, fisting it and sliding along its length. I close my eyes and focus on the ridges and the girth. Yup, it feels about the same as what I remember from the fleeting moment I had his monster cock in my hand.

My heart rate picks up, and I grip the length tighter, then—oh my God, I’m jacking off my shower dildo while picturing Brooks.

Groaning, I stare at it, then my gaze wanders to the shower head, then back to the dildo. Fuck it. I’m never going to make it through dinner with him if I don’t take the edge off. Not with the way my imagination has taken off.

But I absolutely, positively will not think of him while I do it.

I tip forward at the waist and position myself perfectly. Then I shuffle back an inch, then another. I’m absolutely not thinking about the ease with which Brooks knocked out one hundred push-ups on the ice or the way his body looked lowering and raising without a tremor, his thighs not even quaking, as I slide back until the dildo is deep inside me.

“Ah, Brooks,” I murmur, heat and desire coursing through me.

In the next second, my heart lurches. Shit, shit, shit.

With one hand braced against the wall and the other grasping the shower head, I work myself back and forth, taking it slow and keeping the stream of water aimed exactly where I need it. That’s when I give up all pretense. There’s no denying that it’s Brooks’s mouth I’m imagining on my clit, his head between my thighs. And when I come faster than I’ve ever come before, it’s his name on my lips.

“Okay, now you add the softener.”

War snorts beside me. “The Leprechaun is always soft, Sar. He doesn’t need any help in that?—”

Aiden’s fist is connecting with Tyler’s arm before he can finish the sentence.

“Ow!” War yells. He follows it up with a slap to Aiden’s shoulder, then another and another. Aiden retaliates, and in seconds, they’ve reverted into preteen boys engaged in a slapping match.

“Incoming!” Daniel, crouched inside his wheeled laundry basket, flies through the space. It’s a mystery how a six-foot, two-hundred-pound hockey player can squeeze into the thing, but he’s headed straight for us, so I dive out of the way. Just in time, too, because in the next second, he knocks both Aiden and War down like they’re bowling pins.

“Watch it,” Brooks growls, looping an arm around me and pushing me behind him. “You almost took out my girlfriend.”

---