Page 48 of Grumpy Puck

“Seriously?”I grab a pair of clean boxers, stomp over to the bathroom, and slam the door.

Fucking hell.The place smells like clean feminine flesh, and it makes me even harder—which I didn’t think was possible.

I turn the faucet all the way to cold, undress, and step into the shower.

Damn.The last time I was this cold was back in Novosibirsk—and the worst part is that the shower isn’t helping on the erection front.Not at all.

Well, I’ll just stand here longer.

I wait until I’m shivering, which is when the erection subsides a bit.

Thank fuck.

I get out, brush my teeth, and pull on my boxers.

“Hey, Wolfgang,” I shout before opening the door.“Is Calliope decent?”

No reply.Not even a rat squeak.

“I’m coming out.”

No one raises any objections.

When I open the door, the suite is dimly lit.The blinds are closed, blocking all the lights generated by the City That Never Sleeps, but a small lamp in the corner is turned on.

Worried I might step on Wolfgang or one of the others, I use my phone as additional illumination.

“What’s with the high beams?”Calliope grumbles sleepily.

I make the mistake of looking her way and spot a delicate shoulder sticking out of the covers.All the hard work in the cold shower is undone in an instant, the monster erection returning with a vengeance.

“You’re in the middle,” I point out, my voice a bit too husky.“If we’re sharing the bed, you’ll have to pick a side.”

Even her disgruntled huff is sexy as she moves to the right side of the bed.

I get in from the left, staying as close to the edge as possible.

All right.If I want to put Tugev in his place, I had better fall asleep, and quickly.

Easier said than done.Knowing that Calliope is here, within my reach, is driving my libido insane.

Fuck.According to the nightstand clock, I’ve been tossing and turning for an hour, with nothing to show for it.

Has my dick been hard this whole time, or does it only stiffen when I pay attention to it?It is up and ready now.At the end of Viagra commercials, they warn you to seek medical help if you have a boner that lasts more than four hours, so I’ve got to be careful.

Maybe counting will help me forget how blue my balls are?

Nope.When I get to the number eight, I end up picturing the digit lying on its side, and the visual reminds me of Calliope’s sweet ass.Pushing through anyway, I officially give up on number sixty-nine.

Counting is just too sexy of an activity.

I need to think of something else.Sometimes I imagine the way a game will play out in my head as a hybrid between guided imagery and mental practice.So I do this, and it goes well at first, but then I picture Calliope’s reactions and the various mascot shenanigans she’d pull on me, and I become more alert… and, weirdly, even harder.

Fucking hell.Maybe I should attempt that progressive muscle relaxation technique the sport psychologist taught the whole team as a way to deal with stress.At the time, I thought they were all pansies for listening to the lecture intently, but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Trying to remember how to do it, I flex my biceps and triceps, then let them relax.

Hmm.It feels nice, so I do the same with my other muscles, and get sleepier and sleepier until around the time I relax my glutes—which is when a dainty hand lands on my now-relaxed ass.

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