Page 13 of The Pucking Proposal

“If it helps, I’ve seen dozens of them.” I shrug in indifference and then laugh when his eyes go wide in surprise. “Guys like trying to shock me when I’m in their domain, thinking I’m gonna be impressed or something. But it’s really not a big deal. Locker rooms are sometimes like the deli counter at the supermarket. Kinda boring after a bit.”

“You seemed impressed by mine. It’s pretty great, yeah?” he brags, a cocky smirk returning to his face.

I groan in revolted annoyance, but then I impulsively ask, “Is this how you flirt? How you talk to women to get them into your bed?”

His cheeks turn a shade of pink I wouldn’t have thought possible for a man like Dalton. Surprisingly, it’s adorable, which is not a word I would ever think to use for him. I usually describe him as cold, unflinching, or menacing, but that’s on the ice. In private, like this, he seems slightly less terrifying. Very slightly.

“I don’t usually have to ask. They offer,” he rumbles, sounding embarrassed by that fact despite his reputation being well known.

“And you dive right in? Or wait ... let me guess ... you let them hop on and do all the work? Typical.” I roll my eyes and I swear he growls. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me. You want to show me, I’m telling you that’s fine. Just do it. I’ll take one for the team.”

He sighs like the weight of the world is resting on his broad, overly muscled shoulders. “Fine.”

Dalton pulls his sweatshirt up, exposing the bumpy ridges of his abs, and tucks the gathered fabric beneath his chin. Then, with both hands, he pushes the waistband of his sweats down until his third leg basically falls out over the elastic.

And I do meanfall. It’s too heavy, too long to do anything but succumb to the will of gravity.

And I stare. There’s no pretending I don’t. It’s impossible, like trying to avoid looking at a piece of art that’s right in front of you. My eyes are laser-locked on his crotch. I was sure my memory was playing tricks on me. That there was no way he could be that long, thick, pierced, and perfect. But he is.

I should go ahead and order another vibrator now because I’m totally gonna burn out Woody, especially with new mental snapshots to use as spank bank material.

“Is there like a time limit we’re aiming for?” I whisper, not moving my eyes. “Or, like, if it matters, you were hard last time. Does that make a difference for your superstition?”

I’m joking. Sort of. Trying to make an awkward situation a little less strange.

But Dalton takes himself in hand, giving his length a tight stroke. “You’re right. I was hard. I should try to mimic the circumstances as much as possible. For good luck.” His voice sounds rough, but I don’t dare lift my eyes. I don’t want to see the victorious smirk on his face or gotcha sparkle in his eyes.

Because there’s no denying that whatever tonight was, he won. For all my mouthiness, I’m the one gobsmacked and staring at his dick like I’m ready for a hot dog eating contest.

“You’re licking your lips,” I hear him say.

That breaks the in-cock-tation spell I must’ve been under, and I force my eyes up. “I was not!” I argue, but I wipe my finger over my lip in case there’s any drool.

He doesn’t look happy about my response, though. His eyes are dark, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his jaw set in stone as he readjusts his clothing, tucking himself away, while my pussy cries in disappointment. “I should probably get going,” he says, sounding unsure as he takes a step toward the door.

“Yep, flash and dash.” I mean it to sound light and flippant, but it comes out a little desperate. Still, I throw the blankets off and, stepping over the piles of clothes, follow him toward the door.

“Thanks, Joy.”

I freeze with my hand on the doorknob and risk looking up at him. Fuck, he’s huge. I’ve never been this close to him, which sounds extra weird now that I’ve seen his penis twice, but the two of us crowded in my tiny entryway area is absurd. He towers over my five-five frame, and is easily twice as wide as I am. Not to mention, he has a presence that’s dark and dangerous.

You’re in danger, girl!I hear the movie quote warning in my mind, coming straight from my subconscious to the forefront of my brain. Dalton Days is dangerous, but not in a threatening way. I don’t think he’d ever hurt me, but he’s bad for my steadiness, something I’ve fought hard for and am ridiculously good at faking.

“No problem, Days. Good luck tomorrow night,” I say politely, as if I loaned him an egg for his pregame omelet, not let him show me his penis. I even hold up my fist for a friendly bro-bump.

He clears his throat awkwardly, bumps my knuckles with his own, and then he’s gone.

I lean back on the closed door, nearly panting with need and confusion. One thing I can deal with easily, the other, not so much, so I virtually run for my bedroom. I fling myself across my bed as I dive into my nightstand drawer.

“Woody, I’m sorry to tell you this, but your nights are numbered. A few months at best given the season just started and dick-flashes are apparently part of Days’s pregaming now. I promise that though it won’t be a long life, it’ll be a good life. At least for me.”

At least before I have to upgrade you to your industrial-strength big brother. Emphasis on big.

It only takes a few seconds of buzzing over my clit and I come hard, never even getting the length of the vibrator inside me. Floating in the blackness of bliss, I grit my teeth, refusing to say his name. But I’m picturing Dalton’s penis, that’s for sure.

His beautiful, perfect, big dick.

If only it didn’t come with him. Too bad I can’t Mr. Potato Head him and keep the one part I like while trashing the other ninety-nine parts I don’t. Like his irritating mouth.

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