Page 25 of The Pucking Proposal

We’re people who have a pregame ritual to complete. And maybe we’re actually friends now? That’s what we are—friends who help each other. Benefits, but not those kinds of benefits.

At the door, Dalton freezes. “Joy, I have a question. Tell me the truth, lie to me, or tell me to fuck off, but I have to ask.” His voice is gritty and rough, his hand nearly white at how hard he’s gripping the doorknob, and his back is to me like he can’t look at me when he asks.

My mouth is drier than the Sahara, partly because all my fluid is elsewhere and also because I can feel the anticipation building as I wait for him to ask me anything. I lick my lips. “Okay, ask away.”

“After our tradition, do you touch yourself the way you did on the phone?”

I swallow thickly as a heavy tension fills the small space between us. I could reach out to him. Hell, I could answer him. Either would get me exactly what I want, but then what?

He’s still Dalton Days, the playboy and my brother’s best friend. And I’m still Joy Barlowe, who put athletes off-limits years ago and won’t change her mind now.

“You should go,” I whisper.

He dips his head, disappointed but acknowledging my nonanswer, and walks out the door, leaving it open behind him.

I’mthis closeto stepping into the hall and calling his name, knowing he’d turn right around and come back, probably shove me up against the wall, kiss me, ravage me, and ruin me with that dick of his. So I force myself to close it before my body overrides my brain. But I’m still asking myself ...

Should I have told him the truth? Should I have lied?

Chapter 12

Dalton

The only way I make it home is by reminding myself that if a deputy pulls me over and my cock’s out, it’ll be front-page news and Coach would definitely bench me over pending charges.

But I still speed like a demon, pulling into the driveway of my little three-bedroom, two-bath starter house on two wheels. I virtually run for the front door, barely closing it behind me before I drop my bag and rip my shirt off, letting it fall to the floor in a very Joy-like move. Leaning back against the door, I shove my sweats down to release my cock.

I hiss in pained pleasure as I grip myself tight, stroking up and down. Pre-come is already leaking over my crown, and I use it to glide along my length, adding spit when I need more to pretend it’s Joy’s wetness coating me.

“Fuuuck,” I grunt, banging my head back against the door. My legs are shaking, both from today’s long practice and with the explosion building in my balls. I hope the door can hold me up because if I collapse and hurt myself in a jacking-off mishap, the guys will never let me live it down. But I’m too far gone to move anything other than my hand.

And my hips.

I thrust into my tight fist, staying on the edge as long as I can to enjoy that sharp hint of nearly falling over. But it’s too much.

She’s too much.

And I jump off the edge into ecstasy, ropes of hot cum covering my hand and running down to my balls as I grit out her name.

Joy ... in more ways than one.

And pain.

I’m still catching my breath and using my rescued T-shirt to wipe away the mess I’ve made when my phone dings in my bag. I’d ignore it, but it’s one of the few special ringtones I assigned to important people.

And that’s Joy’s sound. Dua Lipa’s “New Rules.” She’s dangerous, but like the song, irresistible.

I dive for my bag, grabbing my phone with shaky hands. Even seeing her name on the screen makes my spent cock start to grow hard again.

I open her text message and see two little words that pierce me all the way to my soul.

Every time.

I groan. This woman is for sure going to be the death of me, but I hit the button for FaceTime anyway, praying she answers. When she appears, she looks pink-cheeked and hazy-eyed. And surprised to see me even though she answered.

“Again, Joy. I want to see you this time,” I demand.

She hesitates long enough that my heart drops, but then the phone moves farther away from her face. She’s in her bed, pillows fluffed behind her head and the same T-shirt she had on when I left still covering her breasts. For a second, I mourn that, but then I can suddenly see her pussy and my brain short-circuits.

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