Page 13 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

“Did you just fucking squirt on me, princess?” I can feel the crazy in my eyes. I want her to do it again. My chest swells with pride as I think about the drive home covered in my little princess’s juices. I may never wash these jeans again.

“I-I am so sorry. I’ve never done that before.” She hides her face, looking away from me. My fingers are still buried inside of her, and her walls still pulsate like she can go again, and she’s about to.

“Don’t apologize.” I lean down, pressing a firm kiss to her lips. “I want you to do it again.”

“What?” She gaps against my lips.

A smile spreads onto my cheeks as I pull out of Josie, and she slumps against the wall, her legs shaky and her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. I catch her before she can fall, lifting her easily and carrying her to a nearby bench in the penaltybox. I sit down, cradling her in my lap, her head resting against my chest.

“I don’t know if I can do that again,” she murmurs, her voice soft and sleepy.

“You can and you will. “I growl, flipping Josie onto her back against the cold metal of the bench. She hisses at the sensation.

“Chris!” She giggles, and right when I’m about to bite into the soft skin of her neck, my phone rings. My first instinct is to ignore it, but then I hear the melody. The opening notes ofTaylor Swift’sBlank Space— the ringtone Abigail, my little sister’s daughter, chose for herself.

Fuck.

I gently pull away from Josie, her giggles fading as I reach for my phone in my back pocket. The name “Abby” illuminates the screen, and Josie watches me with curiosity. Her legs are slightly spread, and her brow is furrowed as she shifts her thighs. I quickly hold up a finger to signal for a moment, hoping it won’t be anything urgent, like needing extra money or a quick favor.

Abby is not my biological daughter, but she is as close as it gets; ever since she was three years old and Child Protective Services took her away from my sister, Isabela, after she disappeared on a bender for three days, leaving Abby alone in a locked apartment to fend for herself at the age of three. I haven’t seen Isabela in six years; Abby has been mine for twelve years.

“Abby?” I answer quickly, my voice tight.

The only sound on the other end is her crying. My heart drops, and I move from between Josie’s legs, knowingI can’t stay.

“Uncle Chris...” she finally manages, her voice trembling.

I’m already on my feet, my mind racing. The familiar surge of anger—toward my sister for abandoning her, toward those kids for bullying her—hits me hard.

“I’m coming, okay? Just hang on.”

I turn to Josie, who’s sitting up now, her expression shifting from playful to annoyed. Josie whispers, pointing to my phone. “Who’s Abby?”

“I’ve gotta go,” I mutter, my chest tightening as Abby’s soft sobs echo in my ear. I shift, taking off my jacket and placing it on Josie’s knees. “Wrap this around your waist, okay?”

Josie stands up, snatching the jacket out of my hand, and I add that offense to the others I have been tallying because the next time I have her naked and in my arms, she will be punished for her little tantrums.

“Chris...they...they...” Abby sniffles in my ear, but I cut her off.

“Don’t worry, I’m on my way. Give me twenty minutes.” Abby’s breaths tremble over the phone as I turn to see Josie already halfway up the stairs of the arena, angrily stomping away with my jacket wrapped around her waist.

I end the call and call out to Josie. “Don’t forget, tomorrow at 8 o’clock! Don’t be late, Richards!”

“Go to hell!” She snarls, flipping me off as she storms off. I smile; itlooks like I’ll have to add another punishment for that one. My little princess’s ass is going to be bright red as she begs me to stop.

I smirk and bring my two fingers, which had just been inside of her, up to my lips tosuck off her juices. As the sweet taste of her pussy hits my tongue, I growl in pleasure. Fucking hell, my little princess tastes like honey and cherries.

CHAPTER 6

CHRISTOPHER

"Leave me alone!" Abby roars, slamming her bedroom door behind her for what feels like thefiftiethtime this week.

I grip the edge of the frame of her bedroom door so hard my knuckles turn white, holding myself back from ripping the damn door off its hinges. And trust me, if I didn’t need a specialized screwdriver for it, that door would already be a memory. Don't get me wrong—I’m all about privacy. I don’t read Abby’s texts, I don’t snoop through her room, and I give her space when she asks for it. But I have one rule: respect. She can vent all she wants, but this door-slamming shit ends now.

Especially when the whole thing is over some punk kid named Ricardo, who, apparently, was her boyfriend until his new girlfriend dumped a tray of spaghetti on Abby’s head to make it official that he has moved on. I get it—being humiliated like that hurts. But slammingmydoor? That’s where I draw the line.

"Abby!" I bark, my voice cutting through the air like a whip. "If you slam that door one more time—" I stop, taking a breath to rein in my temper. "I will take that door off and toss it in the garage."

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