Page 68 of The Pucking Arrangement

And still, it’s not enough.

It will never fucking be enough until I have her in my bed, my cock deep inside her, my name on her lips while she falls apart wrapped around me.

Music drifts from the kitchen. A slow, rhythmic beat. Something with bass, a steady, pulsing thrum that seeps into my bloodstream, setting my nerves on edge before I even see her.

Then, footsteps.

Soft. Barefoot.

I round the corner into the kitchen and?—

She’s there.

Back to me, standing on her toes, stretching for something on the top shelf, her entire body on display like some cruel test of my willpower.

She’s barely wearing anything.

Thin straps and scandal, that’s all her sports bra is. Fabric stretched tight over her tits, way too much skin on display. And her shorts—fuck.

Those. Fucking. Shorts.

Tiny, indecent, clinging to every dip and curve. The hem barely exists, riding up higher every time she shifts on her feet, giving me a perfect view of her toned thighs—thighs I desperately want to have wrapped around my waist.

My fingers flex at my sides, curling into fists, my body rebelling.

Then she hears me.

“Oh!” She spins, startled by the sound of my bag hitting the floor, and—fuck me sideways—the front view is worse.

Her chest rises and falls too quickly, her breath catching in surprise. The deep neckline of her bra dips dangerously low, sweat glistening on her skin, her cheeks still pink from exercise.

Her lips part. Her eyes drag over me.

First, the beard. Then my rumpled clothes and the exhaustion I’m sure is written all over me.

Then lower.

Her gaze catches on the cut of my stomach where my hoodie rides up, the way my sweatpants hang low on my hips. The second she realizes where she’s looking, she snaps back up, her blush spreading down her neck.

“I…uh…thought you weren’t back until later,” she stammers.

I don’t answer.

Instead, I let the silence stretch. Let my eyes devour her. Let her feel the weight of my attention.

She shifts uneasily, reaching for a folded T-shirt on the counter.

“Let me put on a shirt,” she blurts out, already lifting it.

“Don’t.”

It comes out as a snarl, and she freezes.

I step closer. Just enough that she has to tilt her head back to keep eye contact.

“I like you like this.”

Her fingers twitch on the fabric, hesitating. My gaze tracks the movement, watching the way her breathing shallows.

---