Crap.
I opened the oven to discover I’d put in too much filling. It’d bubbled out and over the sides of the crust, dripping down onto the bottom of the oven. Grabbing a couple of towels, I pulled the pie out and set it on a cooling rack, then slammed the oven shut and ran to open the windows.
That’s when someone knocked on the door. My heart raced . . . Puck? He’d mentioned coming over for a slice of pie, but I hadn’t seen his bike when I got home. I’d tried calling his place. No answer. I assumed he had a cell phone but even if I’d had the number it would’ve been useless here in the valley.
“Hey there,” I said, opening the door wide. Puck did that thing of his, catching me by the back of the neck and pulling me in for a long, hot kiss that left me breathless. Finally he ended it, resting his forehead against mine.
“Is there a particular reason your kitchen is on fire?”
I shook my head slowly, loving how his head moved with mine. It was cute—the kind of thing girls did with their boyfriends on TV.
“The pie boiled over,” I said. He drew back, frowning.
“That mean I won’t get a piece?”
“What if I told you we’d have really great sex instead?”
Still frowning, he raised a brow.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
I smacked his shoulder and he smirked, pulling me into his side before dropping a kiss on my head.
“I’ll take the sex,” he said. “But I gotta admit, I’m disappointed about the pie.”
“It’s fine. Some burned on the bottom of the oven. It’s not the prettiest, but it’ll still taste good. I’m taking it out to Earl and Regina’s, though.”
“They’re old, so they won’t be able to eat all of it. Bring me leftovers and I’ll survive. Now let’s move on to the sex option.”
I glanced at the clock.
“We’ve got about half an hour before I leave,” I said. “But I need to clean up first.”
“Not a problem.”
Ten minutes later he had me up against the wall of my tiny shower, one leg cocked up and over his hip, mouth attached to my neck as his fingers plunged deep inside. It was cramped and awkward and beautiful all at once.
“Holy crap,” I moaned. “I can’t believe how good that feels.”
“About to get better,” Puck said. Suddenly his hands caught my thighs, lifting me enough to slip his dick inside. He filled me, hips crushing into mine as I squished back into the shower wall. It should’ve hurt but it didn’t. Not at all.
Somehow the moment was perfect in every way.
Then he started moving and I realized “perfect” was more of a state of being than one particular position, because I swear it felt better every second.
“Damn, that’s good,” he muttered, starting to move more quickly. I felt the tension build, faster than usual. This felt different, better than before. Slicker, hotter . . . harder.
My fingers dug into his muscles. Then he hit that special spot deep inside and my back arched, dragging my nails across his skin. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Now my entire body was wound tight and I felt that sweet relief hovering just out of reach.
“Harder,” I moaned. “Fuck me harder.”
“Keep talking,” he grunted. “It’s hot as hell.”
“Your cock feels better than . . .”
“Do not say some other guy’s name.”
A snort of laughter escaped me.
“No,” I gasped. “I wasn’t thinking that.”
“What were you thinking about?” he asked, giving his hips a hard swivel.
“My vibrator,” I managed to gasp out. “Sometimes at night I imagine it’s your dick.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Impossibly, he found his way deeper inside and I realized walking afterward might be a bit of a problem. Not that I cared. I was about ten seconds away from coming.
Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Boom.
My world exploded. I clenched him so hard it should’ve hurt, but he just stiffened and I felt the hot spurts deep inside. Water poured over us as we clung to each other, trying not to collapse under the weight of our shared pleasure.
Then Puck was pulling free, lowering me gently to the floor.
“I think you tore strips out of my back,” he said. I turned him around in the tiny space.
“Crap.” Sure enough, my nails had left bright red trails of blood dripping across his skin. “That’s a little gruesome. I’m really sorry.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I like playing rough, Becca. You push as hard as you want.”
I wasn’t sure what to think about that, so I decided to ignore it in favor of cupping water in my hands to rinse between my legs . . .
Oh. Fuck.
“We didn’t use a condom,” I whispered, horrified. “We didn’t use a fucking condom!”
Puck stilled.
“Didn’t even think of it,” he admitted. “I just wanted inside you. You aren’t on anything?”
“No,” I said.
We stared at each other, stunned.
“Huh,” he said finally. “You have any idea where you are in your cycle?”
“You know about that stuff?”
“I’m a grown man, Becca,” he said. “Not a twelve-year-old. Of course I know about that stuff. What are the odds we just knocked you up?”