SWNOVELS Pucking Sweet: Chapter 47
It’s official, I’m an addict. It’s been a week, and I simply cannot get enough of these men. If I’m not busy working, baking, or running (or dodging calls from my mother), they’re inside me. Sunday night was a marathon of sex unlike anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. They took turns fucking me in every room of my apartment, every surface. I didn’t know it was even possible to orgasm that many times.
Then they were gone for two days for an away game. When they came back, I was ravenous. They barely got in the door before I had their clothes off. After that round of sex, we made a pact that our hookups would only happen in the privacy of my home. We all have important jobs to do, professional reputations to protect.
Okay, maybe it’s happened a few times at work too.
Addict, remember?
Two days ago, Lukas pulled me into that little mop closet where we argued and fingered me against the door until I came. Twice. Yesterday, I was daydreaming about the naughty things Colton whispers in my ear when he appeared in my doorway as if summoned. We fucked on my desk, knocking my phone to the floor with a loud clatter. It’s fine. Not like it works anyway.
Now I’m standing in line at the coffee cart, waiting to get my caffeine fix for the day, and I can feel their eyes on me. I hear them too. They’re chatting, but it’s a ruse. I know they’re only here to watch me.
I don’t turn around. Not yet. That would ruin the game. Oh god, I can feel them undressing me with their eyes. Colton’s heavy gaze feels like a weighted rope, an anchor sinking deep. Lukas’s attention sizzles over my skin, lighting a fire in my belly. How am I supposed to do this? How do I function as a professional person with them looking at me? God help me, how do I stop wanting them every minute of the day?
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to squirm. We need a room. Now. Just make it any room with a door and a lock. I’ll be able to breathe again if I can just have a taste.
Next to me, Claribel raises a dark brow. “Boss? You okay?”
“What? Oh—yeah, I’m fine. Fit as a fiddle.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “What the heck are you thinking about right now?”
Three-way sex.
“Nothing.”
She grins. “You’re blushing.”
“Yeah, well it’s hot in here,” I say, fanning myself.
“It’s an ice rink, boss.”
I lower my hand. “Drop this now, and I’ll buy your coffee.”
She chuckles, turning her attention back to her phone.
We get our coffees and biscotti. I pay, of course. We turn to leave, and I have no choice but to look at them. They’re standing four people back in line. Fresh off a practice, they’re both showered. Lukas’s longer hair is still wet at the nape and over his ears. Enlivened by the exercise, they look strong and relaxed and so freaking beautiful.
“Coming, boss?”
I glance to Claribel, flashing her a quick smile. “Mhmm. Yep, I’m ready.”
We walk past them and Colton nods. Lukas utters a simple, “Good morning, Poppy.”
Oh my god, why the heck was that so hot? It felt like some kind of forbidden moment in one of my Regency romance novels where the dashing gentleman dares to acknowledge his lady in the ballroom. I think I do need a fan because my body is burning from the inside out.
Claribel leads the way over to the main practice rink. It’s become our little habit to take our coffee break in here and strategize before each home game. For being understaffed, her team is crushing it. She doesn’t really need my input, but it’s still nice to chat. Claribel is funny when she wants to be, and she’s been a good listener as I’ve unloaded a little of my family drama.
The fallout from the bachelorette party hasn’t been as intense as I expected. Thanks to the NDAs we all signed, no videos of me doing shots off a half-naked Lukas have been leaked online. The NDAs weren’t actually my idea this time. Turns out Maggie and Giselle both clerk for the Supreme Court. The social media gag order was their idea.
No, the main fallout has been restricted to my family.
I think I’ve always made excuses for Violet’s behavior because she was never quite as toxic as our mother. Violet isn’t an image-obsessed narcissist, she’s just insecure. And that insecurity leads to feelings of jealousy. That jealousy has to go somewhere, so she becomes petty and vindictive. Case in point, she spent the first half of this week threatening to uninvite me to the wedding for “abandoning her in a bad part of town.” As if St. Augustine is some dystopian slum. It’s a quaint little downtown with ice cream shops and tarot card stands.
Her threat was music to my ears. Frankly, I’d love nothing more than an excuse not to go to this wedding. But if I’m not there to look sad and pathetic, holding her bouquet while she steals all my dreams, then she doesn’t win.
Realizing her error, she instantly changed her tune, reminding me of the duties of a maid of honor, and asking me a dozen questions about shoes and makeup and hairstyles. She also overnighted a bouquet of flowers and some chocolates from one of my favorite DC chocolatiers as a “thank you” for hosting the bachelorette party.
If she thinks I can’t see through her scheming, she’s delusional… but the chocolates are delicious. I had to hide them from Lukas.
The more pressing worry is my mother. Of course Violet told her I’m dating two of my players. That apple was too ripe not to pluck and smash with a hammer. Mom has tried to call me every day, leaving long-winded voicemails asking what she did to deserve a daughter who would embarrass her like this. She’s accusing me of trying to upstage my little sister. She’s calling this a desperate bid for attention. She’s threatening to take away my trust fund. She thinks it’s a cruel prank, a cry for help, and a sign that I’m not getting enough vitamin B12 in my diet.
I haven’t taken one of her calls yet, but I can’t freeze her out forever. I mean, she’s family, right? She’s my mother. This is the woman who birthed me, and raised me, and went to all my cross country meets. She took me on my first shopping trip to Paris. She helped me pick out my wedding dress. Under all the hurt feelings, I still love her. I just wish she could understand me better. I really don’t want the first time we speak again to be at Violet’s wedding. That will be a surefire way to make a terrible day worse.
No, I’ll call her soon. Maybe.
Oh god, I don’t want to call her!
I sink down onto the bleacher seat, setting my coffee and the bag of biscotti to one side. Things are going so well with Colton and Lukas, and I don’t want her to ruin it. I don’t want her negative voice in my head spinning me up and scaring me into thinking this can’t work. I have enough anxiety as it is. My PR brain literally never shuts off. I’m constantly running through long lists of worst-case scenarios. It doesn’t matter if I’m dealing with a legitimate crisis at work, or just shopping for groceries. My stupid brain is always an inch away from, “What if they don’t have shallots? I can’t just substitute red onion; they have an entirely different flavor profile.”
Case in point, I’ve been spinning myself up for a week about the fact that I know Colton and Lukas want to have anal sex with me. I won’t lie, the vision in my mind is thrilling. Both of them inside me? Sharing me? Filling me? God help me, I could melt into that popsicle puddle right here next to the ice rink.
But then there’s the other side of my mind. The dark side. The side that can’t substitute red onion for shallots. That side of my mind has been secretly trolling the internet every night. Because here’s the thing: I’ve never actually had anal sex. I tried once in college but got so freaked out that I made him stop. Then I cried, and he left. Then I threw up in my roommate’s closet. It was all around just a bad night.
Since then, I’ve always just said it’s something I don’t do. It wasn’t long after that I started dating Anderson anyway. He pressured me for it a lot, but I always had excuses, or I could distract him with a half-hearted blowjob. For Colton and Lukas, I’m willing to try…or at least I was. Go deep enough down any rabbit hole on the internet, and you’ll eventually be convinced you’re dying. My carefully deleted search history of “how to do anal sex” has me panicking over words like infection, fissure, and perforation. Have you ever heard of a fistula?
I don’t know how to quiet the dark side of my mind that won’t let me just try a new position with my boyfriends. You really think I want to add my mother’s cruel opinions about our unconventional relationship into the mix? Who needs the threat of hemorrhoids when I have her?
“Did you hear a word I just said?”
I blink, confused for a moment to find I’m sitting at an ice rink watching ten-year-old hockey players do speed drills. I turn to Claribel in confusion.
She’s looking up at me from a row down, coffee and phone in hand. “Okay, seriously. What is going on inside that head?”
I consider her for a moment. Claribel is a vault. I can ask this without feeling judged or crazy or worry that it’ll spread through the rest of the team and haunt me until I die. Taking a deep breath, I let it out with a quick, “Have you ever had anal sex?”
Her mouth parts slightly. Then she grins. “Poppy St. James, are you propositioning me at work?”
“What—no,” I cry.
“You’re my superior. This is technically harassment—”
“Oh god, stop! Forget I asked. Seriously, just toss me out on the ice, and let the Zamboni run me over.”
I get up to leave and she pulls on my arm. “Hey, come on. Sit. I had to tease you a little. I did, and now I’m done.”
I sit back down, snatching up my coffee.
“You asked me a question,” she goes on.
“No, I didn’t.”
“And my answer is yes. I’ve had anal sex. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” I burn my lips on this hot coffee, but I don’t care. “So, home game. Tomorrow. You’re ready with our schedule of events—”
“Poppy, if you think I’m gonna talk to you about hockey right now, you’re dreaming. Ask me about anal sex. You’re considering it? You tried it but don’t like it? Or you want to be the one penetrating, and you’d like recommendations for pegs and straps?”
My eyes go wide as I stare at her. “We live very different lives.”
She snorts. “Thank god for that. Your life is entirely too pink for me.”
I glance down at my rose-pink Michael Kors wrap dress and my matching Gianni Bini ankle strap heels. “I guess I just wanted to talk to someone about it,” I hedge. “You know, instead of searching on the internet…”
She nods. “Oh yeah, research anything too long and you’ll be convinced you’re dying.”
“Exactly,” I say, already feeling a little lighter.
She checks her phone. “Alright, I can give you twenty minutes before I’m due in the locker room. Ask me anything.”
An hour later, Claribel and I finally leave the practice rink. She takes the rest of my biscotti, and I take her list of recommendations for toys, lubes, and best positions for optimal comfort. I may be an anxious, overthinking mess, but you can’t deny that I’m well-organized. And I am always prepared.