Page 33 of The Puck Bunny

“Before we go any further, sweetheart, I need to know who I’m relieving of their big O virginity. Are you Sara Bellagamba or are you Lola the puck bunny?”

“I…” Honest to God can’t think. I’m having a hard time answering his question because he’s so close, every part of his hard, smooth body surrounding me, and his erection pressed between my hip and belly, dangerous and close to my pussy. My hips lurch in an attempt to connect and he sucks in a breath.

“Jesus, Sara…” He grits out the words in the kind of low voice that I can feel scraping against my pussy.

“I…” My eyes start to water because I know the answer’s important.

He pushes himself up and I whimper because, let’s face it, I’m a wimp, but he doesn’t go further, just hovers there above me where I can still feel his heat, smell his overwhelming masculinity, and, most of all, feel the tension like he’s wound his massive boner into a tiny tight ball of self-control.

I’m in awe all over again as I gaze into his eyes, melting for reasons other than the elusive big O. He’s not a fantasy. He’s a man and I like him.

“Don’t you know who you are?”

I nod. “Sara Bellagamba.” The words drain all the breath from me, all the need from me. Not the physical need, but all that goal-oriented urgency about the Quinn James of my girlhood poster-boy-days being the one-and-only man deserving to christen my pussy with my first real orgasm.

Maybe he sees it in my eyes or maybe he’s a mind reader—or, heaven forbid, he has his own hesitations—because he moves away from me, only his eyes remaining on mine, lit with regret and recognition and so many other complicated things mingling in my head to keep me from reading him.

“Sara, you’re an innocent.” His words are a gentle accusation as he pulls a blanket over me then sits on the edge of the bed next to me.

I still want him, but when I open my mouth, I can’t speak. My dream flashes through my mind. But this isn’t it. He’s Quinn and he’s better than a fantasy. Shuddering as the fantasy evaporates into the reality of his rejection, I clutch the blanket and nod as if he needs me to confirm. I am innocent.

He leans forward and kisses my forehead in the ultimate heart-melting act of selflessness, cementing my humiliation.

There’s nothing like humiliating embarrassment and shame to cut through the fog of desire and I realize what the word innocent may mean to him. He may think I’m an actual virgin. I clutch his hand before he gets up, ready to tell him that I’m not and that’s not what this is about. I haven’t been saving myself for him.

But, before I have a chance, the loud squeak of the front door opening stops me.

“Billie Mae,” I whisper to the questioning look on Quinn’s face.

“Sara? What the fuck?” Her voice cuts through the air like an iceberg and the bed suddenly feels like the Titanic relentlessly heading for disaster as Billie Mae stomps toward her bedroom.

“Crap,” I gasp, sitting up.

Raising a brow, Quinn stays cool, going into serious-game-mode. He stands, then lifts me with the blanket wrapped around me. “I take it you have a roommate?”

Double crap. “She’s not my roommate.” That’s all I manage to say as he moves toward the bathroom, naked, glorious as a Greek statue, and looks at me like I’m speaking Greek.

Before we make our escape into the bathroom, as I’m holding my arms around his neck and hanging on, Billie Mae throws the bedroom door open.

She squeak-screams then slaps a hand over her mouth.

I squeeze my eyes shut to hold back my tears—who knows what the tears are for because I should be laughing, right?—and Quinn says, “Excuse us,” as he ducks into the bathroom with me and closes the door.

Relief and regret hit me as he lowers me to the floor. When my blanket slips, he secures it around me without so much as copping a feel.

He whispers, “Is that the woman you work with?”

“Yes.” My face heats up because I’m going to have to tell him the pathetic truth about how I still live with my parents.

He waits a beat for my explanation and no sign of impatience as he puzzles it out. “This is her apartment?”

I nod.

“You don’t live here, do you?” He smiles.

I aim my eyes at the floor, studiously avoiding the mirror behind him so I end up staring at the sculpted beauty of his naked abs and hips and oh-my-God… his glorious, big, O-busting cock staring back at me, tall and proud and not one bit deflated.

Billie Mae shouts from the other side of the door, “I’m leaving now—I forgot something—I’m going out for a… cookie! I’m going to Mike’s Pastry! I’ll be back later. Maybe a half hour. Okay?”