Read Online Forever Pucked by Helena Hunting - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helena Hunting
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middle of the night.
Alex is sleeping on his side, one massive arm tucked under the pillow. He protectively cups my boob with the other hand. He’s frowning in his sleep. He has a game tonight, and when he’s worried about his competition, sometimes he gets anxious. They’re playing Toronto, and Alex has a longstanding hate-on with one of their players.
My stomach rumbles loudly, so I slip out of bed. A midnight snack will help calm the beast in my belly. I’m wearing a tank top and a pair of my Marvel Comics underpants. I wasn’t wearing them when I went to work today, and I don’t remember getting changed.
Confused by my lack of recall, I grab my robe from the bathroom, shove my feet into slippers, and pad down the hall. The light from the kitchen illuminates the stairs enough that I don’t trip my way down. I head straight for the fridge. Inside are takeout boxes from my favorite restaurant and the fruit platter I prepared two days ago.
I review what happened when I arrived home from work last night. I was tired—that’s for sure. After a night of very little sleep and a lot of make-up-for-missed orgasms with Alex, plus our argument before work, I spent the morning in meetings, the afternoon working on Buck’s account, and then finally, at the end of the day I made time to review the changes on my PowerPoint for the Darcy account.
It shouldn’t have been difficult. All the legwork has already been done, but it’s my first presentation, and the account is huge, so I don’t want to fuck it up. I stayed at work way later than I’d planned.
Alex told me he had a nice dinner prepared to celebrate our most recent sexiversary and the Darcy account. I went to hang out in the living room to wait. I even freshened up my beaver in the bathroom. And then I laid down…
Oh, shit .
I fell asleep on him.
I owe Alex a blow job. Probably more than one now. And I still haven’t had the opportunity to use all the fun treats and items I purchased to celebrate our sexiversary. Not that we didn’t do a good job celebrating already, I just had other tasty plans to go with it.
I check the takeout box. Alex ordered me chicken parmesan from the place that uses lactose-free cheese. It’s stupidly expensive, but it tastes amazing and doesn’t give me the moops. He’s so sweet and considerate.
It makes me feel bad for denying him sex yesterday morning, and then taunting him with the prospect of a blowy in the car, but his dismissal of my job is frustrating. My modest salary doesn’t mean my career is valueless. I like doing what I do, and it helps people. For one thing, I know I’ve kept Buck from screwing up his monetary future. Plus, my minimal financial contribution at least allows me to pretend I have some kind of independence.
I’m living in Alex’s massive house, driving the car he bought me, wearing the clothes his credit cards pay for, and rocking a huge diamond. I need to hold on to at least a tiny piece of my old self. My damn job is the way I’m managing this. I’m good at it. It gives me something to do with my time. I have friends there. And a few enemies, but they’re mostly jealous. Understandably so. I get a lot of perks, and not just because I know how to manage money.
My mom might be a bit of a hippie flake, but she taught me some things—such as never be dependent on someone else to feed you. She never relied on anyone to pay the bills or make life easier. We made our life what it was. The second I was old enough to have a part-time job, I got one. I volunteered, I tutored, and I always had money in my bank account because I put it there.
I don’t want to end up being one of those overly pampered women whose entire life revolves around her man. And I’m not referring to the ones with kids, because I can’t even imagine what you do with those things after they shoot out of your vag. Gold stars to them. I mean the ladies who exist from one lunch date or Botox injection to the next. The fact
Alex is sleeping on his side, one massive arm tucked under the pillow. He protectively cups my boob with the other hand. He’s frowning in his sleep. He has a game tonight, and when he’s worried about his competition, sometimes he gets anxious. They’re playing Toronto, and Alex has a longstanding hate-on with one of their players.
My stomach rumbles loudly, so I slip out of bed. A midnight snack will help calm the beast in my belly. I’m wearing a tank top and a pair of my Marvel Comics underpants. I wasn’t wearing them when I went to work today, and I don’t remember getting changed.
Confused by my lack of recall, I grab my robe from the bathroom, shove my feet into slippers, and pad down the hall. The light from the kitchen illuminates the stairs enough that I don’t trip my way down. I head straight for the fridge. Inside are takeout boxes from my favorite restaurant and the fruit platter I prepared two days ago.
I review what happened when I arrived home from work last night. I was tired—that’s for sure. After a night of very little sleep and a lot of make-up-for-missed orgasms with Alex, plus our argument before work, I spent the morning in meetings, the afternoon working on Buck’s account, and then finally, at the end of the day I made time to review the changes on my PowerPoint for the Darcy account.
It shouldn’t have been difficult. All the legwork has already been done, but it’s my first presentation, and the account is huge, so I don’t want to fuck it up. I stayed at work way later than I’d planned.
Alex told me he had a nice dinner prepared to celebrate our most recent sexiversary and the Darcy account. I went to hang out in the living room to wait. I even freshened up my beaver in the bathroom. And then I laid down…
Oh, shit .
I fell asleep on him.
I owe Alex a blow job. Probably more than one now. And I still haven’t had the opportunity to use all the fun treats and items I purchased to celebrate our sexiversary. Not that we didn’t do a good job celebrating already, I just had other tasty plans to go with it.
I check the takeout box. Alex ordered me chicken parmesan from the place that uses lactose-free cheese. It’s stupidly expensive, but it tastes amazing and doesn’t give me the moops. He’s so sweet and considerate.
It makes me feel bad for denying him sex yesterday morning, and then taunting him with the prospect of a blowy in the car, but his dismissal of my job is frustrating. My modest salary doesn’t mean my career is valueless. I like doing what I do, and it helps people. For one thing, I know I’ve kept Buck from screwing up his monetary future. Plus, my minimal financial contribution at least allows me to pretend I have some kind of independence.
I’m living in Alex’s massive house, driving the car he bought me, wearing the clothes his credit cards pay for, and rocking a huge diamond. I need to hold on to at least a tiny piece of my old self. My damn job is the way I’m managing this. I’m good at it. It gives me something to do with my time. I have friends there. And a few enemies, but they’re mostly jealous. Understandably so. I get a lot of perks, and not just because I know how to manage money.
My mom might be a bit of a hippie flake, but she taught me some things—such as never be dependent on someone else to feed you. She never relied on anyone to pay the bills or make life easier. We made our life what it was. The second I was old enough to have a part-time job, I got one. I volunteered, I tutored, and I always had money in my bank account because I put it there.
I don’t want to end up being one of those overly pampered women whose entire life revolves around her man. And I’m not referring to the ones with kids, because I can’t even imagine what you do with those things after they shoot out of your vag. Gold stars to them. I mean the ladies who exist from one lunch date or Botox injection to the next. The fact
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