Silver Bastard (Silver Valley #1)(57)
Author: Joanna Wylde

“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?”

I shook my head and shrugged.

“No idea,” I admitted. “I’ve never been very regular.”

“Then we’re probably just fine,” he said. “I don’t have anything, in case you’re worried.”

I blinked, trying to process what he said.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Um, I think I need to wash my hair before I leave,” I said finally.

“That your hint you want me out of the shower?” he asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Puck caught me close, one hand on each side of my head as he searched my eyes.

“It’s gonna be just fine, all right? You get ready, then go out and enjoy your dinner. Don’t worry about it.”

Yeah, right. No worries at all.

—

Earl’s huckleberry pie was still steaming when I left the apartment at five thirty p.m.—Regina served dinner at six, sharp, and she didn’t have a lot of patience for people who found themselves running late.

The rush was worth it, though, because I loved Regina’s cooking almost as much as I loved sex with Puck.

It wasn’t anything fancy but it was always good because Regina didn’t like to do things halfway. Nope. When she served mashed potatoes she boiled them herself, then used real butter, real cream, and a hint of salt to create something that bore no resemblance whatsoever to that shit you buy in the store.

After Earl’s heart attack, I’d talked to her about changing her ways. She’d looked at me like I’d lost my mind, declaring she’d stop using real butter just as soon as he stopped drinking and smoking. If he didn’t care enough about his own health to change, no reason she should have to eat food that tasted like Elmer’s glue.

Needless to say, real butter still sat on her table.

Tonight’s dinner was just as good as always—roast venison (compliments of Earl), veggies, potatoes and gravy, followed by the pie served warm with ice cream.