Three Pucks and a Baby

Prologue Vivian

PROLOGUE: VIVIAN

W hen I’d pieced together my wants and desires for my yearly vision board, I hadn’t thought to put a threesome as my word for the year. Maybe that was because it wasn’t even in my realm of consciousness to imagine such a thing. One man in a sexual encounter was overwhelming enough for me, least of all two.

Although I was a whiz at multitasking, I didn’t know if I could parlay those same skills to satisfy two men at the same time. As someone prone to anxiety, I’d needed a paper bag to breathe in when I’d learned what DVP was. Talk about swords crossing.

But maybe somewhere in the naughty recesses of my mind, the possibility percolated. Maybe it was why I had chosen the word live to be my word of the year. I mean, you’re doing some epic living when you’re pleasuring two men, and even more so when two men are pleasuring you. While not medically documented, I think a vagina can short-circuit from excessive orgasms.

To some, the fact I chose the word “live” wouldn’t have seemed like an audacious choice. Comparatively speaking, threesome glared like neon beside live . But trust me, for someone like me, it was an extremely bold choice.

You see, this was the year I turned thirty. And although I was still relatively young, I felt like I’d missed out on a lot of living. In some ways, my life was incredibly full with amazing and supportive parents, a large group of ride-or-die friends, and a fulfilling career that enabled me to help others further their education while also giving me the time to indulge my secret passion: writing and publishing historical nonfiction.

Back in the Tudor era where my nonfiction obsession was based, my age would’ve been considered geriatric and completely past my prime. Of course, it didn’t help that the life expectancy back then was only thirty-five. My unmarried status would’ve certainly labeled me a spinster. Of course, the fact I’d had sex outside of marriage, could read and write, and owned a black cat would’ve made me a candidate for being burned at the stake by the Inquisition.

Right about now you’re thinking, Jesus, Vivian, forget your vision board. There’s no way someone like you would ever partake in a threesome. I mean, nerdy librarians who knit sweaters for their cats and write and publish Tudor non-fiction in their spare time don’t seem wanton or sexually adventurous. A risky sexcapade for someone like me would be screwing with the lights on or trying flavored lube.

Yet, here I am: currently airtight with three ridiculously hot hockey players who are considerably younger than myself. And forget threesomes as sexually adventurous. I’d ended up leveling up to a foursome back when my partner’s roommate decided to join in the mix.

But I digress. I will admit that for someone obsessed with the written word, I’d just learned a new definition of airtight. For the entirety of my life, I thought it had to do with keeping air out of containers. In my case, my hockey gods had taken every one of myorifices, and holy fucking shit was it the fulfilling experience of my life. Like blackout from sensory overload type experience.

While I had the feeling this night was going to change my sex life forever, I had no idea the chaos it was going to bring to my personal life. Until then, I would enjoy the multiple orgasms from multiple hands, lips, and dicks.

My word for the year was live, and I was living!