Puck My Wife (Jericho Chimeras Hockey Romance #5)

PROLOGUE

The version of me drooling over a gloved hand while a man wearing a black ski mask punished my ass was not the person my work colleagues would see come Monday morning.

I moaned softly, knowing he would double down on both pain and pleasure if I made another sound.

That alone earned me a tap on my cheek for the effort with saliva coated, Kevlar-encased fingers.

The scent of my own debasement filled my nostrils as he swiped the tips across my lips, glossing them.

A power move, even though neither of us could see it.

I felt the humiliation of being coated in my own juices all the same.

For needing him so badly when I knew I shouldn't.

His throaty laugh told me he knew everything I felt, everything that I didn’t want him to know. Shame and need rioted through my body, leaving me that much easier for him to slam into, over and over and over.

My bed would never be the same after he left. I would never be the same.

Just the way he planned.

The fingers jammed deeper into my mouth, pushing my head back. My gag reflex kicked in, even though he had trained it out of me years ago.

“Suck.”

I wrapped my lips gently around his glove.

He never let me touch bare skin, as though keeping a barrier between us forced extra distance.

I ached for warmth, the heat of him pressed to me, all that he denied me, and let out a sob.

The sound muffled around his fingers, distorted as my body wracked in both our personal brand of twisted pleasure and distress.

“There she is.” Breath brushed my cheek in an intimate gesture, as though he might kiss me.

I leaned back, seeking that simple satisfaction, but he pulled back sharply. The motion drew me up with him, so I arched uncomfortably. The back of my head butted his chest, where he was wrapped in a black vest. Everything was damned black.

Black, black, black, like a shadow wraith, though his body was real enough.

The part of him I knew wasn’t a dream, despite that I had enough of those. If only he’d come to me more nights, I’d finally pull those layers of tough outer wear away and reveal the man I needed beneath…

A groan left me as I tugged at my wrists where he had restrained to the bedposts in front of me. The ties were unbreakable. I’d bear his marks for a few tomorrows, but they were nothing irreversible. Nothing that wouldn’t fade.

Damnit. It was like he knew everything I wanted and refused to give it to me.

My punishment.

“You want more?” Amusement coated his voice as he stilled. Movement brushed the top of my head.

I nodded, once. “Yes. Please,” I mumbled around the three fingers jammed in my mouth.

Saliva dripped from the corners of my lips, splashing my breasts. The degradation would please him, I knew. And it turned me on. I could lie to myself all I liked, but my gushing pussy told the truth we both recognized, even if we kept that secret locked away between ourselves.

“Please,” he mocked me, and tapped my chin. The fingers withdrew. I gaped at the open air, bereft. Without. “Keep that hole open,” he warned me, snapping his hips, driving deep.

I moaned, a feral, animalistic sound we both knew I’d never be able to keep quiet. My lips stayed parted, and I kept my tongue flat, my head tipped upside down to please him. Waiting.

Cold blue eyes that hated me more than anyone in this world stared down at me. Even in the darkness, his gaze left me empty.

“Don’t move,” he murmured. His voice was like a lover’s caress, except we hadn’t been that for a long, long time.

He leaned forward and placed his mouth right above mine. I held my breath, silently begging him for the kiss I knew would never come. A single strand of spit hung between our lips before it landed on my tongue.

“My gift to you. Happy anniversary, wife.” He tapped my chin once more as my traitorous pussy pulsed. “Close.”

He drew back, the moment over. One hand on the back of my head pushed my face forward into the bare mattress.

The pillows departed the bed hours ago, when he first arrived.

He railed at me, the only sounds in the room were my muffled cries into the saliva and cum stained sheets.

The muted thud of material against flesh, his breaths regular as though this frantic workout didn’t even cost him an inch of sweat.

Knowing him, it probably didn’t. Asshole.

He reached around me, flicking my clit idly. I came for the dozenth time that hour, my body preprogramed to his touch. I hated myself for reacting to him, for not being able to stop. For not wanting to stop.

And I hated him more for dragging the pleasure from me for him that I craved above all else.

He groaned and came in the condom he sheathed himself with, stilling at the height of his pleasure. I whimpered, wanting the evidence of our debauchery locked deep inside me. Not to wash away, to keep a part of him with me when he left.

He pulled out in silence, fixing his clothes. “Don’t move.” The cold blade never touched my skin. He never hurt me more than he intended, and I’d be sore and bruised enough tomorrow, but never permanently marked.

Never kissed or hugged or loved.

Never touched.

Cool liquid splashed my back, his cruel laugh his final departing gift as my husband poured his used cum on my back, coating me.

“Wash, after I’m gone. Or don’t. See you next year, love.”

The door clicked shut after him, and he was gone, a fading ache where his glove gripped me the final evidence of our obsession that ran so deep neither of us could let go.

“Next year,” I echoed, and closed my eyes.