Chapter 17
It’s easy for Puck to forget about their failed plan when they’re fucking Robyn into oblivion.
But that’s part of the problem. Some of their most valuable plotting and scheming time has been eaten up by this unexpected variable in the equation.
All of those letters on the notepad in their nightstand should have had a “minus R” appended to them.
She’s a sexy variable, but still. The wedding timeline turned out to be more condensed than it originally sounded.
A week isn’t actually a lot of time when Robyn’s incredibly anal itinerary is detailed down to the second, including afternoon breaks for rest and relaxation—one of which she is now using to accept all but the last inch of Puck’s dildo while on her hands and knees.
“Harder,” Robyn is ordering, probably already calculating in her head when she needs to finish to begin preparing for the rehearsal dinner.
But Puck is the one who’s truly preoccupied.
On the eve of this union, they feel no closer to preventing it than they were on Monday—all foreplay with no climax.
A quick moment of Mia and Zander holding hands was nothing; Puck has experienced more intimate and meaningful skin-to-skin contact while accepting change from a barista.
To really end this, Puck thinks, as they grind their hips into Robyn, they still need something tangible.
A bona fide event. Something neither Mia nor Damon could wave away.
They could have made it happen by now if Robyn weren’t showing up at their room during every break she gets—and yet Puck has wanted her to be here, too. It’s too much to handle at one time.
“Keep going,” Robyn whines as Puck’s pace slows.
Puck makes a conscious effort to thrust at a faster rhythm, pulling themself into Robyn while keeping a firm grip on her hips.
They tell themself they can still get this done, but they aren’t sure anymore whether the “this” they’re thinking about is bringing Robyn to orgasm or breaking up a wedding.
What is Mia doing tonight anyway? The day’s itinerary, freshly printed off that morning, is still lying on Puck’s nightstand—and if they scooch their knees forward just a little bit they can make out the last few lines.
As they do, Robyn makes a startled but not entirely displeased noise.
“Ooooh,” she moans. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
What does it say at the bottom of the page?
9:30–10 p.m.—The bride, the mother of the bride, and the mother of the groom gather briefly in the Grove.
What the hell is that? Some kind of eleventh-hour intergenerational bequeathal of maternal counsel?
A final word between Mia and her mom, they’d understand, but Mrs. McLeod, too?
Mia probably has about as much in common with a woman that rich as she does with a platypus.
Still, Puck can use this: It means Mia will be somewhere alone after everyone else has likely gone back to their room.
“Hey, where are you?” Robyn asks, jarring Puck back to reality. Their cadence has slowed to a crawl, and Robyn is not happy about it, but she also sounds … concerned? Yes, there’s no mistaking the gentle note in her voice.
“I’m just trying to mix it up,” Puck offers a half-hearted excuse, quickening their pace again.
“Don’t overthink it, Puck,” Robyn says. “Just fuck me.”
Puck obeys. They drain all thought from their mind and focus on matching their pace to the rhythm of Robyn’s moans.
And as they do, they feel like they’re reaching out toward some sort of enlightenment, grasping at a truth they’ve ignored this whole time: Don’t overthink it.
Puck’s mistake this week was thinking that they needed to play four-dimensional chess.
They got too excited about throwing Lena into the mix, especially after they discovered she was no longer dressing like a Greenpeace activist. And they thought that Damon had to literally see evidence of an indiscretion for this thing to be over.
Homewreckers has made them cocky, more interested in pulling off an elaborate Rube Goldberg–style scheme than they are in plain old efficacy.
The failed picnic game is proof of that.
But there’s no Ron to impress here: This plan can just be one step: “M + Z.” They need to go back to basics: Just fuck Robyn, and just fuck up the wedding.
Somehow Puck manages to arrive at this conclusion at the exact same second that Robyn’s hands dig into the mattress for stability as she comes.
“It’s simple, see?” Robyn teases them afterward, turning around to face Puck, her typically pin-straight hair adorably mussed up.
“It is,” Puck agrees. “A lot simpler than it looks.”