Page 2 of Pucking Them
Asshole.
It’s my own fault for thinking that I could command a dom.
Still, banter is our love language.
I take my revenge by turning my head and nuzzling against D’Angelo’s clothed crotch.
He sucks in a shocked breath.
With extreme restraint, he pretends to ignore me.
He focuses instead on the arctic blue book, which he is clutching with whitening knuckles.
The book looks like a hockey strategy book in blue and white with lines, arrows, and arcs on the front, as well as a puck and hockey stick.
Once, a guide to avoid dating hockey players after my divorce from my cheating husband, it has transformed into a journal of my polyamorous relationship with the three men in my life.
D’Angelo is a trained pleasure dom who co-owns a club, On the RACK. He has helped us over the last nine months to negotiate contracts, boundaries, and limits.
I could live forever in D’Angelo’s aftercare.
For a man who acts like he is secretly Lucifer, enjoying a good cocktail or at leastfuckingover the piano in a cocktail bar, he also praises and snuggles like an angel after a scene.
Together, we use the Guide to safely explore our kinks and fantasies.
Also, our love.
Eden finds it hard to say in words what he can write in the Guide.
Just this morning, I found a message left for me when I woke up. Eden was already downstairs, cooking bacon sandwiches for us. But he’d written in the Guide:
I trust you. Before I met you, I never trusted anyone but my twin. I realized last night when we were reading in bed together that part of it is because you make me feel comfortable enough to share my interests with you. I can’t wait until Book Club.
Of course,Shay had added underneath:
P.S. I found your chocolate stash and ate it during my Candy Crush challenge evening with Code. Sorry, love. I’ll buy you more later. Do you want anything special?
I’m stillsure that Shay thinks that the Guide acts like a grocery list.
D’Angelo is drawing with the scrunched brow intensity of an amateur Leonardo da Vinci.
His impression is ruined by the fact that he’s holding a glitter pen.
My pink one.
I’m pretty sure that he’s doodling.
Or drawing smutty stickmen.
I continue to slyly torment D’Angelo. My emerald eyes gleam with mischief.
I won’t break first.
Mouthing at his damp trousers, I kiss his inner thigh, while glancing up at him underneath my eyelashes.
D’Angelo’s expression tightens. His cheeks are flushed a pretty rose-red, even though he’s pretending to be unaffected.
I grin, redoubling my efforts.
