A Quick Check

Avery Black’s car barely tapped another when the flash of red lights filled her rearview. Little Puck had been two cars back, now rolling up on her driveway like he owned the street. He lifted her out, his hands warm through her thin shirt, the kind of grip that made her breath catch. Inside her place he set her on the kitchen island and ran a professional check—thumb sweeping her scalp for lumps, palm pressed to her sternum, then knuckles sliding the length of her thighs. Every prod, every brush, wound the want tighter until her panties clung damp. When he straightened to declare her fine, she shot back with a smirk: “You sure? Because the way you touched me just gave me another symptom. How about you quit checking vitals and fuck me rough instead?” Puck’s mouth curved. He grabbed her jaw, hauled her forward, and kissed like a man starved. She clawed at his belt while he spun her around, bending her over the counter. Zippers scraped, her jeans shoved to her knees. He spit on his fingers, worked two inside her, stretching fast and filthy, then slammed in with one hard thrust. She gasped, arched, nails scraping marble. Puck’s hips drove merciless—skin slapping, his hand fisted in her hair, the other pinning her wrist. Every stroke shoved her onto her toes; every filthy word he growled made her tighten. He bent over her back, teeth grazing her ear: “This rough enough, or you still want more?” She pushed back harder, begging without words, and he gave it, drilling until she shattered around him, walls pulsing, the countertop cool against her flushed cheek while he chased his own release in ragged thrusts.