And Fester?
He didn’t count.
The girl in his head pulled her mouth free of his cock, and glanced up at him playfully. Then she reached out with the tip of her tongue, poking the slit at the end of his length.
Puck exploded.
Jesus.
So fucking good. Fucking perfect.
For a moment he just lay in the dark, free in that instant. What a joke.
Too bad his little mama wasn’t real. And she wasn’t. Because here he was, stuck alone in the dark with two other men, one of whom was half in love with some bitch he’d probably never touch. Nope. Painter wouldn’t make a move even after they got out. Precious Melanie was too pretty and perfect up on her pedestal to get dirty, Puck figured.
As for Fester? He liked to eat his own crayons.
Pathetic. Both of them. Puck needed to get out, sometimes thought he’d go crazy if he didn’t get out.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Puck wiped off his hand and pulled up his pants. After tonight, only thirteen days left.
“Those was definitely her little titties pokin’ through that dress,” Fester whispered.
“God damn it!”
Painter was out of bed and across the room in a heartbeat, dragging dumbass out of bed so hard that Puck’s bunk shook.
“Don’t do it,” Puck snapped. “You fuck him up, could mess with our parole.”
Painter stilled.
“You don’t talk about her,” he said finally, dropping the other man to the floor. Fester gave a high, nervous giggle.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Mouth. Cunt. Ass.
