I Pucking Love You

by Pippa Grant

  He grips me by the chin. “Don’t go there. I know what you’re thinking. Do not go there. Right now, I want to rip your clothes off and eat your pussy and make you scream my name until you’re hoarse, but not here. Not like this. The next time I have you naked, I’m doing it right. You deserve something special. Understand?”

  Oh. “This…isn’t no?”

  “This is me being a saint.” He’s holding me captive with a gaze that’s ordering me to not look away, not squirm, not crack a joke and retreat back into myself. “You deserve better, Muffy. You deserve better.”

  He lets go of my chin, flings himself back into his own seat, and growls.

  He growls.

  It’s like taking a lit match to my panties.

  Poof. They’re on fire. In the good way.

  But he’s buckled back up, putting the car in gear and pulling the car back out of the parking lot before I can put my scrambled brain cells back together to say something, anything.

  Weirdly, though, I don’t feel awkward in the silence.

  I feel glowy.

  And Tyler’s squirming in his seat while he visibly adjusts his erection.

  Mine, my pussy whispers.

  For a little while, I whisper back to her.

  “You ever read the Wheel of Time series?” Tyler asks.

  It’s completely inconsequential, yet not, and I’m suddenly smiling bigger than I would if scientists invented calorie-free brownies.

  He’s not a fling, or a hook-up, or whatever.

  He’s also a friend.

  I hope nothing changes that.

  22

  Tyler

  My poor dick is so tired.

  He finally gave up the woody about fifteen minutes from Muffy’s house, though I’m wondering if that has more to do with knowing we might run into Hilda rather than him running out of steam.

  And now I’m a little worried he’ll be too tired to stand up again.

  But not as much as I’m suddenly worried about letting Muffy out of my car.

  Richmond feels so far away now, which is making everything that happened there feel far away too.

  Like it wasn’t real.

  But it was real, and I’m not ready to let Muffy go, which is more disconcerting than facing dead bodies.

  And that’s a realization that’ll take time to unpack.

  I like Muffy more than I hate dead bodies.

  We coast to a stop in front of her house, and I swear she twitches at the sight of it.

  Or maybe that’s me.

  “Oh, look! Rufus is waiting.” She grins back at me as she points to the front window, where her cat is licking its own butt in the windowsill. She turns back, and the cat disappears.

  Pretty sure it fell off the windowsill. That didn’t look intentional.

  She sighs. “He does that at least twice a week. You’d think he’d learn. Thank you, again, for coming with me. I won’t tell anyone about anything. Promise.”

  “Saturday night.”

  Her face flushes, but she smiles at me, and fuck.

  She’s adorable when she smiles like that. It’s like hope and joy got together and had a face baby.

  “Saturday night,” she says with a nod.

  She reaches for the door handle and slips out of the car before I can snag her for the kiss I desperately want.

  What the hell is going on with me?

  No idea.

  Other question: do I even care what’s going on with me?

  Nope, I decide.

  I pop the trunk and climb out to get Muffy’s suitcase. The minute my foot hits the pavement, Hilda’s voice carries over the yard. “Muffy! You’re back! Just in time. I cleaned out my closet. Can you believe I still had a whole wardrobe of size sixteens in there? I put them all on your bed since they’re too big for me, but I think they’ll fit you.”

  Muffy’s smile freezes. Her shoulders start toward her ears, then go back like she’s caught herself having a reaction to her mom’s words, and that’s it.

  That’s fucking it.

  I slam the trunk without getting her suitcase out. “Get back in the car.”

  She visibly jolts. “What?”

  “I said, get back in the car. You’re not staying here.” I’ve heard people talk about blood boiling, but I never really knew what that meant until right now. I’m so furious, I’m about to pop an artery.

  Muffy’s gaping at me.

  “Don’t stand there fishing it up,” Hilda calls. “Kiss the man. That’s the only way to reel ’em in, sweetie.”

  I point to the car and ignore the fact that my finger is shaking.

  Rage.

  This is what rage feels like.

  I thought I knew rage. I’ve been betrayed before. I’ve been shit on before. My former best friend gave me a damn concussion on the ice eighteen months ago because I hooked up with his sister once. You damn well better believe that pissed me off.

  But this?

  This is body-consuming, furious, raging rage. “I swear to holy fuck, Muffy, if you don’t get in that car and away from that horrific woman, I will kidnap you. No one gets to treat you like that, and don’t tell me she doesn’t know what she’s doing, or that she has her own issues, or that she means well. You know what she’s doing, and she’s not good for you. Get in the car. What else do you need inside?”

  It takes a hot second, and she doesn’t answer me, but she does sink back into the car.

  She hadn’t even shut her door.

  Her mother got her with a one-two punch of insecurities before she could even shut the fucking car door.

  Her eyes are as round as a hockey puck as I close her in the car. Lips parted. Cheeks stained bright pink on her high cheekbones.

  I don’t know if she’s horrified or turned on, and I don’t care.

  Hilda peppers me with questions that I ignore as I stroll up the walk, past her, and into the house. I have no idea where Muffy’s room is, but that’s the only thing I don’t know.

  I know she needs clothes. I know she’d probably like her cat. I know to grab the box of tampons under the sink in the bathroom, and no, it doesn’t bother me in the least, because my sisters have talked about way worse than tampons over the years.

  Dammit.

  This is the moment having four sisters has trained me for.

  And you know what?

  For the first time in my life, I’m grateful as hell.

  It takes two trips.

  One for the clothes, and I don’t mean the massive pile of clothes on her bed. I mean all the clothes from her closet and drawers that I can fit in the three reusable grocery bags I find scattered on her floor.

  And one trip for the cat.

  I grab him by the scruff and carry him outside, knowing I’m not getting his litter or his food or his toys, but also knowing that’s the easy stuff.

  I wrench Muffy’s door open, shove the cat in her lap, and march around to the driver’s side.

  Hilda’s actually fallen silent and is gaping at me while I rev the engine, then peel away from the curb.

  I’m gripping the wheel too tight. Breathing too hard. Clenching my jaw so tight it might not ever open again.

  We’re well out of the neighborhood and halfway to downtown before Muffy speaks. “There’s a shortcut to Kami’s house if you turn right on—”

  I cut a glance at her that has her falling silent.

  She’s not moving in with Kami.

  23

  Muffy

  Is it normal to be both so horny you might spontaneously combust and also on the verge of a total meltdown?

  On some level, I know that it’s all kinds of wrong to enjoy being kidnapped by a broad-shouldered, angry, testosterone-fueled hockey player of doom.

  But I’m here willingly.

  Physically, anyway.

  Emotionally, I’m pretty sure I’m butt-naked in the hot seat in the middle of a crowded restaurant while a hibachi chef twirls his tools all around, playing a drum beat
before flaying me alive.

  I said hot seat?

  I meant right there on the griddle.

  You deserve to have your body worshipped the right way. Say something nice about yourself. I won’t let her treat you this way.

  Tyler Jaeger is my hero and my nemesis all at once.

  I haven’t been in therapy for years to not know that my mom isn’t exactly healthy for me.

  Every time my therapist would broach the subject, I’d tell her I worked enough hours and had an active enough social life that I didn’t see Mom that much. Or that I couldn’t afford to live somewhere else. Or that I felt like working through my issues with Mom was more important than abandoning her. She’s funny in her own way. And I know she’s only worried about my weight because she wants me to be healthy.

  She loves me. I know she does. But she doesn’t have a lot of self-awareness when it comes to how her words land.

  But possibly I’m making excuses so I don’t have to tell all the people in my life who think she’s funny and that it’s fabulous that she lets it all hang out that I don’t, in fact, have the same relationship with her that they do.

  Or possibly so I don’t have to admit how terrified I am that if I move out, I’ll fail.

  Again.

  I’m holding Rufus tight on my lap so he doesn’t hop into the backseat and do something I’d regret and have to pay to clean up.

  Unlike most of the drive from Richmond to Copper Valley, which was both simmering with tension at the unspoken expectation of what we plan to do on our date Saturday night, and also super fun as we talked about everything from fantasy novels to the worst sports moments of all time, right now, there’s only tension, and I’m not sure it’s the good kind.

  Tyler’s not speaking.

  He’s just breathing.

  Loudly.

  Angrily.

  His knuckles are white, and I hope he’s not going to have to hold anything when he gets to his team meeting this afternoon, because he’s probably cutting off enough circulation to his fingers to cause some stiffness in the joints.

  I know exactly where we’re going a few blocks before we get there, and it makes my stomach drop.

  His place.

  We’re going to his place.

  I haven’t been here before, but I’ve heard Kami talk about going to Schuler Tower and running into Beck Ryder—the former Bro Code boy band guy and underwear model who owns the building and lives in the penthouse—when she and Nick dropped by Tyler’s place once to drop off something he left at the arena.

  My stomach drops again when we pull into the parking garage across the street from Reynolds Park.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  He grunts a response.

  Rufus yowls.

  I wince.

  Tyler doesn’t react at all.

  Instead, he whips the car into an open numbered space that I’m going to assume is his assigned spot, throws the car into park, kills the engine, and pops the trunk.

  He still doesn’t say a word as he climbs out, but he also doesn’t slam his door.

  And he comes around to open my door too.

  Rufus eyeballs him, eyes wide, ears back, and I grab him a little tighter.

  I have two choices.

  One, I can start listing off every other person in the world who would take me in for a few days.

  Or two, I can acknowledge that Tyler already knows all this, and I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want me to be here, even if he’s angry, and he’s probably not angry with me unless he gets off on self-torture and will be telling everyone the horrible story of how he’s stuck with a roommate with a needy cat.

  I don’t think he’s the kind of dysfunctional who would take us in just to bitch about us and make himself out to be the victim though.

  I think he’s mad at my mom.

  For me.

  This dress was always a little tight in the boobs. More so since I’ve gained a few pounds. But now, with my heart swelling so hard and fast at Tyler sticking up for me and insisting on getting me out of my mom’s house?

  I’m about to split seams this dress doesn’t have.

  And that’s before he grabs all of our luggage from last night, plus the bags he gathered for me at Mom’s house, all in one trip, and still has enough of a hand free to hit the button on the elevator.

  Confession: there’s this group on the internet that’s all about women—mostly moms—carrying in all of their groceries in one trip, and I sometimes spend hours scrolling through the pictures and stories, fascinated at how they can move while loaded down like that.

  Seeing Tyler do the same with our luggage?

  The man cannot get any hotter.

  We step into the elevator, and I briefly wonder if I could zip Rufus into a suitcase—very temporarily—so that I could leap on Tyler and kiss him until I can’t breathe.

  I want to have elevator sex with him.

  I want to have elevator sex with him right now.

  I’m getting up the nerve to hit the stop button when the doors open.

  He hustles me out of the elevator, down a hall, around a corner, and stops in front of apartment 708.

  While he digs his phone out and uses it to unlock the door, Rufus squirms.

  Tyler shoots my cat a look, then swings the door open and gestures us inside.

  We almost get tangled in the middle of the bags he’s carrying, and I am definitely caught up in the subtle scent of hotel soap that I didn’t notice on him as much in the car as I do now.

  He follows us inside and lets the door swing shut. When it seals with a bang, Rufus leaps out of my arms, lands crooked next to the door in a houseplant that resembles a small tree, then plops into the dirt in the elegantly simple pot.

  Tyler eyeballs the cat, then glances at a large aquarium full of brightly-colored fish. He briefly squeezes his eyes shut before grunting something that I interpret to mean follow me.

  I don’t pretend I’m not gawking at everything as I trail him through the apartment. The living room is done in tans and browns, and I’m almost positive the floor is bamboo. In addition to the fish tank, Tyler has a wall of family photos, and there’s a gas fireplace beneath a massive television, with a lone stuffed Thrusty the Bratwurst mascot sitting on the mantle.

  His furniture is understated and positioned around red Turkish rugs.

  He has bookshelves. And books. And candles.

  We pass the kitchen, which is shiny and clean except for a bamboo bowl of oranges, a stand mixer, and a crock of cooking utensils and salt and pepper shakers next to the stove, which has a teapot on the back left burner.

  Then it’s down a short hallway past a bathroom and into a large, airy bedroom.

  Tyler marches into the attached bathroom, which is way fancier than the attached bathroom of a guest room should be. There’s a double sink. A soaking tub. A separate shower. A little alcove for the toilet. And another door leading to a closet that’s clearly already in use with his own clothes.

  Either the man has a ton of clothing, or he’s moving me into his own bedroom.

  Does this apartment have a guest bedroom?

  I hope so.

  I want to know Tyler wants me.

  There’s a reading lamp on the nightstand, and a book with a bookmark sticking out of it. Plugs for phones. A very cozy-looking maroon chair by the window with a throw blanket haphazardly tossed over the back.

  Scattered coins and a picture of his parents on the dresser, plus a sticky note on the mirror that’s curling up at the bottom, like it’s been there forever.

  Tyler is my favorite sibling, it says.

  Clearly, there’s a story.

  Also clearly?

  This is his bedroom.

  I eyeball the bed.

  It’s neatly made with a quilt that looks like it could’ve been made by someone’s grandma, but probably wasn’t. More likely, one of his sisters got it for him.

  He strides back out of the bathroom, stops, a
nd we stare at each other until it gets awkward.

  That doesn’t actually take all that long.

  Maybe three seconds.

  “Don’t put up with anyone who treats you like shit,” he says gruffly. Then he pats his back pocket—wallet check, I’m sure—followed by his front pocket—phone check, definitely. “I have to go. Make yourself at home. Eat whatever. The doorman’s bringing up a litter box. Tell him what kind of food you feed Rufus. He’ll get that too.”

  I nod like being left alone in his apartment after everything we’ve been through in the past twenty-four hours isn’t awkward and weird.

  And then it hits me. “My car,” I blurt.

  I have two appointments tonight, plus I need to drop off Brianna’s Muff Matchers welcome kit that I forgot to give her last week, which is thankfully in my trunk, because if it wasn’t hidden inside the box labeled “jumper cables,” my mom would…

  Let’s just say she’d borrow things and leave it at that.

  Tyler hands me his keys. “Use mine.”

  Use mine.

  Holy crap.

  I think we’re in a relationship.

  24

  Tyler

  I retreat from my apartment as fast as I came, stopping on my way out of the building to ask the doorman for the favors I already promised Muffy.

  Did I just accidentally make her my girlfriend?

  I know she’ll figure out fast that I have two spare bedrooms, and I could’ve put her in either. I gave her the keys to my car. I sent her an authorization to unlock my door with her phone.

  I didn’t just make her my accidental girlfriend.

  I made her my accidental live-in girlfriend.

  The six-block walk from my place to Mink Arena goes too fast, and it’s still over an hour until the team meeting starts.

  I could hit the ice. Work out some frustrations.

  Head up to see the front office staff. Ares’s wife works in marketing, and there’s a solid possibility he’d be in her office. They might have some good advice.

  But what do I ask?

  Does Muffy think we’re dating?

  Nope. Not gonna ask that. Ares’s wife is friends with Kami, and therefore friends with Muffy. They’ll talk.