Puck Me Baby

by Lili Valente

  “It’s all right. I’m not scared.” He pats my shoulder with his free hand as if I’m the one in need of a patient bedside manner. “And I’m not dying. It didn’t bite me, and even if it had, it was a folding trapdoor spider. They’re not poisonous.”

  “You don’t know that,” I insist, tightening my grip on his palm. “Did you even look at that thing before you picked it up like a crazy person? It was hairy all over, like a tarantula.”

  “We don’t have tarantulas in Oregon.”

  “So?” I sputter, though I’m starting to accept there’s no need for a trip to the emergency room. “Someone could have lost their pet tarantula.”

  He nods, grin still in place. “And how would that have ended up in my guest house?”

  “It could have crawled to your guest house.” I scowl harder. “It could have crawled here, snuck under the door, crept across the carpet to your guest bedroom and made a nest in your bureau drawer because it loves jumping out at unsuspecting people and scaring them half to death.”

  “I didn’t realize tarantulas were so diabolical.” His hand curls around my fingers, turning my examination into something more intimate.

  “Well, they are.” I’m highly aware that we’re touching inappropriately again but lack the willpower to pull my hand from his. “Spiders, in general, are dangerous. And diabolical. And your lack of self-preservation around them is troubling.”

  “So is the size of that purple silicone penis.” He nods toward the other side of the room, where Mr. Veiny lies on the floor, looking even more obscene than usual on the pristine beige carpet.

  “Jesus…it’s not mine.” My face flushes lava-hot as I roll my eyes to the ceiling. I try to pull my hand away to cover my flaming cheeks, but Alexi holds on tight. “I mean, it is mine because Diana gave it to me. But it’s not real.”

  He arches a brow as he steps closer. “Looks real to me.”

  “Well, yes, it is. It’s real, but it’s not…in use.” I exhale sharply, lifting my too-long bangs off my forehead, trying not to notice how near he suddenly is. “I don’t use it. That’s not a thing I do. Not with that, anyway.”

  He leans in, further invading my space with his spicy, heroic-spider-dispatching scent, making my entire body tingle. “That’s good to hear. I was starting to feel a little inadequate.”

  My gaze collides with his, and sparks ignite between us all over again. “As if,” I whisper, knowing I’m playing with fire but unable to resist. “If memory serves, you have no reason to feel inadequate. About anything. At all.”

  His focus shifts to my lips as he murmurs, “No?”

  “No,” I whisper, blood pumping faster.

  “Are you sure? I thought you couldn’t remember.”

  “Well, I remember some things…” I bite my lip, fighting to keep the words on the tip of my tongue from leaving my mouth. But my tongue isn’t interested in anything but getting tangled up with some part of Alexi’s body as soon as possible. And so I add in a husky voice, “But a refresher course could be nice.”

  Before the last word has slipped into the charged air, Alexi’s mouth is on mine.

  His lips are as hot as my burning cheeks and so petal-soft it’s shocking. This giant man with the rough hands and powerful body has the sweetest mouth.

  And he tastes like heaven—like honey and fennel and dark, sexy, secret things that hide from the light, only coming out after the sun goes down, when the world is hazy, mysterious, and open to possibilities. He is magnificent, and as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, stroking against mine, communicating how good it is to see me again, all I can do is moan in surrender.

  “Your mouth is incredible,” he murmurs as he backs me slowly across the room. “So soft and sweet.”

  “You, too,” I confess, words becoming a gasp as he drives his fingers into my hair and fists them there, sending a shockwave of desire jackknifing through me.

  “I’ve been dreaming about this since the morning you left without saying good-bye,” he says between kisses as his free hand slides down to cup my ass. “About your sweet mouth and your beautiful body and the sounds you make.”

  The backs of my knees hit the bed, and my breath rushes out. This is getting really real, really fast. If I don’t say something soon, we’re going to end up naked and in bed together a few hours into our “friends with shared parenting responsibilities” relationship.

  “We can’t do this, Alexi,” I whisper, my pulse spiking. “We really can’t.”

  “Yes, we can. And we should.” He cups my breast through my sweater, making me moan again as his thumb brushes over my nipple. Even through my clothes, the touch makes my knees weak and my willpower even weaker.

  Maybe he’s right…

  Maybe we can be more than friends.

  Maybe we even owe it to ourselves—and our baby—to see if this chemistry will lead to something more. Something as good as the way I feel when Alexi guides me onto the bed and stretches out on the covers beside me, stroking one big hand over my belly and between my legs.

  I bite down hard on my bottom lip, determined not to groan in relief or utter any other unsexy sounds that will make him stop what he’s doing with those brilliant fingers that seem to know exactly how to unravel me.

  I weave my hands into his thick hair as he gives me what I want, what I need, kissing me with a slow, sustained intensity that drives me wild.

  His tongue strokes into my mouth as his fingers stroke between my legs, and even though my jeans and panties are still in the way, I start to ache. To burn. To rock into his touch with soft cries that Alexi answers with encouraging growls and moans and whispered curses as I reach between us, returning the favor, rubbing the thick ridge of his cock through his jeans.

  He’s as massive as I remember, but I’m not anxious about how we’ll fit. I know it’s going to be perfect, that he’ll give me everything I can handle and more, and when I’m there at the edge, stretched and filled and pushed to my limit, he’ll take my hand and hold on tight as he takes me even further, until I’m flying and there is nothing in the world but this man and the incomparable things he makes me feel.

  “I need to touch you.” He flips open the button at the top of my jeans and tugs my zipper down. “I need to feel you wet for me, myshka.”

  I hum-moan-sigh my permission as he slides his hand into my panties. My pulse spikes, and my nails dig into the skin at his neck as he presses a single finger into where I am so slick that he glides deep without a hint of resistance.

  “Oh, yes. I love the way you touch me.”

  “Fuck, beautiful, I can’t wait to be inside you again,” he says, his words becoming unintelligible as he kisses his way down my throat, making the world spin faster.

  “Yes,” I agree, nails digging into his shoulders. “Inside me, please. Oh, please.”

  “Soon. But first you’re going to come for me.” Our kiss grows deeper, hotter, as Alexi slides a second finger into where I ache, stretching my inner walls as his thumb finds my clit and applies the perfect, mind-blowing pressure.

  I arch into his touch, rocking faster, my breath coming in swift pants against his lips as he murmurs sexy things about how delicious I smell and taste and how much he needs me to come, to come, to come, oh my God, oh my—

  I cry out as pleasure washes through me, hot and fierce and so beautiful a smile a mile wide bursts across my face. Oh, dear God, it’s good, so good, even better than I remembered.

  I’m still grinning like a fool when a harsh croak-gurgle emanates from the window, and I glance over to see a crow the size of a small dog perched on the sill, holding a squirming monster spider in its beak.

  I scream, and Alexi makes a manlier startled sound, sitting up so fast he tumbles off the edge of the bed. He recovers quickly, leaping to his feet and lunging for the window with a shooing motion, but the crow isn’t easily startled. It remains on the sill for another moment, flapping its wings and cawing in disapproval, letting its wildly wiggling prey fal
l from its beak to land on the carpet.

  By the time the bird beats a cranky retreat, the spider is rushing at Alexi, instigating a spider-avoiding hopping, stomping dance that would be funny if the spider wasn’t out for blood and Alexi and I hadn’t been on the verge of ruining everything.

  We can’t break the rules. We can’t.

  The odds of disaster are far greater than the chances that we’ll find domestic bliss—I may have been out of the dating game for a while, but years of first-and-only dates with a plethora of Mr. Wrongs taught me how hard it is to find a relationship-worthy guy—and I owe my daughter better than this. If I can’t give her two parents madly in love with each other, I can at least ensure she has a mother and father who are good friends, without any failed-love-affair baggage making life awkward for the next eighteen years.

  By the time Alexi has recaptured the spider, delivered it to the outdoors, and closed the window with a firm snick and a click of the lock, my mind is made up.

  “This was a bad idea,” I say, buttoning my jeans as I back down the hall toward the living room. “I’m sorry, but you have to go. We have to stay friends. Just friends. For the baby. It’s the only way to make sure things stay good.”

  His lips part, but before he can speak, I throw open the front door and beg, “Please. I can’t do this. I can’t take the risk. I’m sorry.”

  Alexi pauses in the doorway, exhaling sharply. “No, I’m sorry. I overstepped. It won’t happen again. I promise.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, studying his chest, knowing better than to look up. If I lock eyes with him again, there’s a chance I’ll be swept back into the sex tornado that swirls around him, sucking up every last bit of my willpower. “See you later.”

  “Later,” he echoes as he steps out into the evening shadows, striding briskly toward the big house, where he will get on with his life while I get on with mine.

  And it will be fine. Better than fine.

  It will be the smartest, sanest, best thing I could have done for my child. A sacrifice well worth making. A few weeks or months—or however long Alexi and I might have lasted—of pleasure aren’t worth a lifetime of awkwardness.

  And awkward would be the best possible outcome. Because Alexi isn’t the kind of man you can roll around in bed with and then casually part ways. He’s the kind who gets under your skin, working his way into the fabric of your life so deeply that it’s impossible to imagine a future without him, and nearly as impossible to move on when he decides to say good-bye…

  For the best. It’s for the best.

  I repeat the mantra for the next several hours, using it to banish the memory of how good it felt to have Alexi’s body close to mine.

  And it works.

  Mostly.

  At least, good enough.

  Chapter 9

  Petrov

  *

  It’s the first time we’ve played the newbies from Las Vegas, but Pendleton isn’t new to me. He’s the same smart-mouthed, punk-ass dick he was when he played for Florida and L.A., though he does look prettier in his new black and gold jersey.

  I make sure to tell him so. “Nice jersey,” I grunt, as we crash into the boards for a loose puck. “Brings out the shit-brown in your eyes.”

  “That’s what your mother said when she was sucking my dick. Anytime you want to go, drop the gloves, you Cro-Magnon fuck.”

  “You’re not in my weight class.” I win the battle, out-muscling the weasely little stooge. He hooks and grabs, but he can’t take what’s mine. I slap the puck over to Cruise and glide away from Pendleton, glad to have taken the upper hand. It’s always irritating to lose to a runt, especially when that runt is a complete prick. In addition to his filthy mouth, Pendleton has an uncanny knack for getting away with dirty hits and sticking his stick places sticks aren’t meant to go.

  Like my ass. And my dick. If he gets near either one tonight, I’m going to smash his rat face against the glass.

  Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of the time, I’m putting on a show out here, playing the big, bad, you’d-better-not-fuck-with-my-team enforcer. Yes, I protect the players who need protection and demand respect for the Badgers on the ice, but mine is a mostly head game. I don’t have to hit hard; I just have to make the other guys afraid of how hard I’m going to hit them on the day I finally break.

  Like so many things in life, hockey is eighty percent mental, and I have my mental house in far better order than I let on when facing down a rival team.

  But tonight, I’m this close…

  A hair’s breadth between my finger and the trigger…

  I’ve spent the past week pretending I’m fine with being platonic friends and future parental units with the sex goddess living in my pool house. But I’m not fine. My entire life has been turned upside down. I’m strung tight, wired for sound, and so confused I don’t know which way is up.

  The one thing I do know is how much I would like to finally pay Pendleton back for every time he’s taken liberties with my teammates, my good will, and my rear end.

  What kind of shady motherfucker deliberately tries to ram his stick up your ass when you’re not looking? I would suspect he has designs of an amorous nature if he weren’t the biggest womanizer in the NHL. But that tiny Don Juan gets all the pussy. All of it. He probably has ten different kinds of crabs living on him right now.

  It’s a testimony to my state of mind that I decide it’s a good idea to tell him so.

  Pendleton slams his shoulder into my gut in response. “At least three from your mom alone, that skank-ass bitch.”

  And even though I haven’t seen my mom in six months, she lives on another continent, and I know for a fact this dick has never even met her, let alone done anything else with her, his tone gets to me.

  Sometimes it’s all about tone.

  I repay his shoulder to the gut with an elbow to the ribs as I start toward the play underway on the other side of the ice. But before I can get out of range, something hard rams into my upper thigh, right in that tiny, unprotected area between pad and jock strap. Pain flashes through my muscles, creeping into my balls, but it’s the explosion of anger that makes me see red.

  With a roar of not-at-all-pretend rage, I turn on Pendleton and slam the handle of my stick into his shoulder, propelling him across the ice and into the boards. Immediately whistles shriek and every Las Vegas douchebag on the ice converges around me. But their attempts to shut me down—as more Badgers join the fray and the refs circle the mob of sweaty bodies, tugging players apart—are unsuccessful, to put it mildly.

  I return each elbow jab and sweaty glove in my face, shouting obscenities in every language I know—I’m fluent in three, but profanity-fluent in five. By the time a ref reaches me at the center of the chaos, wrapping me in a bear hug to escort me to the penalty box, I’m not much more than a spitting, snarling ball of rage.

  But it’s not until I see the replay on the jumbotron that I realize how far down the rage spiral I let myself slip.

  Slip. Fuck, I can’t afford to slip.

  Nothing can slip. Not my control, not my tongue, and certainly not my grip on my temper. I promised Mandy the goon-bit was all an act, and that’s a promise I need to keep. We don’t know each other well, but there’s no doubt in my mind that a big, scary, out-of-control psycho isn’t the kind of man a pediatric nurse—or any other sane woman—wants around her baby.

  I duck my head, hiding from the penalty box camera as best I can, considering it’s right there in my face, while I pull my shit together. And I do a good job. Even when my indiscretion leads to the Las Vegas newbies getting a power play and pulling ahead by a goal, I don’t let that hot head buried deep inside out to play again. He’s had his episode for the season, and now I’m back to being a cool, collected defender.

  Control is good.

  Control leads to good things, I’m reminded once I’m back on the ice, swatting the puck from the air with my glove. I shut down what would have been a sweet tap-in
goal for Las Vegas, and calmly feather a pass to where my forwards are waiting at center ice. And my forwards, who are some of the fastest and slipperiest in the league, work a tick-tack-toe play worthy of Sports Center’s highlight reel to tie the game.

  It’s all downhill on an avalanche for Las Vegas after that. Our first line scores again a minute later, and yet again a few minutes after that. By the time the horn blows at the end of the game, our fourth liners have logged more ice time than the past three games combined, and Las Vegas slinks down their tunnel with shame dripping from their shiny new uniforms.

  I’ve all but forgotten about my break when Cruise claps me on the shoulder in the locker room on my way out of the shower and mutters, “Text me later if you need to talk, Big Scary.”

  “Talk about what? I’m fine,” I scoff, to which Justin replies—

  “Whatever you say, Big Scary. But Big Scary is scary, and he needs to stay in time out so we don’t frighten the children.”

  “Though it was sweet to see Pendleton get his,” Saunders says, cruising toward the showers behind Cruise. “He’s such a shit-weasel.”

  “That’s offensive to shit-weasels,” Cruise says, raising his voice to call out, “Talk to Big Scary, Brendan. You have good grown-up words.”

  “I don’t need grown-up words,” I shout, tugging my shirt on with a sharp jerk of my elbows.

  Brendan shifts on the couch in front of the big screen, glancing at me over his shoulder. “Ignore them. You snapped. Everybody snaps.”

  “Thanks,” I say, shoulders relaxing away from my ears.

  “But if you want to talk about life changing stuff that might be wearing on you, let me know. It’s been a while since I had a baby in the house, but I remember the newborn stress. Makes the playoffs seem like a walk in the park.”

  Well, fuck…

  It’s a kind offer, and clearly well-intentioned, but it only makes the black feeling in my chest start swarming again. “There’s no baby in the house yet. And why am I still stupid enough to think my private shit is going to stay private?”