Down to Puck (Buffalo Tempest Hockey Book 2)

by Sylvia Pierce

  Is she saying… Is that… Are we…?

  When she reached the living room, Henny got a clear view of the number.

  Not a one-nine. A seven-nine. Dimitri Kuznetsov.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked. “Kooz? You got a thing for Kooz?”

  She closed her eyes and let out a soft moan, running her hands down over her hips in a way that had Henny thinking very bad thoughts. Thoughts he should not be thinking about his best friend.

  What the hell did she put in those nachos?

  “Russian hockey players make me weak,” she purred.

  “All the more reason to stay the fuck away from them.”

  “I can’t. They’re like my Kryptonite.”

  He grabbed his beer off the table, chugged down the rest in two gulps. “Then consider me your lead suit.”

  “You’re no fun. You dragged me all the way back to Buffalo. The least you could do is hook me up with your hot Russian teammates.”

  “First of all, I didn’t drag you, I accompanied you. And second?” He headed to the kitchen, grabbed another beer from the fridge. Two of her magnets crashed to the floor, and he stuck them back on the door with more force than necessary. “Never gonna happen.”

  “Why not?” She stuck out her bottom lip, a move that brought him back to their high school days, to Bex running off on some crazy dare as Henny tried desperately to save her ass from self-destruction.

  Come on, Henny! I can totally climb that water tower! Stop telling me what to do!

  “Because the second he touches you,” he snapped, “I’m breaking both his goddamn hands. Ever hear of a goalie who plays without hands? No? That’s because they can’t. End of fucking story.”

  Henny slugged his beer, trying to ignore the burn in his gut. Bex was always saying shit like that, messing with him, pushing his buttons. So why was it needling him so hard tonight?

  Because you saw her in another man’s jersey.

  He dropped back onto the couch, blood simmering. Another man’s jersey? No, that wasn’t it. Not by a long shot.

  The truth was way fucking worse.

  It wasn’t just that she was wearing Kooz’s jersey. It was that—for one ridiculously hot second—Henny had dropped his guard and let himself imagine she was wearing his jersey. Nothing but his jersey. And once that image had entered his mind, it lodged itself in there, good and fucking tight.

  Bex sat down on the couch and elbowed him in the arm, nearly spilling his beer. “Cheer up, Gloomypants. We’ve got tequila, remember?”

  A grin split her face, big and bright, no trace of the awkwardness he was feeling. Christ. Fucking Roscoe and Dunn. He should delete them both, off his phone and right out of his life.

  Instead, he turned off his phone and chucked it to the other end of the couch, out of sight. Those guys could talk all the shit they wanted. Fact was, Henny and Bex were strictly friend zone. No way, no how, not in the most frozen outer reaches of hell would they ever be more than that, no matter whose fucking jersey she wore.

  “The good stuff?” he asked now, plastering on a smile.

  “Define good.” She hopped up and scooted back into the kitchen for the booze. “This stuff is so cheap it doesn’t even have a name.”

  “Perfect.”

  She came back with the bottle, a couple of shot glasses, a plate of cut limes, and a small bowl of salt. Damn girl never half-assed anything.

  Sitting next to him again, she poured out two shots. “Ready?”

  Henny looked at the stuff spread out on the coffee table, trying to remember the order. Lime first, then salt? Or tequila, then lime? One tequila, two tequila…

  Fuck.

  “The only time I ever had tequila was in Mexico, straight out of the bottle,” he admitted. “There a trick to this?”

  “Seriously? Okay, your college education was obviously subpar.” Bex made a fist, holding it up between them. “First, you lick.”

  “What?” Henny shifted on the couch. His pants were getting more uncomfortable by the minute. Tight. Straining. This was not good.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never done this,” she said. “Watch.”

  Her tongue darted out, slowly licking the spot between her thumb and forefinger, and holy fuck he never wanted to be anything so badly as he wanted to be that spot. He felt it all the way down to his balls, a shock of heat and pleasure so intense it was as if her velvet-soft tongue was teasing the head of his cock, driving him right over the fucking edge.

  He wanted to excuse himself to the bathroom, to the kitchen, to the garage—anything to clear his muddy head and stop the aching throb of his cock against his jeans. But Bex was watching him intently, sweetly, waiting for him to follow along.

  Henny licked his hand.

  It did not help the situation below the belt.

  “Next, a little salt,” she said, grabbing a pinch from the bowl and sprinkling it over each of their hands. “Then you pick up the lime.”

  He followed her instruction, eyes never leaving hers, praying she wouldn’t look at his lap.

  “When I say go,” she said, “pick up the shot glass with your free hand. Then you lick the salt, down the shot, and suck on the lime. Got it?”

  She’d lost him at lick and suck, but he nodded anyway, dumb fucking idiot that he was, copying her motions. The tequila was cheap and warm and terrible, and it burned like gasoline all the way down.

  Maybe it’ll burn a hole in your fucked-up mind…

  “Another,” he said, spitting out the lime.

  She poured another round and repeated the whole process. This time he didn’t watch as she licked her hand, just did his own shot as fast as he could, then gestured for another one.

  Three shots in, he was starting to feel pretty nice. Four, and his dick was securely back in hiding, right where it needed to remain for the rest of the night. Come morning, he’d hop in the shower, rub one out, whip up the best damn pancake brunch they’d ever fucking had, and forget all about the unwelcome thoughts that had invaded his brain tonight.

  “Not so bad, right?” Bex laughed, her words running together. “Gets more the better you drink.”

  He shook his head, making the room tilt. “Better the more you drink. And no, it doesn’t.”

  “You’re smiling, right? That means my trifecta worked.” Bex reached for his arm, but instead of the punch he’d expected, she grabbed him, curling her fingers around his bicep. The warmth of her touch radiated through his Henley.

  She was smiling up at him, her eyes glassy, cheeks pink. She stroked his arm. A little piece of lime clung to her bottom lip.

  “You’ve got…” Henny reached for her face, swiping his thumb along the bottom edge of her lip. Before he could pull away, that soft little tongue darted out again, licking the lime from the tip of his thumb.

  Oh, fuck…

  Henny rocketed up from the couch, nearly knocking over the bottle on the coffee table. The room wobbled beneath his feet. “Be right back.”

  He darted into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, his whole body buzzing and hard, his dick standing at attention once again. Leaning over the sink, he turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face until his cheeks went numb and his dick calmed the hell down.

  Staring at his pathetic reflection in the mirror, he gripped the edges of the sink and took a deep breath.

  No more naughty thoughts about your best friend. None. No good can come of it. You’re grown-ass adults and this isn’t funny and you need to shut this shit down, pronto.

  Back in the living room, Bex was waiting for him right where he left her, beaming up at him with that dimpled smile he loved so much. A few more auburn locks had come loose from her bun, and now they hung loosely around her face, brushing her shoulders. He wanted to touch them. To untie that bun, glide his fingers through that hair, pull her close…

  He sat down next to her, blinking hard. Everything around him was off-kilter. Too warm. Too… everything.

&
nbsp; “Do you know what time it is?” Bex asked.

  “No.”

  “Time… for another round!” Bex laughed as she reached for the bottle, but she was still looking at him. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, either. Seconds passed like hours. And then, just as she narrowed her eyes and her smile started to fade and things were hurtling toward awkward-as-fuck territory, another very bad thought invaded Henny’s head.

  What would happen if I kissed her?

  Instinctively his eyes lowered to her mouth. Her smile was totally gone now, her lips parted slightly, tongue touching her teeth like she was about to ask a question but couldn’t find the words. Everything in the room faded away except this one thing, this ridiculous moment that had sucked him into another dimension where Bex wasn’t his friend at all, but some gorgeous stranger who’d invited him home for the night.

  He stared and stared and stared, unable to look away. Unable to see or hear or feel anything but this. Bex, her dark pink lips, soft and pillowy. Sleet lashing the windows outside. The ticking of the oven she’d forgotten to turn off. The sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, and the soft whoosh of her breath quickening under his watchful gaze.

  All he had to do was lean in, take his shot.

  It could be good between them. Oh-so-fucking good.

  Six inches was all that separated them.

  Five.

  Three.

  Hey, dickhole. That’s your best friend you’re eye-fucking there. How about you calm the fuck down?

  “Whoa.” Henny nodded, blinking rapidly. Slowly the room came back into focus, time speeding back up again. “Sorry. I, uh. Yeah. Little buzzed over here.”

  “Thought I lost you for a minute.” Bex was still looking at him kind of funny, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other.

  “Hit me,” he said, holding up his shot glass.

  “You sure?”

  Henny closed his eyes, trying to erase the image of those luscious lips. Had she wanted him to lean in? Was she picturing the same damn kiss in her mind, wanting it just as bad?

  Stop it.

  He needed to numb himself with another drink and pass the fuck out before he did something really, really stupid.

  When he opened his eyes, he shrugged and flashed her a grin that was a hell of a lot more blasé than he felt.

  But fuck it.

  “Yeah,” he said, nodding toward the bottle. “Why the hell not?”

  Chapter Five

  Morning light blazed through the window, nudging Bex awake. She wasn’t quite ready to open her eyes, and the rest of her senses came back slowly, tugging her from a hazy dream.

  A headache loomed at the base of her skull. She was dizzy, still a little drunk, and so not ready to move.

  Must’ve been some night…

  Her body was heavy and way too warm, arms and legs tangled up with those of the man she’d brought home. She couldn’t quite tell where she started and he began.

  He was still passed out, his face pressed between her boobs, silky hair tickling her bare skin. She shifted beneath him, enjoying the sudden press of something hot and hard against her thigh.

  Hello, morning wood.

  The man groaned softly in his half-sleep, and Bex let out a satisfied sigh, wondering if they had time for a little romp before she headed out for the day. A proper orgasm was the fastest cure for a headache she—

  Wait…

  I didn’t bring anyone home last night. I never bring anyone home. It was just me and…

  Her eyes flew open, heart hammering in her throat as she jolted fully awake, the events of last night crashing through her mind like car wreck.

  Nachos.

  Tequila.

  Henny.

  Oh, God. Henny.

  Bex peered down at the man nuzzling her chest, sliding her fingers into his dark hair and brushing it back from his face, praying he was somebody else.

  Anybody else.

  No dice.

  Her best friend was fast asleep, his mouth parted, breath hot on her bare flesh.

  The room tilted sideways, her head thudding as her heart dropped right into her stomach.

  This was bad. Beyond bad.

  Henny grumbled and rolled over onto his back. Bex held her breath, but he was still sound asleep.

  Gingerly, she lifted the sheet and scanned her body. The shorts, hockey jersey, and bra she’d had on last night were noticeably absent, the flesh beneath her breasts pink from the press of Henny’s face. She was still wearing her blue lace panties, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t come off at some point last night.

  Or that Henny hadn’t simply worked around them.

  Steadying herself for the killing blow, she cut her eyes to Henny.

  Completely naked.

  And still hard.

  And… wow. Double wow. Her best friend was packing some serious mojo. It was the biggest, smoothest, most perfect cock she’d ever seen, like something sculpted by some old Italian master. The sheet tented over him when she let it drop back into place.

  Holy hell.

  Surely if that monster had been inside her last night, she’d be able to feel it this morning.

  Taking a steadying breath, she did a quick mental inventory. Her entire body ached, but she could blame the cheap tequila hangover for that—not a night of wild sex.

  Right?

  Silent as a mouse, she trailed her hand down her stomach, slipping inside her panties to better investigate the situation. The brush of fingers over her clit sent a shock of desire through her core, so unexpected she almost cried out. She was slippery and needy, though it was impossible to tell whether it was her body’s natural response to having a warm, hard man in her bed, or whether it was leftover from last night.

  Her head swam. She tried to remember something from last night—anything—but all she got was a blur. A flash, then it was gone. The headache crept across her brain, burrowing in like an animal.

  It was no use. Bex had no idea what had happened in this bed. All she knew was that now, despite every warning in her heart, she almost… almost… wanted it to happen again.

  She skimmed over her clit once more, and this time her thighs clenched.

  God, that feels good…

  “Holy fuck.” Henny’s voice startled her, and she yanked her hand out of her panties and turned to meet his eyes, her cheeks burning.

  He was watching her, his own eyes wide with shock, followed by confusion, followed by—most unmistakably—arousal. Raw, unguarded lust.

  Her breath hitched. “I was just…”

  “Yeah. I noticed.”

  Henny sat up against the headboard, the sheet falling down to his waist. His bare chest rose and fell rapidly, muscles rippling as he shifted away from her. Bex waited for him to crack a joke, to admit this was all some elaborate prank, to spoon-feed her the logical explanation she was so hungry for.

  But Henny only gaped at her.

  “How did this happen?” he demanded.

  “I was hoping you could tell me.” Her gaze swept over the firm ridges of his abs, landing in his lap. He was still hard beneath the sheet, a realization that sent another bolt of desire through her core.

  But still, Henny offered no explanation. No jokes. Nothing.

  “Turn around,” she said. It was a little late for modesty, but she was hanging on by a thread, looking for control anywhere she could get it.

  Henny swung his legs out over the side of the bed, his back to her as he raked a hand through his hair. She tried not to notice the adorable way it stuck up in the morning, or the way his sculpted shoulders flexed, or the way her own body still pulsed with heat.

  Keeping one eye on Henny, she rose from the bed and yanked her robe off the door hook, wrapping herself up good and tight as she headed out of the bedroom in search of answers. And a hot shower. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

  She stumbled on something in the hallway, catching herself on the wall. “Fuck!”

  “You okay?�
�� Henny called out.

  “Yeah.” She glanced down at her feet. “Found our clothes.”

  The living room was a disaster, too—couch cushions on the floor, salt spilled across the coffee table, the empty tequila bottle tossed into the pot of her poor snake plant.

  Tequila. Never again.

  Standing in the middle of her living room, Bex got a flash—a memory? A dream?—of Henny pulling her into his lap on the couch, kissing her neck. Nibbling her ear. Both of them laughing.

  “I’m still hungry,” he said.

  “Too bad you ate all the nachos.”

  “Guess I’ll just have to eat you…”

  No. It had to be a dream. It wasn’t a memory. Not a real one. She and Henny would never, ever cross that line.

  All evidence points to the contrary, sweetie.

  Bex headed into the bathroom, hoping a searing hot shower would help clear her head.

  It didn’t.

  When she finally returned to the bedroom, Henny was still sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.

  “Whatever happened last night,” he said to the floor as she entered, “I don’t remember anything.” He blew out a breath and finally turned to look at her, guilt etching new lines into his face.

  Tightening the tie on her bathrobe, Bex forced a grin she wasn’t entirely feeling. “Ouch. Guess I need to work on my game.”

  Henny didn’t laugh.

  “Hey,” she said, softer now. Her first instinct was always to comfort him, to erase those lines from his face, but she held back. She wasn’t upset with him—they’d gotten themselves into this mess together, after all—but she wasn’t ready to touch him yet. The moment felt fragile as a bubble, like if either of them said or did the wrong thing, their entire relationship would pop right out of existence.

  “If it makes you feel better,” she said, “I don’t remember anything either.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Just…” Your hands in my hair. Your mouth on my neck. Guess I’ll just have to eat you. “…the tequila. Everything after that is a blur.”

  He held her gaze for a minute, assessing. Then, finally, “I’m clean, Bex. Haven’t been with anyone in… well, a while, and I just had a checkup with the team doc. But I’m pretty sure we didn’t use a—”