PUCKED

by Helena Hunting

  I cringe. “I’m staying with my parents.”

  “You could come up to my suite.”

  “I was going to bed.” So lame.

  “I figured.”

  And there’s the smile again. He rocks those damn dimples. The banged-up face and the bruises seem to elevate the level of pretty.

  “I’m not having sex with you.” Dear Lord, my mouth needs a censor.

  He doesn’t even flinch. “That’s cool. I wasn’t expecting sex.”

  “Really?” I assumed by hang out he clearly meant get naked.

  “Really. Promise.” He puts his hand over his heart, his eyes softening as his cheeks flush. He’s blushing. It’s kind of cute.

  “Oh. Well, then. I guess—I’ll get changed.” There I am, agreeing to go up to a hot-as-hell hockey player’s room in the middle of the night for not-sex.

  I reach for the door and tug the handle. It’s locked. I try again, knowing it won’t work. Knocking will wake the ’rents. Then I definitely won’t be hangin’ with Alex. I want to, even though it’s a screamingly bad idea. Nothing good can come of this. Except maybe another make out session.

  “You don’t have your key.”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “You don’t need to change on my account. I’m quite partial to this outfit. Spiderman’s my favorite.” He’s still got a smile plastered on his face. It’s almost as irritating as it is hot. “We could hit up the front desk and ask for another card if you’re committed to changing.”

  “Are you kiss—I mean kidding? I mean what? No. I can’t go there dressed like this.” Both the Freudian slip and the idea of walking into the main lobby in Spidey pajamas are horrifying.

  “Why don’t you come to my room? We can chill for a bit. When you’re ready to come back here, I’ll have a key sent up.” He offers his hand.

  I look at it and then him, debating. It could be the residual booze floating around in my system—and my lack of gratification during my jill time—but I put my palm in his and allow him to guide me to the elevator. He pushes the button and drapes his suit jacket across my shoulders. I don’t want to consider how often he does this. Or how I’m probably one of hundreds.

  The doors open, and he motions me in ahead of him. The entire elevator is made of mirrors, providing an awesome view of Alex from all angles. I, on the other hand, am a complete mess. My hair could seriously use a brush, I have no makeup on, and I’m wearing my glasses. I surreptitiously attempt to fix my hair.

  “Hey.” His eyes are warm as he strokes my cheek. His fingers are rough and calloused, yet the touch is gentle, intimate even. “I just want to hang out. I promise.”

  I want to believe him.

  “It’s two a.m., Alex. Showing up at my hotel room in the wee hours of the morning usually constitutes a booty call.”

  He drops his hand. “The whole bar scene gets old, and I’m kind of amped from the game. I figured you gave me your number, and we were having fun, weren’t we? It’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t caught up in the hype.”

  “Right.” Whatever. He’s not going to hold me hostage. I can always leave if I need to.

  “I wasn’t sure when you’d be leaving. I wanted to try—”

  The elevator dings. Alex laces my fingers with his and we walk down the hall to his room. The space is laid out almost the same as my parents suite aside from the single door leading to what is most likely the bedroom.

  “We usually share rooms, but I won a bet last week, so my buddy Darren had to put me up in this.”

  “Darren?”

  “Yeah. Westinghouse. Number twenty-six. He plays right wing.”

  It’s at this moment I remember I was supposed to snap a picture of him. I was too busy sticking my tongue in Alex’s mouth to follow through. I hope Charlene forgives my distraction.

  “You share rooms?”

  “Most of the time.”

  Bringing girls up to the room would be a challenge. Unless they’re all into watching or sharing. I suppress a shudder. I wonder what kind of bet he won.

  I trail Alex to the bar, where he makes me an alcohol-free drink. He cracks a bottle of Perrier for himself.

  We stand there, staring at each other, not saying anything until the awkwardness becomes unbearable and I crack.

  “I’m nervous.” I follow up with, “I don’t usually do this.” Cue internal eye roll. What a clichéd line.

  The corner of his mouth quirks up, his eyes alight with amusement. “You don’t usually hang out with people?”

  “No. I don’t usually follow famous hockey players to their private suites when they come knocking on my door at two in the morning after having made out publicly in a bar.”

  “Do hockey players usually come knocking on your door in the middle of the night?”

  “No. This would be a first for me.” I shed his jacket and pass it to him, already too warm, thanks to the banter.

  “Those pajamas are really something.”

  “I think you like my nipple visibility.”

  I turn away, wishing I could stop my mouth. Leaning across the bar, I drop a few more ice cubes into my drink. A throat clears behind me, and I remember how low these pants sit. There’s a solid chance half my ass is hanging out the back. I straighten quickly and hike the pants up, nearly giving myself a camel toe. No matter how I turn, Alex is going to get an eyeful of something.

  There’s a plush couch on the other side of the room. I cross to it and sit in the corner, tucking my legs under me to prevent further wardrobe malfunctions. Alex hasn’t said anything to confirm or deny my Spidey jammies observation. In fact, he hasn’t said anything at all.

  He sits beside me, leaning back, looking all relaxed and hot. Then he fucks me. Not in the literal sense; he doesn’t bend me over the arm of the couch, drop my pants, and fill me from behind. But he might as well.

  What does he do to crumble my already weak resolve, other than be his absurdly gorgeous self? Alex does exactly what he said he wanted to do—hang out and talk.

  “So you run a book club? What’s that like?” He stretches his arm out, grazing his fingertips along my shoulder.

  I’m not sure how to answer this question without sounding too losery. “I don’t run it, I just participate. Mostly it’s an excuse to drink wine and eat junk food while discussing smutty books. We don’t typically read sixteenth century literature, but we had a real smut run for the last few months. This chick Lydia was getting tired of reading the word moist, so she picked Fielding. It’s a little extreme.”

  Alex shudders. “Understandable, really. Moist is a terrible word.”

  “So true. It should only be used to describe the consistency of cake.”

  “Agreed.” Alex laughs, his pretty smile lingering. He twirls my hair between his fingers. “So did you study English in college?”

  “Not as a major. I took a few courses for fun. What about you?” My mouth is dry and every part of me is hot. I take a sip of my grapefruit drink.

  “I double majored in English Lit and Kinesiology during my first year. I had to drop the kin after I was drafted. I was a little late getting picked up.”

  He double majored. My Spidey jammies are at risk of peeling themselves off my body. “When were you drafted?”

  “The middle of my first year.”

  “And you still finished your degree?”

  “It took a little longer than usual, but yeah. I’d still like to finish the kin degree at some point, but that’ll have to wait. So you’re not into lit fic, eh?”

  He’s using cute Canadianisms. I’m getting all flushed below the waist and above the neck. “I’m good with literary. I’ve read Tolstoy and Austen and liked them, but Fielding’s a pretty vast change from straight up word porn.”

  I get another laugh, and his fingers drift down the side of my neck. “He saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”

  Oh God. He’s quoting Tolstoy and touching me. I’m done for.

  When you�
�re surrounded by sports-minded men whose reading repertoire doesn’t expand beyond The Hockey News or the sports section in the newspaper, it’s hard not to get all starry-eyed about a guy who reads books without pictures.

  One second he’s talking, the next my face is glued to his. His glass clinks on the table, and then his hands are on me, under my shirt, gripping my waist and burning against my already heated skin.

  “I was really hoping for some more mouth fucking,” Alex says against my lips.

  I giggle, and then moan. Oh hell, do I moan. It’s been a while since I’ve been touched by a member of the opposite sex. By a while, I mean it’s been the drought of the ages for the past six months. I’m going to explode out of my skin from the contact.

  I skim his jaw with my fingers and thread them into his hair. It’s soft, reminding me of those shampoo commercials, where attractive men gush about their super awesome hair.

  I press closer, but it’s not enough, so I straddle his lap. This is simultaneously the best and worst idea ever. His probable hockey-whore status ceases to matter as I settle over the straining bulge in his pants.

  Alex’s fingertips glide back and forth under the waistband, which rides precariously low. My focus lies on the feel of his hands on my skin and the warmth of his mouth on mine.

  He breaks the kiss, and his lips travel along my jaw, warm and wet on my skin. “Is this okay?” he asks, inching his hands into the back of my pants.

  “Uh-huh.”

  He grabs the swell of my ass, squeezing gently. “And this?”

  I mmm rather than use words on the not-so-off chance I might say something to ruin the moment. His full bottom lip begs for attention, so I give it a nibble and a suck. We kiss for a long while, grinding all up on each other, his hands in my pants, my fingers in his hair.

  He pulls my body closer, shifting his hips at the same time. “What about this?”

  And there it is—the friction I’ve been looking for. It feels so good. So much better than my own fingers because it’s a big damn dick and all I have to do is shift against it. “Fuck me.” The words come out on a breathy-groan.

  I freeze. I’m so pucked. There’d better be a support group for hockey hookers.

  I’m going to need it after tonight.

  VIOLET

  Alex releases his grip on my ass and regards me with soft, warm eyes. “I was serious when I said I don’t have any expectations, okay?” Despite his relaxed posture and his reassurance, his voice is raspy—distilled sex over crushed ice.

  Is this what he says to all the puck bunnies? If it is, I understand why it works. “Okay.”

  I decide if we stay here on the sofa, there’s less risk of me getting completely naked. The notion is bereft of logic. The first time I had sex was on a couch, so the prospect that this is less dangerous than say, oh, a very large, comfortable bed, is ludicrous. I’m going with it anyway.

  Alex kneads my ass while I grind on him shamelessly. At the same time, I’ve got a solid grip on his hair so I can keep his mouth locked to mine. He proves to be incredibly helpful with the whole hips shifting business. This is awesome, as far as making out goes.

  The contrast of rough stubble and the softness of his lips against my throat send a delicious shiver down my spine.

  I release his hair to explore the rest of his cut body. Muscles tense and jump under my touch. The top button of his dress shirt is undone and his tie hangs loose around his neck. Now seems as good a time as any to help him get more comfortable. I mean, I’m in my jammies and here he is, still mostly in a suit.

  Unbuttoning involves multitasking, but I’m more than capable of getting his shirt undone while he kisses my neck.

  Under the crisp dress shirt is a white tee stretched tight across a solid wall of chest. I’m certain they didn't need to airbrush the milk ad all to shit to achieve his level of hotness.

  Excited to find out, I slip my fingers under the hem, mindful this is similar to the unveiling of great art. I’ve never been this up close and personal with someone in such amazing physical condition. I want to revel in the reveal of his godlike body. Below his navel is a smattering of dark hair, a treasure trail leading to something close to gold . . . or diamonds—because he’s damn hard right now.

  Washboard abs flex under my fingers. He raises his arms, and I lift the T-shirt over his head, careful of his busted lip and bruised jaw. Not bothering to hide my appreciation, I exhale on a low whistle. Tattoos accentuate each bicep. The left boasts a waving Canadian flag—long live patriotism—and the right has a set of hockey sticks crossed over a puck.

  I can feel Alex’s eyes on me as I trace the hockey tattoo with a fingertip.

  “You really love hockey, don’t you?”

  “Yeah. It’s kinda my thing.” His hands drift up my thighs, arms flexing.

  “I bet you could bench press me.”

  “There’s a good chance.”

  His fingertips breach the hem of my shirt. When my body jerks, he hesitates.

  “Should I stop?”

  “No, thanks. I’m ticklish.”

  “Is that so?” He looks up from under abnormally thick lashes, wearing a devilish smile.

  “Just here”—I point to my ribs—“and here.” I indicate the crook in my knee.

  “I’ll watch for that.”

  His hands ghost along my ribs. I suck in a breath and hold back a giggle.

  As soon as he reaches my breasts, his thumbs sweep over my nipples. I moan like a street walker. Like, really, it’s an outlandish porn star moan. My face and chest heat with embarrassment.

  Apparently Alex is good with the moaning. Still cupping my boobs, he looks me in the eye, waiting for the okay to take this further. With every kiss and every touch so far, he’s asked permission to move forward. It makes him infinitely sexier and harder to say no to.

  I raise my arms in silent assent. Of course, when he removes my shirt, my glasses get caught in my hair. Alex wrestles them free and sets them on the arm of the couch where they’ll be safe.

  And now we’re both topless. Alex stares at my boobs. It’s no furtive peek. He’s full-on staring. He cups them in his hands, which are huge—his hands, not my boobs; those are average sized. Then he bounces them around a bit.

  He’s like a kid who’s figured out Jell-O jiggles if you poke it.

  “I told you they were nice for real ones.” The way he’s staring makes me self-conscious, so my comment comes with extra snark.

  “They really are. They’re so soft,” he murmurs, squeezing. “And perky.” He brushes his lips across my nipple.

  His eyes lift at my gasp, maybe realizing I’m attached to the boob he’s making out with.

  “Can I . . .” He trails off as his tongue peeks out, not quite touching my skin.

  “Please and thank you.”

  He closes his lips around the taut nipple and sucks gently. I bite the inside of my cheek in an effort to derail the sound forcing its way up my throat. I manage to keep it to a whimper as Alex massages one boob and makes out with the other one. I can’t seem to shut up with all the little noises of bliss.

  His low chuckle follows. “You really like that, don’t you?”

  It’s rather obvious I do, but I breathe out a so much and grind against him to punctuate my affirmation. While he’s engrossed in loving the shit out of my boobs, my hands are everywhere: in his hair, feeling up his arms and chest, going lower to skim his waistband.

  Alex is in serious boob nuzzle mode. I almost expect him to do the whole motorboat thing. Fortunately, he doesn’t. He winds an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him. At my slightly desperate whine, he shifts his hips.

  What I’m about to do will make me a full-fledged hockey hooker. Whatever, it’s only for tonight. I’m resigned—and excited—as I try to slip my hand past his belt and into his pants.

  “We could go to the bedroom, if you’d like.” Alex’s hands have migrated down the back of my jammie bottoms.

  �
��The couch is good.”

  “The bed’s more comfortable.” His lips move up my neck to my chin.

  I’m sure it is, which is the problem. I know where this is going. I won’t say no to him. I’ve seen Alex play hockey; he has incredible stamina. The point is moot, but the denial makes my failed attempt at resistance seem less offensive.

  He kisses me, soft and searching. Like gummy bears left out in the sun, I melt right into him. Finding the clasp on his belt, I slip it through the buckle.

  He must think my actions mean I agree with his suggestion. He grips my ass firmly and stands. Locking my legs around his waist, I hurry to free a hand from his pants and clutch his shoulder.

  This is really happening. Like, for real. At twenty-two, I’m going to have my first one-night stand. With a hockey player, no less. So much for good judgment. Oh well, nobody’s perfect.

  Alex sets me on the edge of the bed and flicks on the lamp. Of course he’s going for mood lighting. The soft glow magnifies the dips and curves of his body, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw and the bruise below his left eye.

  “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  “I know.” My voice trembles, excitement and nerves fusing.

  I’ve always been a serial monogamist, waiting until the requisite fifth date or beyond to let a guy into my pants. It eliminated most potential mistakes. If the sex was decent, and so was the guy, I’d see where things went. Sometimes there were repeat performances, sometimes there weren’t.

  I’m holding the waistband of his pants like there’s a pot of gold tucked inside. Letting go, I shimmy back on the bed, giving him enough space to join me. It’s a king; there’s plenty of room for frolicking. His eyes are low-lidded, his expression intense as he follows after me.

  Fumbling and uncoordinated thanks to my loss of fine-motor function, I struggle to pop the button on his pants and pull down the zipper. Alex watches my hand disappear inside. It has to look good from his point of view. How can it not? Someone else’s hand in your pants is a winner of a situation. Soft, hot skin encases the hardest dick on the planet. It’s as solid as tungsten carbide. And there’s a lot of length.