by Raine Miller
I help her back up, straightening her dress and stuffing myself back into my pants before we step out of the tiny stall. I wash my hands as she splashes water from the sink in her mouth, swirling it around and spitting it out. She’s still at the mouth-rinsing as I head out. When I get back to the table, Terrence is grinning.
“How was it, champ?” he asks.
“Lackluster. Think I’m gonna go.” And sadly, that’s all it’s been lately. Yeah, it’s sex. Relieves some pressure. But what’s the point of a hot mouth or pussy that I have to work to enjoy? Defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?
He raises a shoulder. “Suit yourself.”
“See ya later.” I wave and make for the door.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on my couch in nothing but boxers, playing Fortnite on the PS4. Username IceDragon90 is online, so I grab my headphones and invite him to chat.
“Hey, asshole, back from Nerd Town, are we?”
“If, by Nerd Town, you mean the most magical place on earth, then yes,” Boris’s girlfriend, Talia, responds. “Boris is grabbing a drink from the fridge.”
“Hey, if it isn’t the hot librarian,” I tease.
“I’m not a librarian, Tyler. Investment manager, remember?”
I hear some muffled talking, then Boris comes over the headset. “And she’s making me a killing already.”
“Guess I need to make an appointment,” I say. “My investments are all over the place.”
“I thought you were going to say your investments are drowning in beer,” Boris taunts.
“Hardy har har. I’ll have you know I’m wicked good at budgeting. I have a beer budget that I strictly adhere to.”
“To which I strictly adhere,” Talia interjects.
“Grammar police much? Jesus. Go learn a book, darlin’. Let the big boys play.”
“Let the big boys play a game for children?” she asks.
I have no answer for that, so I just snort. This is the way things are with Talia, who I thought was a shrinking violet, nerd-type but is really sassy and smart and not afraid to cuss or swear or say whatever damn thing pops into her Brainiac head. She’s a good match for Boris, who is way more reserved. He comes out of his shell for her.
I’d never admit this to anyone, but honestly? All the guys have found women who make them better. They all seem happier and more secure now that they’re in relationships. It’s cool I guess. Doesn’t mean I want to be within smelling radius of a relationship myself, but good for anyone who finds something meaningful.
While Boris and I play a round, he and Talia tell me about their recent trip to Harry Potter World in Orlando, where Talia got to pick out a wand and wear a cape or some other nerdy shit. She seems way excited about all of it, though I have no idea what the hell she’s talking about.
It’s pretty late when I hear some smoochy sounds that lead to whispering and giggling. I could take a bet on how long before—
“Hey, I’m out. Got to get my princess to bed.”
“Gotta get laid, is more like,” I mumble, rolling my eyes as IceDragon90 logs off.
And now I’m alone in my apartment, playing a children’s video game—alone—wide awake and wishing all my friends weren’t tied to the ball-n-chain of their dreams.
3: Not Talking Hockey
ZOYA
Two weeks later.
My biology professor is a tiny, gray-haired woman with a voice that could put a person to sleep. She just drones on and on, barely taking a breath, and certainly not inviting questions or discussion about the topic at hand.
Honestly, I am not a math or science person by nature, so this would be boring even if someone really amazing was teaching. I front-loaded the last of the tier 1 math and science I needed into this semester in hopes I could get it all out of the way and then focus on the fun stuff next semester. Now I am almost regretting it, but c’est la vie.
In order to get through what I am sure could be classified as cruel and unusual punishment; I doodle. It’s just a loose portrait rendering of my mom, who I miss more than I expected since being in the States.
The guy sitting next to me leans over and whispers, “That’s really good.”
I turn and catch his eye. “Thanks. Just doodling.”
He’s cute, this guy, with wavy, long-ish hair that curls around the collar of his blue polo shirt. The way he grins at me makes me blush and shut my notebook, straightening up and trying to pay better attention to the class.
He pokes my notebook with his finger. “Why are you embarrassed?”
“I am not,” I say. “I should be paying better attention.”
“This woman is a fossil,” he whispers. “She must be a hundred years old and I swear she hasn’t taken one breath the entire lecture.”
I can’t help but giggle. “That is what I was just thinking.”
“See? Great minds think alike. We should be friends.”
Thankfully, class ends and I’m able to divert from the conversation as I gather my things. Still, the guy follows close on my heels. Outside, he catches up and says, “I’m Jay, by the way.”
“Zoya.” We shake hands, which I suppose is better than him ogling my breasts or something. And he is shorter than me, which is kind of a funny surprise. By at least two inches.
“Wow,” he says. “You’re taller when you’re standing up.”
Chuckling, I say, “I only stopped growing last year. My father and sister are tall, also.”
“Are your sister and father also Russian?”
One side of my mouth quirks up. “Who says I am Russian?”
“Okay. Are your sister and father also supermodels?”
“Nope, we are all just tall people with very strange accents. And yes, we are from Russia. And no, my father would never let me model past the age of ten, unless maybe for turtlenecks.”
He shrugs. “I think you’d look pretty good in a turtleneck. Or a plastic bag. Or really anything, honestly. But your dad is strict, I take it.”
I nod. “Very. It took a lot of work to get him to agree to let me come to Las Vegas for school. And only because my sister came to do her master’s in Vegas and my older brother lives here that he even considered it.”
“Well,” he says, folding his arms and appraising me, “I’m very curious to hear more, but I also have a huge need for caffeine. I think our teacher might be an energy vampire. Can I help renew your energy level as well?”
“I cannot. I have to get back to change for a post-holiday party with the Crush.”
Jay’s eyes widen. “Whoa. I’m impressed. How did you score that invite?”
“My brother plays for them.”
“Who’s your brother?”
“Georg Kolochev. On defense.”
He laughs out loud like I’ve said the funniest thing. “He’s not just on defense. Seriously? Your brother is Curious Georg?”
I roll my eyes and let out an epic sigh. “Here we go again.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means I am tired of everyone going fanboy over my brother. Hockey is not that important in the grand scheme of life.”
“Uh, I beg to differ. Especially here. People are apeshit over the Crush, and every one of those first-string players...they’re like gods. You should be proud of your brother. He’s a superstar.”
“He is just my goofy brother. And I grew up around hockey, so I was really hoping to come here and not have to see hockey or talk hockey or think about hockey every minute.”
“Wrong town, wrong time, Zoya.” He shakes his head at me. “Las Vegas loves the Crush and they love hockey. And it’s about to get worse if they keep playing like total studs and win the Cup again.”
“Great. Well, then I regret to inform you that I will not be able to be friends with you, Jay from biology class. I simply cannot be friends with a person who obsesses over hockey. It is my personal principle for which I make no exceptions.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. If I promise to never t
alk hockey in front of you, then can you be my friend?”
I give him an amused grin. “I will consider it.”
“I even promise not to geek out if your brother comes around.”
“Do not make promises you cannot keep.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It is a maybe,” I say. “I have to go, but I will see you in class.”
After a quick shower I throw on a pair of distressed jeans and a sheer, black, sleeveless tunic. I’m working on my hair and makeup when Irina comes through the bathroom door.
“Ever hear of knocking?” I scowl at her through the mirror.
“As if you have any parts I haven’t seen before, sister,” she retorts.
“What if I had been in here with a man?”
“That is very unlikely.”
She is right, but I don’t want to admit it. Instead, I take in her outfit—ripped mom jeans and a Pussy Riot T-shirt with Doc Martens.
“That is not at all appropriate for this event.” I roll my eyes at her outfit.
“Yebat’ sebya,” my sister hisses.
“So hostile all the time,” I say, refocusing on my reflection in the mirror. My hair is long and tousled, still sun-streaked from summer. I opt for simple makeup—nude lip gloss and a little mascara and eyeliner.
“You should wear these with that outfit,” Irina says, holding up a pair of red heels. The first helpful thing she has said to me.
I grab the shoes and pull them on, then take in the full look. It feels sexy but edgy, and still appropriate. None of my body parts are on display, so my brother is unlikely to turn eight shades of red and tell me to cover up.
Satisfied that at least one of the two Kolochev sisters looks appropriate for a pro-hockey event, I shoo my sister out the door, locking up before we head out to see our brother for the first time since we all returned to the United States.
4: Hands Off the Sestry
TYLER
Stupid team events. Stupid monkey suit. I hate it. I hate getting all dressed up and acting like a church boy just for the stupid press. Fuckin’ annoying. It’s not like they haven’t heard eight ways to Sunday what we think of the lineup and how happy we are with the season and blah, blah, blah. It makes my head hurt.
Thank God, at least there’s a bar at this thing. I head over and get a beer, wishing for something stronger, then beeline for my man Viktor, who stands a head taller than all the other bodies in the room.
“Good to see you, jerkface.” I lean in for a bro-hug. “Can’t hang with your best friend these days? Too good for your old pal Tyler?”
“Do not be a baby,” Viktor growls. “I already have one baby to care for.”
“Do not be a Russian robot.” I mock his accent—badly. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya. How’s dad life?”
He gives a big yawn, which I pretty much figure is his answer. But then he surprises me.
“I very much enjoy being a father. He is smart already. I can tell he is thinking.”
“Babies aren’t that smart. Hate to tell you that.”
“No, that is not true.” He pouts. “Our son is old soul.”
“Yeah? An old soul who shits in his pants?”
“He does do that,” Viktor agrees. “Very often.”
I scratch my chin, wondering if I’m breaking out in hives as the baby talk just goes on and on. And on. Seriously? I think Viktor might be fucking with me, just to make me comatose or something. I have to hear about the time the baby pissed on him during a diaper change, and about the sticky poop he had the other day. It’s a goddamn nightmare.
“You know, just fucking shoot me if I ever spend this much time worrying about someone else’s shit.”
“Is part of being a parent,” he says.
“Is making you more boring than usual, which is saying a lot.” I mock his accent again just to be a dick.
“You will find someone some day and you will want to be a father,” he says. “Mark my words.” Oh fuck no. Not a chance.
“Eat your words, is more like.” I shake my head at him. “You talkin’ about poop and puke and whatever other bodily secretions babies make is not a ringing endorsement for the virtues of parenthood, friend. In fact, it’s so fuckin’ boring that I literally want to go jump in front of the Zamboni just to escape this torture.”
“You cannot be a manwhore forever,” Viktor argues.
“I sure as shit can. I’m gonna take Viagra and be a baller till the day I die. It’s gonna be great in a Hugh Hefner kinda way.”
“I hope it works out for you,” Viktor says with a smirk. I do too. That means I’ll have several blondes with enormous tits hanging off me at once without needing to know their names.
Doesn’t get better than—holy fuck. Who the hell is Kolochev and his wife talking to?
They’ve got to be sisters, with perfect, supermodel faces. High cheekbones, pouty lips, long, brown hair. Tall. Legs for days. Holy public erection, Batman. One looks like she’d probably bite my nut sack off. She’s in a Pussy Riot tee, ripped jeans, and combat boots. Her eyeliner is totally goth and she’s got the tips of her long hair dyed bright pink. The don’t-fuck-with-me glare is totally working for her. Total turn-on. She probably has hairy pits and a terrible attitude, but she sure is workin’ it. Yum. Come to papa.
The other smokeshow looks younger. And a lot more demure. Her brown eyes are wide, and her lips are full and luscious. Ugh. I have to adjust myself because they really are turning me on.
I rib my friend. “Who are those two?”
Viktor laughs at me. Laughs, can you believe it? “They are hands-off.”
“Why?” I ask, totally confused. “Why hands-off?”
“They are Kolochev’s sestry.”
“Kolochev’s what? I don’t speak Russian, bro.”
“Sisters,” he spits out. “His sisters.”
“And what? They’re off limits, why?”
“Are you kidding?” Viktor stares me down. “Georg would never let you touch them. He is being protective as their father is protective.”
I make a snorting noise of disapproval. “Well, I’m gonna get right past that chastity belt, come hell or high water. Those two are invited on my welcome wagon any time.”
Yep, come hell or high water, I’m getting one—or preferably both—of those smokeshows into the sack.
I think I just found my life’s mission.
GET THE BOOK
A Request
If you enjoyed PUCK MONEY please consider leaving a review on the platform where you purchase your books. I’ve included the links at Goodreads and BookBub for you here as well. Reviews help potential readers decide on whether a particular book is for them, and helps the author in immeasurable ways. I greatly appreciate your time.
Thank you for reading my book!
✦ Goodreads ✦
* * *
✦ BookBub ✦
Join my Newsletter
For my newsletter and information on upcoming books and events, sign up at the link below. You will receive a welcome message and the offer of a FREE book after signing up. I promise not to spam your inbox. I only send emails when I have a new book to share or special deals, and always some freebies for you. Only GREAT stuff.
Who is Brit?
Brit DeMille is the alter ego of NYT Bestselling author, Raine Miller, having an absolute blast writing books quite different from what she writes as Raine.
Stories about sexy billionaires [millionaires make the cut too] who fall in instalove with young women who may or may not be virgins, and then go on to make adorable babies together are her favorite themes. In addition to the billionaires, hot hockey players are at the top of her list of favorite heroes, along with royals and ex-military bodyguards.
Most important when she writes a story is a happily ever after. But during the actual writing of the story, the most important thing is a cup of hot tea with a splash of milk (and don’t forget the stash of cherry Jolly Ranchers). A dog or two will likely
be in between her and the chair at any given moment, which is very handy, because they are the ones who approve everything she writes.
You can connect with her on Facebook in her Raine Miller Romance Readers group. She pops in most days.
Also by Raine Miller
CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
CHERRY GIRL
HUSBAND MATERIAL
LOVELY PINK
* * *
THE ROTHVALE LEGACY
PRICELESS, I
MY LORD, II
* * *
BLACKSTONE DYNASTY
FILTHY RICH, I
FILTHY LIES, II
* * *
THE BLACKSTONE AFFAIR
NAKED, Part 1
ALL IN, Part 2
EYES WIDE OPEN, Part 3
RARE and PRECIOUS THINGS, Part 4
* * *
HOCKEY ROMANCE
Writing as Brit DeMille
CRUSHED, Vegas Crush #1