Pucked Page 12

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.


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.

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