A fun, sexy backstage pass to dating a hockey player…whose mightiest stick is not even the one he uses to play hockey!! Cape and all! ;) I give you the cover and a never-seen-before excerpt from Pucked …
Alex’s expression reflects nothing of the blissful serenity I’ve been rocking up until now. Confused, I touch my neck, feeling around for the hickey. It’s a fruitless action; you can’t feel hickeys, you can only see them. Besides, if I have one, he put it there.
His gaze is trained lower. I check out my chest. No discoloration there other than the usual blotchiness that’s a result of being sexed up.
His grip tightens on my thighs. I whimper, the sound drawing Alex’s attention to my face. Holy shit. He’s absolutely livid. His fury—similar to what I’ve previously witnessed only when he takes someone down on the ice—feeds the hockey hooker in me. I’m leaking on his air hockey table.
The fog from my orgasm-induced euphoria begins to clear. It’s my naked beaver he’s angrily eyeing. In my lust-induced haze, I forgot the ugly bruise from yesterday evening’s impromptu waxing session. I can see how he might mistake it for a hickey.
I gesture to the horrible mark in a flaily, manic way. “It’s not what it looks like.” In saying this, I’ve made it seem like exactly that.
Alex’s body is rigid aside from the twitching corner of his mouth and the pressing of his thumbs into the juncture of my thighs. He’s an inch shy of my clit on either side. While staying still is killing me, an explanation is necessary.
“I didn’t have time to make an appointment with my waxer because you sprang the date on me. My beaver was getting unruly, and I wasn’t sure how tonight would go. I wanted to be prepared in case this happened . . .” I motion to his hands.
Alex follows the movement with his eyes. His thumb moves over the purplish-red spot. Sadly, this means his thumb also moves away from my clit.
“I thought I could do it myself. You know, wax my beaver?” Alex’s brows come down low. Of course he doesn’t know. “I do my own legs sometimes, and I figured it would be easy. Judging by the result, I was wrong.” I finish with a poke at my bruise. I cringe; it hurts.
He tilts his head to the side, his expression doubtful. “Waxing?”
“Only you and your fingers, and your mouth, and your behemoth dick, and my fingers, and my collection of vibrators have been near me in the last six months. Oh, and the gyno—”
Jesus, why can’t I shut up?
I nod vigorously. “Uh, yeah, she’s female, so no worries there.” He doesn’t ask why I went to the gyno. I don’t want to tell him the truth. After sleeping with him I developed acute paranoia, afraid I contracted a contagious hockey whore disease.
Thankfully, Alex focuses on the other tidbit of information I let slip in the midst of my verbal vomit.
“You have a collection of vibrators?”
His thumbs inch in closer. Actually, it’s more like millimeter in closer. I do the damn moaning thing followed by an odd sobbing sound, wishing I could lie.
“Not a collection, a few . . . a travel one I ordered through one of those pervy sites, one I bought at a smut store, and one Charlene bought me. I think it was supposed to be a joke. It’s weird looking and textured. Like all these balls fused together? It’s not very effective for getting off—unless I’m using it wrong.”
Alex looks simultaneously disturbed and turned on. He blinks a few times and licks his lips as if trying to decide what to do or say next.
He doesn’t respond with words, but his lips are on mine again and his tongue is in my mouth. At the same time, he grazes my clit with both thumbs, causing me to make another odd sound he seems to like. All of a sudden we’re in motion. Alex grips my ass and lifts me off the air hockey table.
“God you’re sexy,” he says, carrying me to the expensive-looking leather sofa.
I have to wonder if he actually heard my ramblings about my waxing malfunction and my plastic penis collection.