The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

Except it did. To me.

The primitive part of my brain didn’t seem to care that, unlike most women, Hot Blonde hadn’t been flirting or tossing me sultry looks. Quite the opposite. When we locked gazes, Hot Blonde was furious. She repeatedly slammed her hand on the plexi while cursing me out. Worse, despite the fact that she looked like she wished my face would melt off, I felt something. Saw something. Something in her bright chestnut colored eyes. Fuck me, I sounded like such a pussy. I drained the rest of my beer, snorted at how ridiculousness it was, and patently ignored Evvy’s questioning stare.

I was losing my damn mind.

It wasn’t my fault. Whatever mysterious woo-woo magic spell Hot Blonde cast on me, it worked. She sank her claws right in and refused to let go.

My cock thickened when I remembered her luscious mouth. Thick, red lips that would look perfect wrapped around my hard length. Hot Blonde was fucking gorgeous. In fact, her only visible negative trait was her downright hideous taste in hockey players. Who in their right mind wore a Calloway sweater? In public?

Evvy’s inability to understand, combined with the knowledge that I'd probably never see Hot Blonde again, pissed me off, and I didn’t need anyone’s help getting angry, thank you very much. Bottle empty, I raised my hand and signaled the server to bring another round.

Evvy tipped back his chair until the front legs lifted off the ground, and did an exaggerated stretch so he could not so subtly scope out the DC hotel bar. His eyes flared and the chair dropped to all fours with a bang, startling me. Naturally, I was taking a sip of my brand new beer and jerked at the sound. The glass rim of the bottle clanked against my front tooth.

"What the fuck, Evvy?" I put a hand to my mouth and pulled back my fingers to check for blood. None.

“Check it out, Sebby.” Evvy leaned across the table and used a tilt of his head to point to his left. “Brunette and blonde, big tits, tight dresses, and two almost empty cocktail glasses.”

I followed Evvy's gaze and found the women. Not that it was hard to figure out who he meant. They stood at the corner of the bar and were so out of place, they may as well have been wearing dresses made out of flashing neon lights. Yep, Evvy might not know what those women were, but he could tell they were easy prey. They were attractive, hot actually, if you went for the super high maintenance type. The kind that wore loads of makeup and had fake tits and big hair and would let you do whatever you wanted to them, just so they could say they fucked a hockey player.

On a normal day, I might be interested… as long as one of them was agreeable to my preferences. Tonight? Even with anger that simmered just beneath the surface of my skin, desperate for release, there wasn't a single thing about either woman I found appealing. Not in the least. Though it was blatantly obvious they were interested in us. No one with a set of functioning eyeballs could miss the way the women used their mouths to do provocative things to their straws while boldly attempting to make eye contact.

I shook my head and took the easy way out. “Dude, I told you hundred times, I'm done with puck bunnies.”

That part was true, but also I wasn't about to explain to Evvy that it wasn't the fact that the women were bunnies, so much as I just wasn't in the mood to fuck. At least not anyone who wasn't Hot Blonde. And wasn't that realization a shocker? The fight with Calloway and subsequent argument with Rémy were the exact types of confrontations that cranked up my stress level, which made having a handy outlet on standby a necessity. In essence, I should have jumped at the chance.

But I didn’t.

Evvy continued to drool over the bunnies. He couldn’t peel his gaze away. Good for him, I guess. It sucked that I couldn't manage to scrape up even a tiny spark of interest, because puck bunnies are easy lays and perfect for releasing all kinds of tension. I’m a pretty good judge as to whether or not a woman would be interested in my brand of kink, but I wasn’t in the mood.

First time for everything.

Besides, they really were bunnies, and yes, I would do any number of depraved things, but I refused to fuck puck bunnies. I wouldn't touch one even if it meant I imploded from sexual frustration.

Evvy glanced at me and checked out the women again. His forehead wrinkled and he grunted. "You positive they’re bunnies?”

Puck bunnies are hockey groupies. Women whose solitary goal in life is to fuck hockey players, typically with the aspiration of landing one as a husband. Or trapping one. And I would know.

At the beginning of my rookie year I got the exact same speech as every other newbie. Management warned us about the flocks of women that hung around arenas and scoped out the bars of the hotels the team stayed at. They advised us to keep our distance from the bunnies. Awkward as it was, they even laid down rules and insisted every player follow them when it came to puck bunnies, or any hookup for that matter—keep your cock wrapped, never give out your phone number, and don't bring anyone to your place.

Of course, every rookie idiot nodded and said, “Okay, no problem.” Then those same idiots went and screwed their way through the pack of bunnies anyway. What nineteen-year-old man on his own for the first time passed up such easy pickings, especially when it was flung in his face left and right? Not me, and not most others, either.

Clearly, I outgrew the bunny phase faster than Ev, who was practically drooling at the posing women. I quit the scene cold turkey after a particularly terrifying incident involving a puck bunny, a pregnancy, and nine months of sweating it out until the paternity test proved the kid wasn't mine. Seemed Evvy was gonna need a scare of his own before his wayward dick learned its lesson.

“They’re definitely bunnies. Not interested.” I waved a dismissive hand.

It was surprisingly easy to say no to guaranteed pussy. My mind was still back in the arena with Hot Blonde. Picturing her standing on the other side of a smudged piece of plexiglass, staring at me with loathing… and what I blatantly recognized as desire. Too bad there wasn't a way to find out who she was. I might pass on puck bunnies, but no fucking

way would I pass up a night with her. Shit, I'd even be the bigger person and overlook the fact that her taste was so bad she wore a Calloway sweater. I might even be willing to fuck her vanilla, if it was all I could get. She was that hot.

Evvy pushed back his chair, stood, and shot me a wicked grin. “Well, if you're not down for some action, all the more for me.” He rubbed his hands together like some kind of movie villain. “Catch you later.” He winked and sauntered, yes, motherfucking sauntered, over to the puck bunnies. Minutes later, the three left the bar, one of Evvy’s arms thrown over each girl’s shoulders.

I shook my head and chuckled. Idiot. I tossed down some bills to cover the tab and headed up to my room. Alone. Yeah, I was thrumming with electricity, and I was tense and pissed I lost the fight with Sasquatch, and still needed to release the rumbling mass of pent up energy that vibrated inside my body. Screw it. I’d just have to jerk off in the shower like a horny teenager. It wouldn't do much, but it would take the edge off.

Like I told Evvy, Hot Blonde or not, when it came to puck bunnies, lesson learned.

A couple weeks after DC and Hot Blonde—and spending countless hours stroking my dick raw to the memory of her face, while imagining what she’d look like naked and tied to my bed, screaming my name—I entered the Comets’ locker room. My shoes squeaked as I came to an abrupt halt.

Something felt off. Way off. Confused, I glanced around before I dared to cross the threshold. It didn't take long to figure out what was wrong. The boisterous sounds were missing. The pregame excitement. The hustle and bustle. The teasing, the jokes, the cursing. It was quiet. Too quiet. Especially for game day. The guys were always extra hyped and crazy loud before every game. I frowned.