Pucked (Pucked 1)

“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.