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Shit, if a woman I’ve only gotten off to through a laptop screen has got me missing passes, there’s no way I could handle bunnies. Focus, Rhys.
I like things rough. I can get off in the missionary position, but I’d rather wrap my hand around her neck and whisper dirty things in her ear while I do it.
They hide nothing—and homeboy is packing. If that thing was any bigger, he’d need it registered as a weapon. I’d let him beat me with it. Roll, roll, roll his meat gently down my throat. I’m gross.
want to sit on his pretty face.
“Time to drain money from the patriarchy,” I say, adjusting my red push-up bra.
“Huh, that’s weird. Usually, when they’re screaming, it’s because I’m the one doing the pounding.”
The pretty ones are always assholes.
I look out to the stands to see a bunch of camera phones recording and homemade signs unfolding, referencing “hardcore pucking” and “sticking it in their five-hole.” I cock my head at Conway and mouth what the fuck while gesturing to the crowd. He shrugs. “Booktok. It’s a thing now.”
there’s an entire romance book genre based on hockey players. What a time to be alive.
“Do you prefer Rhys or Kucera?” “From you? Neither.”
certainly don’t want anyone like Rhys Kucera. Not sure he could love anything more than himself anyway; he thinks he’s special.
“Puck bunnies ain’t got shit on puck wives. Married sex is awesome,”
“You have no idea how difficult it is staying quiet when all I want to do is throw you to the ground, spread you wide, and make you take every inch.”
He looks cozy. Like a hot, huggable bear. I fucking hate him.
If there is a Goddess up there, please let Hat Trick Swayze be hot, available, and not a creep so I can get deep-dicked before this vagina between my legs withers to dust. Amen.
Hearing her go all dommy mommy on the phone kicked everything up a notch.
“Twenty-five,” a deeper voice shouts from behind them. I’m faced with the one and only Rhys Kucera. Goody. What’s better is he actually guessed the correct number. “It was twenty-five, but you’re still not getting my number.”
Because she’s Queen of Tarts. And Queen of Tarts is the object of my obsession.
“You really think you can rattle my cage with that?” she asks. “I know I can.” “You won’t. I eat boys like you for breakfast.” “What time is breakfast?”
Besides, I like walking out the big mouthy ones, it makes my balls feel bigger.
“And what about all the creeps from Followers? Huh, Hellcat?”
I turn on my “Men Ain’t Shit” playlist and plow through each pretzel one by one. Now this, this is real. This is all I need. Chewy pretzels and cheese sauce, baby. There’s no way any man is better than this deliciousness.
Though, truthfully, I can’t decide whether I’d prefer a murderer to Rhys Kucera.
Loving an addict is a fucking nightmare. It’s a burden impossible to let go of. Your heart is tethered to a sinking ship.
IKEA is a dreamland for a girl like me on a budget.
Kind of wish she meant it, because even looking like a drowned sewer rat, I’d tap that so hard.
“You’re impossible to stay away from. Everywhere I look, there you are. So I’m done fighting it. I’m throwing in the towel. Let me get to know you more.”
I tell myself I’m masturhating. It’s all lies. Secretly, I’m loving this.
When we’re not at each other’s throats, we’re like hot chocolate and snowy mornings.
Pretty sure assembling IKEA furniture and remodeling a kitchen are the top two ways to find out if you can actually work together.
HatTrickSwayze: Does the person who bought that for you know you’re wearing it for a crowd? Better hope they aren’t watching or you might have to face some consequences. “They know I’m wearing it. But I once heard them say that they like it when I’m their good slut.”
Good God, that man. Yes, hi. I’d like to make a deposit into my Jill till, please.
“Where do you want to do this?” He pulls out a chair and points at the kitchen table. “Get on. You eat your meals on the counter, I eat mine at the table.”
If he doesn’t stop speaking in that gravelly voice, I’ll lose. It’s audio porn.
“I’m going to make sure everybody downstairs knows what a good little slut you are,” he growls.
“Yeah, I know your secret, Freya. You act big and bad, but deep down, you’re so fucking desperate and needy. You want someone who’s strong enough to put you in your place.”
“There she is,” he drawls as I come on his hand. “So pretty.”
“Get on your fucking knees and show me you deserve my cum.”
“Did I do good?” I don’t know where that comes from, because why the fuck do I care? But I do. He smiles, and something flashes in his eyes. “So good, darling.”
There are a few unwritten rules about hockey. One of them is when you do something bad, you pay the consequences. If a player crosses the line between physical and dirty, he must answer for it, and ninety percent of the fights are usually one player having his teammate’s back.
They’ve claimed me as one of theirs; this team is my family.
Freya. Maneater. McCoy.
Even hellcats bow to the devil, Freya Girl.
Did she believe I’d put her through the paces, fuck her savagely, and not take care of her afterward? I may be an asshole, but I’m not a monster.
This kiss breaks one of her rules of friends with benefits, but I’m ready to break every other rule that goes with it. I’ve never wanted a woman as much as I do Freya. She’s everything.
They say if you’re not dating for forever, you’re dating for heartache.
What would cause me to put that confidence in him so early? What does it mean if I trust him that much already? To surrender myself like that? It sounds like heartache.
I used to think Rhys wasn’t giving but he’s proven me wrong. Especially when it comes to orgasms. He excels at it.
He can call me his good little whore all night long, but the second he wrapped his arms around me and held me . . . that was something I wasn’t sure I could handle. The aftercare scared me.
There’s just something about a crisp fall day and a warm cup of coffee the morning after a night of intense gland-to-gland combat.
