The Bad Boy Rule (Hellcats Hockey #1)

by Maren Moore

I say as I twist the pink heart-shaped ring on my finger around, holding Saint’s stare. His lip tugs up in a smirk before he drags his teeth over his lips and sits up, reaching behind his neck to pull his shirt off. The sweat-drenched fabric falls to the floor next to him, and then his eyes are back on mine, staring me down with an intensity so strong that it feels like I might cave. It takes everything inside of me not to let my jaw drop. Holy. Shit. My wildest, horniest imagination could have never conjured up an accurate representation of what this man actually looks like shirtless. He looks like he must have been carved from stone by the greatest sculptor to have ever lived, each of the muscles in his chest sharp and defined, leading down to rows upon rows of chiseled abs. I watch a bead of sweat travel down the hollow space between his pecs, tracing along each muscle in a languid pace that makes me throb… everywhere. I’ve gotten a glimpse of those abs before on the ice, but it’s nothing compared to seeing the whole picture. God… he’s beautiful. Truly, there’s no other word for it. No other way to describe it. No wonder his ego’s this big. His body was built for hockey. Strong, unyielding, powerful. Conditioned to take hits. It’s the first time that I’ve seen the amount of ink covering him. It doesn’t just stop at the full sleeve on his arm, the top of his hand. It travels in pieces along his chest, along the muscles on his obliques.