Mister Hockey (Hellions Angels #1)(18)

“You’d better come back inside,” she said breathlessly.

“Good idea.” He hiked her up by the waist and slammed her center against his growing bulge. Less thinking, more doing. Her eyes widened in surprise as he reached down, finding purchase under her thighs. Stepping inside, he back-kicked the door before turning her around and crushing her into the wood.

Oh, hell yes. He loved having her weight in his arms, all that decadence in all the right places—voluptuous and heady. All woman. As she wriggled in closer, locking her ankles at the small of his back and gripping his shoulders hard, his control snapped and they sank to the floor.

She explored beneath his sweatshirt. Her fingers were cool, but that wasn’t what caused his goose bumps. She glanced down at the inches of bare abdomen sneaking beneath his Under Armour, flexed and rigid, and a small moan escaped her parted lips. A fierce pride lit within. All those hours punishing his body, making it hard, invincible, like a modern-day gladiator, had paid off.

She reached out as if to stroke his external obliques and paused, uncertainty on her features. “Sorry, I’m getting handsy.”

“That’s the whole idea here, Vixen.” The nickname slid off his tongue. She was foxy as hell, all curves and chaos. “Go on, get closer. A little bit closer. Yeah.” He pressed his nose against her neck. “Christ, you smell fantastic.”

Her hands fisted his hair. He’d been meaning to cut it for summer but right now was glad it was shaggy. It hurt fucking good.

“Jed.” The desperate way she whispered his name drove him wild. His name. Not West or Westy. Just Jed.

Her next kiss was more possessive, almost aggressive. She plundered and he allowed her to take the lead, let her fuck him with her tongue until his heart near burst from his chest.

“Jesus.” She whispered over and over. “Oh Jesus.”

“No one’s answering those prayers but me,” he growled, clamping her full ass, dragging her over his pelvis. “You’re slumming with the sinners now, Ms. Angel.” He broke the kiss and nibbled along her neck as she writhed, pulling his hair, rocking like a devil over his growing erection. The cotton from her pants and his sweats added a layer of friction. He hadn’t dry humped since high school, but it felt as intimate as if they were buck-ass naked and coated in oil. His stomach churned, his balls drawn up heavy and sensitive. “You’re something else, Breezy Angel.”

“I don’t know what I am,” she whispered, unsure if he heard as he tenderly assaulted her neck, his tongue skimming, his teeth nipping, lifting her to unbearable heights.



Whoever got a shot with their wildest fantasy? No one, that’s who. And better yet, here she was getting exactly that.

“Hey,” he breathed, pulling back, cupping her cheeks, forehead resting against hers.

“Hi.” She let her lids fall shut and just existed. “Be in the present,” was one of those nauseatingly pragmatic pieces of advice like drink lots of water or get eight to nine hours of beauty sleep.

Of course it was a sensible idea, but coffee was so delicious and so was wine. And who could go to bed before midnight when there was always another chapter?

But right now, right here, she was in the present and it was good here. So good. The past didn’t matter. Neither did the future. Just the now. Just this.

Jed West stroked the soft skin near her temple with his thumb, touching her like she was of value. Precious.

“Let me see those eyes, pretty,” he rumbled.

And when Jed West put the sheer force of his will to something, it happened. Her lids sprang open.

“I’d better be careful,” he whispered. “I could get lost in there.”

She mashed her lips.

“Too cheesy?”

“I happen to love cheese.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. Because those were perfect lips. Because she could. “That was a gouda compliment. Get it, good-a? Eh? Eh?”

“That’s terrible,” he groaned.

“I’m here all night, ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a fake late-night host voice.

“Get back over here.” He slanted his mouth over her and they didn’t come up for air for an hour. Night fell outside the windows. An hour of nothing but kissing and it was easily the hottest encounter of her life. Finally they broke off, panting, entwined and unsure where to take it from here.

“What’s that?” he mumbled, shifting to better get an arm around her waist.

“On my shelves? They are called books.” They were literally exploding with titles. She’d stacked two more piles on either side of the case. There were classics there, Mark Twain, Jane Austen and Virginia Woolf. But also the entire Sweet Valley High series. And V.C. Andrews. Was he trying to judge her reading because nothing besides someone dissing the Hellions made her feistier.

“I meant the photo.” He squinted, rising up on one elbow. “Is that you?”

“Let me guess.” She groaned, knowing exactly what he was talking about without looking. “You want to know why I’m skating with a traffic cone?”

“I’ve seen toddlers do that I think, but . . .”

“I was eight. My mom coached me,” Breezy said grimly. “She was actually good back in the day. Really good. Qualified for the U.S. championships back in the seventies good. A couple of years ago she married the Zamboni driver at her rink, my stepdad, Jim. Neve was pretty good too. Didn’t go as far as Mom, but had the knack. They bonded over it. Mom made all her costumes.”