PUCKED is LIVE
I'm so pucking excited to share this with you!
SUMMARY
With a famous NHL player for a stepbrother, Violet Hall is well acquainted with the playboy reputation of many a hockey star. She isn’t interested in legendary team captain, Alex Waters, or his pretty, beat-up face and rock-hard six-pack abs. When Alex inadvertently obliterates Violet’s misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players, he becomes much more than just a hot body with the face to match.
Suffering from a complete lapse in judgment, Violet discovers just how good Alex is with the hockey stick in his pants. Violet believes her night of orgasmic magic with Alex is just that: one night. But Alex starts to call. And text. And email and send extravagant—and quirky—gifts. Suddenly, he's too difficult to ignore, and nearly impossible not to like.
The problem is, the media portrays Alex as a total player, and Violet doesn’t want to be part of the game.
With a famous NHL player for a stepbrother, Violet Hall is well acquainted with the playboy reputation of many a hockey star. She isn’t interested in legendary team captain, Alex Waters, or his pretty, beat-up face and rock-hard six-pack abs. When Alex inadvertently obliterates Violet’s misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players, he becomes much more than just a hot body with the face to match.Suffering from a complete lapse in judgment, Violet discovers just how good Alex is with the hockey stick in his pants. Violet believes her night of orgasmic magic with Alex is just that: one night. But Alex starts to call. And text. And email and send extravagant—and quirky—gifts. Suddenly, he's too difficult to ignore, and nearly impossible not to like.
The problem is, the media portrays Alex as a total player, and Violet doesn’t want to be part of the game.
BUY LINKS
EXCERPT
“What you said about your beaver, is it true?”
It sounds so ridiculous; I laugh uncontrollably.
“F$#k me,” Alex mutters.
I stop laughing. First off because I think it’s an actual request. Secondly, I have this fantastic image of me underneath him.
“It’s true.” My voice is all breathy and soft, courtesy of the porno running through my head.
“Seriously?” He sounds excited. Like really, really excited.
“About stroking my beaver? No. Beavers are dangerous. They shouldn’t be stroked.”
“Can you stop saying 'beaver'? Look, what are you doing right now?”
“Drinking beer and watching porn, why?” Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be appropriately ashamed of the content of this conversation. For now, I’m thoroughly entertained.
“Because I’m standing outside your suite. Do you want company?”
I sit up so fast, the room spins. “You are not.”
“I am. Suite six-oh-nine. Want me to knock?”
“No! Don’t! Hold on.”
I sprint across the room and yank the bedroom door open. The common living room is empty. I consider a tuck and roll across the floor for fun, but I’m uncoordinated, so I settle for running. Throwing open the door, I find Alex with his jacket slung over one arm and his phone to his ear.
I step out into the hall. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Nice.”
I follow his gaze. Oh yes, now I remember. I’m wearing Spiderman jammies designed to fit pre-pubescent boys. It’s cold in the hallway and I’m braless, which draws attention to my chest. My nipples are clearly saluting him through the threadbare fabric.
“I forgot my lace teddies at home.” I almost wish I owned one, except lace is uncomfortable and impractical. “What are you doing here?” I cup my boobs to protect my nipples from further visual molestation.
His eyes drop for a split second, as if my nipples have their own force field, and then return to my face. “I, uh . . . do you want to hang out?”
I cringe. “I’m staying with my parents.”
“You could come up to my suite.”
“I was going to bed.” So lame.
“I figured.”
And there’s the smile again. He rocks those damn dimples. The banged-up face and the bruises seem to elevate the level of pretty.
“I’m not having sex with you.” Dear Lord, my mouth needs a censor.
He doesn’t even flinch. “That’s cool. I wasn’t expecting sex.”
“Really?” I assumed by hang out he clearly meant get naked.
“Really. Promise.” He puts his hand over his heart, his eyes softening as his cheeks flush. He’s blushing. It’s kind of cute.
“Oh. Well, then. I guess—I’ll get changed.” There I am, agreeing to go up to a hot-as-hell hockey player’s room in the middle of the night for not-sex.
“What you said about your beaver, is it true?”
It sounds so ridiculous; I laugh uncontrollably.
“F$#k me,” Alex mutters.
I stop laughing. First off because I think it’s an actual request. Secondly, I have this fantastic image of me underneath him.
“It’s true.” My voice is all breathy and soft, courtesy of the porno running through my head.
“Seriously?” He sounds excited. Like really, really excited.
“About stroking my beaver? No. Beavers are dangerous. They shouldn’t be stroked.”
“Can you stop saying 'beaver'? Look, what are you doing right now?”
“Drinking beer and watching porn, why?” Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be appropriately ashamed of the content of this conversation. For now, I’m thoroughly entertained.
“Because I’m standing outside your suite. Do you want company?”
I sit up so fast, the room spins. “You are not.”
“I am. Suite six-oh-nine. Want me to knock?”
“No! Don’t! Hold on.”
I sprint across the room and yank the bedroom door open. The common living room is empty. I consider a tuck and roll across the floor for fun, but I’m uncoordinated, so I settle for running. Throwing open the door, I find Alex with his jacket slung over one arm and his phone to his ear.
I step out into the hall. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Nice.”
I follow his gaze. Oh yes, now I remember. I’m wearing Spiderman jammies designed to fit pre-pubescent boys. It’s cold in the hallway and I’m braless, which draws attention to my chest. My nipples are clearly saluting him through the threadbare fabric.
“I forgot my lace teddies at home.” I almost wish I owned one, except lace is uncomfortable and impractical. “What are you doing here?” I cup my boobs to protect my nipples from further visual molestation.
His eyes drop for a split second, as if my nipples have their own force field, and then return to my face. “I, uh . . . do you want to hang out?”
I cringe. “I’m staying with my parents.”
“You could come up to my suite.”
“I was going to bed.” So lame.
“I figured.”
And there’s the smile again. He rocks those damn dimples. The banged-up face and the bruises seem to elevate the level of pretty.
“I’m not having sex with you.” Dear Lord, my mouth needs a censor.
He doesn’t even flinch. “That’s cool. I wasn’t expecting sex.”
“Really?” I assumed by hang out he clearly meant get naked.
“Really. Promise.” He puts his hand over his heart, his eyes softening as his cheeks flush. He’s blushing. It’s kind of cute.
“Oh. Well, then. I guess—I’ll get changed.” There I am, agreeing to go up to a hot-as-hell hockey player’s room in the middle of the night for not-sex.