Page 4 of Mother Pucker

“Don’t go,” he says brusquely— and I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or himself.

Erik stands up from the leg press machine. He takes a step toward me, his long stride easily eating up the distance between us.

He’s shirtless, only a pair of dark blue athletic shorts hanging low on the jutting cliff of his hips. In the reflection of the mirrored wall behind him, Erik’s intricate tattoo is clearly visible.

It’s an abstract design that spans across his back. The braided trunk and spiraled limbs of an ethereal tree shatter into a small cluster of ravens in flight across his left shoulder. The design winds down his arm in a mesmerizing dance of dragon-scale ships, wolf heads, and forged hammers.

Erik looks like a Norse God— and I’m ready to let him take me to Valhalla.

But when I meet his gaze again, something is different. His face is a mask, impossible to read. But I’ve spent a lot of time looking at Erik, and I’ve learned his tells along the way. Something flickers behind those golden eyes. Something that looks a lot like pain.

“Erik?” I look him over, letting my own gaze linger appreciatively on the flex of his pecs for longer than strictly necessary. “What’s wrong?”

Along the razor edge of his jawline, a muscle ticks.

“Nothing.” Erik shakes his head but doesn’t meet my eyes again. “I should get to the ice. I have drills to run. I’m sorry, Payton.”

I blink hard, trying to clear my scrambled thoughts. A bucket of ice water couldn’t have shifted the mood faster than Erik’s short response and sudden retreat.

What the fuck just happened?

When I look up again, Erik’s tattooed back is shifting in and out of view.

He’s favoring his left leg.

It’s easy to miss— especially because he’s working hard to mask it and just threw me through a loop. But Erik is walking with a nearly imperceptible limp. Still— that doesn’t make sense, either. Why would he hide an injury?

“I think I’ll join you,” I call out before Erik leaves the gym. “I don’t have to be in the office for another hour. You don’t mind, do you?”

Erik stops with one hand on the door handle. He doesn’t turn around, but I can feel the static crack of electricity around him.

“As you wish, Payton.” He pushes the door open, letting the pink glow of dawn into the weight room.

Then Erik steps through the frame without looking back.

I don’t know what’s waiting for me on the other side of this door. But one thing is clear. If I follow Erik through that threshold, my life— and our relationship— will never be the same.

“Time to take a risk,” I whisper to myself.

And then I rush out into the morning before I have a chance to second guess myself.

2

Erik

Payton is driving me to the brink of madness.

Officially, she heads the Snowhawks’ social media department. But everyone knows the truth. Payton Lawson is the soul of the team, walking a constant tightrope between the suits and the jerseys.

She keeps all the plates spinning and every gear in motion. Keeping seats full, keeping fans happy, keeping Kai out of jail— she makes it all look effortless. Payton spends eight hours a day making miracles happen. She’s talented, brilliant, and driven.

She’s also drop-dead gorgeous.

Nearly six feet tall in her skates, Payton could pass for a runway model— or a Viking Queen.

Her platinum hair falls in choppy, angular layers to the defined spear of her collarbone. She has a heart-shaped face, dominated by a pair of eyes so wide and dark a man could get lost in them forever. An erratic spray of golden freckles bridges her nose, catching in the bright overhead stadium lights like fairy dust.

Payton is devastatingly beautiful. She’s also strong, striking, and sarcastic. She’s an intoxicating mixture of femininity and ferocity— independent, generous, and sexy as fuck.

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